staircase, that voices penetrated a heavy door behind them only seconds before it opened.
Felice tensed as she recognised one of them, and her quick turn to examine the coat-of-arms above the fireplace gave Dame Celia the chance to greet the men with far more geniality than Felice could have done.
‘Sir Leon…John…and Marcus! Well, what are you doing here?’
Half-turning, Felice watched from a distance as her two disloyal deerhounds made a fuss of Sir Leon, and the newcomer named Marcus greeted Dame Celia with a familiar kiss to both cheeks. He was, she thought, probably a year or two younger than Sir Leon and of slighter build, but dashingly well set-off by an immaculate suit of honey-coloured velvet and satin, by white linen, lace, gold buttons and braids. His face was lean and good-humoured, almost handsome, his hair curled in a carelessly arranged fair mop that fell into heavy-lidded blue eyes. His manner exuded a gentle charm that contrasted immediately with Sir Leon’s dark dynamism and animal grace.
His greeting to Dame Celia over, the man called Marcus made a beeline for Felice that forestalled any introduction, taking her by surprise with a bow and one hand placed over his heart. ‘Ah, lady!’ he sighed. ‘If you would consent to marry me, here and now, we can use this good priest here, and yonder chapel, to unite our souls without delay. Now, tell me you consent or I shall go away and die.’
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