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"Have you thought, my love," Geoffrey remarked lazily, "that one wedding often makes another?" |
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Although it was common for each to sleep after making love, this time only a soft, pleasant languor had followed, despite rather violent climaxes for both. Geoffrey was lying on his back with his hands laced behind his head, staring upward at the elegant embroideries of the bed curtains. He could just make out the gleaming threads, red and gold against the blue background, because they had not pulled the curtains closed. Both liked to watch what they were doing during foreplay. Joanna's head rested on Geoffrey's bare breast, and she was idly pulling the sparse golden curls of his chest hair up through the thick masses of her own flaming red tresses, which trailed across his body. Both colors were muted in the candlelight. |
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"Walter de Clare is with Pembroke," Geoffrey continued, "and Sybelle said in her letter that unless we had some objection, she would accompany alinor and Ian. If Walter sees Sybelle in the atmosphere that will surround Simon and Rhiannon, it seems to me that he will offer for her." |
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"I thought he would offer for her when we all met in London, early last month. When he did not, I wondered whether that quarrel they had over raiding the farms near Kingsclere had put him off. Sybelle has a temper and does not guard her tongue sufficiently when she is angry." |
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While she was speaking, Joanna bent one of the curls on Geoffrey's chest over several strands of her own hair, making them prisoners. Sometimes Joanna still thought of love as a prison, although she did not now regret the deep joys, nor even the pains, of that imprisonment. Still, the thought of her daughter entering that prison disturbed her. |
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Clever as he was, Geoffrey had never divined this particu- |
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