inadequately covered by lush tapestries, waited
sedately behind the movements of deep black and crimson velvets. The dove white
satin of many gowns a creamy, beckoning blur. Anne’s gown whispered against
another’s; made a short, raspy melody.
"And what of your marriage?" she asked after a
moment, too caught up in the textures that surrounded her to care that he was
deliberately twirling her too fast. She wished she hadn’t taken so long to goad
him; now he would think he was getting the better of her. She stepped up her
pace. He best not think he could better her.
He laughed, and she felt his chest shake with it. "You
know how to find the soft spots." He spun her madly around another couple.
"Madame Wyatt is, shall we say, estranged from me and our marriage."
She only had the chance to say, "Oh." before
another courtier took his place. In a few moments she took her gentleman’s hand
again, he of the forest eyes and demure stance.
"You dance well, mistress..."
"Boleyn," she returned immediately, pleased he’d
complimented her. But it wasn’t enough. She had only moments before she’d be in
the arms of another and didn’t want to miss her opportunity. She couldn’t let
him lapse into silence.
"Thomas Boleyn is my father. Perhaps you know of him?
He serves the King." She dared swivel her hips, wanted him to feel them
sway. The music’s frenzied tempo matched time with her heart.
"Of course. My master speaks highly of him." His
face looked strange, as if he’d practiced these words, yet hated himself for
giving an expected answer. It intrigued her.
"And who is your master, my lord...?"
Another couple swept up to them, she could see the swirl of
a crimson skirt. Surely she’d have time to hear his answer. He smiled brightly,
sensual lips showing even teeth.
"My apologies, I’m Harry Percy. I apprentice in
politics with the Cardinal."
"Oh."
So there was a flaw—and quite a glaring one. She tried not
to sound rude, but couldn't help herself. To apprentice with Wolsey, well, he
must be anything but desirable—probably as lecherous. She found it nearly
impossible to keep any of those feelings out of her voice, knew that with just
that one syllable, she’d spoken volumes. Too bad for her, he'd probably drop
her off at the nearest group of women, eager to be finished with her.
To her surprise, he laughed. And she looked up at him,
thinking it peculiar that he should. If anything, he should have felt slighted,
not humored. She could see all of his teeth as he threw his head back,
thoroughly enjoying himself, and not caring that couples were staring. She saw
another facet of him, one that further intrigued her. So much, that she decided
to forget that he worked for a man her father loathed. She decided to forget
she was promised to another man, who probably stood silent in a corner,
watching her. Nothing else mattered except to enjoy this dance, and to make him
enjoy it more.
Too soon he curved his hand about another woman’s waist and
was lost in the tide of gowns.
"I’m sorry about your wife," she said when Thomas
held her again.
"Ach." He waved his hand. "It’s of no
consequence. She's happy doing what she wants with whom she wants, well away
from me. And I'm equally happy."
"Oh, et q’est que tu fait ? Tell me not, you
still write those hideous stories?"
Laughing faces she saw at the perimeter, women nibbling at
chunks of cheese and sipping delicately at their glasses. They reminded her of
mice and tiny birds. Not at all a glamorous image when both animals suffered
fleas and lice. Then again, perhaps most of the ladies did as well. As the
music ended, he led her to the wall, near a pack of Catherine's ladies.
"Oh, no. I gave up stories long ago," he said.
"It’s a relief to hear."
"Now, I write poetry." He grinned in a way that
made her heart stop, then left her gaping open-mouthed next to Mary.
She watched him walk away, a haughtiness lightening his
steps. How mature he’d grown, how
sedately behind the movements of deep black and crimson velvets. The dove white
satin of many gowns a creamy, beckoning blur. Anne’s gown whispered against
another’s; made a short, raspy melody.
"And what of your marriage?" she asked after a
moment, too caught up in the textures that surrounded her to care that he was
deliberately twirling her too fast. She wished she hadn’t taken so long to goad
him; now he would think he was getting the better of her. She stepped up her
pace. He best not think he could better her.
He laughed, and she felt his chest shake with it. "You
know how to find the soft spots." He spun her madly around another couple.
"Madame Wyatt is, shall we say, estranged from me and our marriage."
She only had the chance to say, "Oh." before
another courtier took his place. In a few moments she took her gentleman’s hand
again, he of the forest eyes and demure stance.
"You dance well, mistress..."
"Boleyn," she returned immediately, pleased he’d
complimented her. But it wasn’t enough. She had only moments before she’d be in
the arms of another and didn’t want to miss her opportunity. She couldn’t let
him lapse into silence.
"Thomas Boleyn is my father. Perhaps you know of him?
He serves the King." She dared swivel her hips, wanted him to feel them
sway. The music’s frenzied tempo matched time with her heart.
"Of course. My master speaks highly of him." His
face looked strange, as if he’d practiced these words, yet hated himself for
giving an expected answer. It intrigued her.
"And who is your master, my lord...?"
Another couple swept up to them, she could see the swirl of
a crimson skirt. Surely she’d have time to hear his answer. He smiled brightly,
sensual lips showing even teeth.
"My apologies, I’m Harry Percy. I apprentice in
politics with the Cardinal."
"Oh."
So there was a flaw—and quite a glaring one. She tried not
to sound rude, but couldn't help herself. To apprentice with Wolsey, well, he
must be anything but desirable—probably as lecherous. She found it nearly
impossible to keep any of those feelings out of her voice, knew that with just
that one syllable, she’d spoken volumes. Too bad for her, he'd probably drop
her off at the nearest group of women, eager to be finished with her.
To her surprise, he laughed. And she looked up at him,
thinking it peculiar that he should. If anything, he should have felt slighted,
not humored. She could see all of his teeth as he threw his head back,
thoroughly enjoying himself, and not caring that couples were staring. She saw
another facet of him, one that further intrigued her. So much, that she decided
to forget that he worked for a man her father loathed. She decided to forget
she was promised to another man, who probably stood silent in a corner,
watching her. Nothing else mattered except to enjoy this dance, and to make him
enjoy it more.
Too soon he curved his hand about another woman’s waist and
was lost in the tide of gowns.
"I’m sorry about your wife," she said when Thomas
held her again.
"Ach." He waved his hand. "It’s of no
consequence. She's happy doing what she wants with whom she wants, well away
from me. And I'm equally happy."
"Oh, et q’est que tu fait ? Tell me not, you
still write those hideous stories?"
Laughing faces she saw at the perimeter, women nibbling at
chunks of cheese and sipping delicately at their glasses. They reminded her of
mice and tiny birds. Not at all a glamorous image when both animals suffered
fleas and lice. Then again, perhaps most of the ladies did as well. As the
music ended, he led her to the wall, near a pack of Catherine's ladies.
"Oh, no. I gave up stories long ago," he said.
"It’s a relief to hear."
"Now, I write poetry." He grinned in a way that
made her heart stop, then left her gaping open-mouthed next to Mary.
She watched him walk away, a haughtiness lightening his
steps. How mature he’d grown, how
Similar Books
