defenders—Scorn
and Disdain of course—scuttled to the walls, abandoning their posts and
allowing the lords to claim their booty.
After the briefest of moments the musicians began to play.
The dance demanded Anne be passed from her rescuer’s arms into those of
another, and another. She did her best to remember her training, and captivate
her partners with her eyes and her skill. The imagined sound of Madame’s voice
in her mind coached her,
"It matters not that you are beautiful, it matters only
that you make the gentleman believe you are beautiful. Looks fade away ’til one
is left with only her wits." The ring of Madame’s voice brought Anne back
to her first appointment and her mistress’ love of beauty.
That belief spurred the notion that beauty could be seen in
anything. Madame Margaret had trained her girls to cultivate loveliness rather
than merely admire it. So Anne listened to the coaxing voice in her mind that
told her to smile and laugh and dance beautifully.
She was so intent that she ignored her partners ’til a youth
who was at once shy and mysterious took her hand. The smell of a French forest
flooded her mind. His eyes, the gentle, entreating green of moss, captured her
own. She could not pull her gaze away. She let him take her hand, loving the
way it fit around hers—warm and dry, but soft as her own skin. His pale hair
reminded her of the hero-King, Arthur, and his eyes drank her image. Oh, how
much she wanted him in that instant, when he merely looked at her, without
condescension, without affectation. Honest, and expectant.
"My lady, my captive," he said. His voice was
deep, like she’d always imagined fresh baked bread would sound; warm, and airy.
She wanted to hear it again.
"My Lord," she returned. She dared him with her
eyes to speak again. He said nothing. The silence made her grind her teeth. It
would be up to her to keep the conversation going, and damn her willful
tongue—it had frozen to her palate. So much for dazzling him with her court
dialogue.
Before she could pry her tongue loose she was passed into
the arms of another. She forgot her training and followed the gentleman with
her eyes.
"Brunet?"
"As I live," she said, pleased and surprised.
"It's Thomas Wyatt."
She hadn't seen him since they were children, playing at
grown up as if they never would. His face was still beautifully angelic, as if
an angel had kissed him, yet haloed with the darkness of Satan's cloak. And his
lanky body had finally grown into the tree trunk he’d always said it would. But
where was that old clinginess? That sharp, whining need to attach himself to
someone? The way he stood straight and proud, a rustic timber against the
whimsical background of lace and tissue-cloth that were the gowns and
draperies, made Anne’s heart lurch.
She got a quick memory of him as a child, playing soldiers
with George. He always lost, not really caring for such barbaric games, and her
brother never teased him about it. Now, in the torch-lit room amid the smell of
smoke and powder, he smiled tentatively, his generous mouth a bruise against
the sheen of very white teeth. How inviting he looked. The brushed velvet of
his doublet crept back off his shoulders in a rakish way, as if he’d pulled it
on in haste and hadn’t had time to check if it was on right. It made him feel
familiar. She felt at ease.
"I have been waiting for your hand in the dance."
He stared straight into her eyes.
He’d wooed her in their childhood days, like a boy normally
woos a girl, with swift jabs in the arm and tauntings about the darkness of her
hair, and she knew he would remember that crush, and feel it still tightening his
heart. Knowing it made her smile madly, with a sense of headiness. The captive
had captured her own.
"I heard you’d come home, Anne."
"I'm to marry."
"Yes, I know. But it’s no secret your Father is not set
on it."
Swirls of colors and textures blended together as they
danced. Gray imposing stone
and Disdain of course—scuttled to the walls, abandoning their posts and
allowing the lords to claim their booty.
After the briefest of moments the musicians began to play.
The dance demanded Anne be passed from her rescuer’s arms into those of
another, and another. She did her best to remember her training, and captivate
her partners with her eyes and her skill. The imagined sound of Madame’s voice
in her mind coached her,
"It matters not that you are beautiful, it matters only
that you make the gentleman believe you are beautiful. Looks fade away ’til one
is left with only her wits." The ring of Madame’s voice brought Anne back
to her first appointment and her mistress’ love of beauty.
That belief spurred the notion that beauty could be seen in
anything. Madame Margaret had trained her girls to cultivate loveliness rather
than merely admire it. So Anne listened to the coaxing voice in her mind that
told her to smile and laugh and dance beautifully.
She was so intent that she ignored her partners ’til a youth
who was at once shy and mysterious took her hand. The smell of a French forest
flooded her mind. His eyes, the gentle, entreating green of moss, captured her
own. She could not pull her gaze away. She let him take her hand, loving the
way it fit around hers—warm and dry, but soft as her own skin. His pale hair
reminded her of the hero-King, Arthur, and his eyes drank her image. Oh, how
much she wanted him in that instant, when he merely looked at her, without
condescension, without affectation. Honest, and expectant.
"My lady, my captive," he said. His voice was
deep, like she’d always imagined fresh baked bread would sound; warm, and airy.
She wanted to hear it again.
"My Lord," she returned. She dared him with her
eyes to speak again. He said nothing. The silence made her grind her teeth. It
would be up to her to keep the conversation going, and damn her willful
tongue—it had frozen to her palate. So much for dazzling him with her court
dialogue.
Before she could pry her tongue loose she was passed into
the arms of another. She forgot her training and followed the gentleman with
her eyes.
"Brunet?"
"As I live," she said, pleased and surprised.
"It's Thomas Wyatt."
She hadn't seen him since they were children, playing at
grown up as if they never would. His face was still beautifully angelic, as if
an angel had kissed him, yet haloed with the darkness of Satan's cloak. And his
lanky body had finally grown into the tree trunk he’d always said it would. But
where was that old clinginess? That sharp, whining need to attach himself to
someone? The way he stood straight and proud, a rustic timber against the
whimsical background of lace and tissue-cloth that were the gowns and
draperies, made Anne’s heart lurch.
She got a quick memory of him as a child, playing soldiers
with George. He always lost, not really caring for such barbaric games, and her
brother never teased him about it. Now, in the torch-lit room amid the smell of
smoke and powder, he smiled tentatively, his generous mouth a bruise against
the sheen of very white teeth. How inviting he looked. The brushed velvet of
his doublet crept back off his shoulders in a rakish way, as if he’d pulled it
on in haste and hadn’t had time to check if it was on right. It made him feel
familiar. She felt at ease.
"I have been waiting for your hand in the dance."
He stared straight into her eyes.
He’d wooed her in their childhood days, like a boy normally
woos a girl, with swift jabs in the arm and tauntings about the darkness of her
hair, and she knew he would remember that crush, and feel it still tightening his
heart. Knowing it made her smile madly, with a sense of headiness. The captive
had captured her own.
"I heard you’d come home, Anne."
"I'm to marry."
"Yes, I know. But it’s no secret your Father is not set
on it."
Swirls of colors and textures blended together as they
danced. Gray imposing stone
Similar Books
