Lavender Vows

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“Father, are you mad? Beatrice of Callaway is barely ten years of age!” Bernard of Derkland frowned and finished off his tankard of ale, wishing his father would leave off grousing at him. If they’d only have one conversation where the man did not bring up suitable wives…!

“Aye, but if one judges by her mother, in five years she’ll be a good breeder—and a generous dowry she brings.” Lord Harold turned to look out over the rows of diners eating in the great hall of Wyckford Heath. They were guests at the week-long celebration of the wedding of the Lord of Wyckford’s youngest daughter. “What of Theresa, daughter of Lord Enderman?”

Bernard gaped. Was not his parent supposed to have some care for him? “Father, would you have that horse-faced shrew in your wedding bed? An’ she hasn’t a brides’ portion big enough to make one forget that her temper is worse than a goat in heat.” He drummed his fingers on the rough trestle table.

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