7

“WHAT DO I NEED TO DO?” I ASK WYATT WHEN I FIND HIM IN the long gallery.

“. . . is exactly the right thing to say.”

I struggle not to roll my eyes. It’s hard to take the man seriously when he says things like that. But if I’m going to rid myself of James Butler, I need to attract the attention of someone else. Someone better. Wyatt just might be able to help me with that. So I will suffer his foolishness.

I turn to the maps that line the walls of the gallery. England. The Channel. The Low Countries. France. I run my fingers along the shadowy outline of what they call the New World.

“I wish I could go there.”

He takes my hand in his and says, “Why would you want to leave England when everything you need is right here?”

He presses my palm to his heart, and I bite back a laugh.

“A little overdone, don’t you think?”

“I’ve been pining for days.” He leans in close, and I can see the rim of black around the blue of his eye. A tiny dark speckle, like a grain of onyx, glints in the right one. “It took you long enough to come and find me.”

“You were supposed to be pursuing me.” I feel his heartbeat beneath my fingers. His breath on my lips.

“You said you needed time. I do little pursuing unless I’m going to get something out of it.”

“Your seduction techniques are not going to work on me, Wyatt.”

“Do you want to bet on that?” The laughter in his voice is evident—a musical bass note that makes me want to laugh, too.

“I shall choose to ignore them, then,” I say lightly. And repeat myself. “What do I need to do?”

“Flirt with me.”

“Now?” I glance quickly around the room. It’s full of maps and tapestries and quiet conversation. Courtiers plotting advancement. Ladies making assignations. Henry Percy. Norris. George.

Wyatt brushes a stray hair from my cheek to draw my eyes back to his.

“Constantly.”

“Wouldn’t that be a little obvious?”

“I believe I’ve said before that most people at this court can’t see what’s in front of them until you beat them with it. So, yes. It has to be obvious.”

“And nothing else?”

“Nothing until you want it, Anne.”

His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth and back. Almost without my wanting to, I look at his mouth, the full lower lip and the hint of reddish stubble on the upper one.

“If you do as I say,” he continues so quietly that I find myself unable to stop watching his mouth, “I can guarantee the entire court will fall swooning at your feet.”

I force myself to look back into his eyes.

“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“I have to. Or no one else will.”

“So what do we do first?”

“First we get their attention.”

“And how do we do that?”

“It’s already done. We have the entire room watching our intimate little scene.”

I realize how we must look to all the others. Standing so close, gazing intently into each other’s eyes. Like lovers.

“We have their attention. Now we need to capture their imaginations. Display your assets.”

“That’s what my sister says.” I pull away and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want lechery.”

This isn’t why I came to him.

“I meant your eyes. Dark. Mysterious. Alluring. And your face. So haughty, but such promises in those lips.”

“My lips have promised you nothing.”

“But the point is to look as if they might. You look like someone who has something to say. Something important.”

“I do.” I take his hand in mine again, hoping he’s really listening. “I have ideas. I’m more than breasts and eyes and lips, Thomas Wyatt.”

I pause for breath. I’ve said too much. But I can’t stop.

“I deserve to be heard.”

He studies me as one would a new species. We are separated by space and silence, no longer the portrait of young love. This will never work.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “You do.”

He closes the gap between us, bends over me to whisper directly into my ear.

“Let’s make sure you’re heard. If you do as I say, if we work together on this, the most important ears at court will listen.”

I snap my eyes up to his. The king? Our lips are inches apart.

“Good. Now, you must follow my directions exactly. Lower your gaze.”

I continue to keep my eyes on his face. To show him that he cannot order me like a servant. Or a wife.

“They all see us. The men will watch your every move.”

I hesitate. If he’s right, my life at court could turn completely.

Perhaps even the king himself will notice. Will hear.

I follow Wyatt’s instructions and look to the floor at the center of the room. To the cluster of leather shoes pointed just slightly in our direction. I do not bow my head. I merely lower my gaze.

“Perfect.”

The praise is like a strand of melody in my heart.

“Think in terms of music,” Wyatt whispers, as if listening to the same tune, “of poetry. Because flirtation is a dance. Count the time in your head.”

He taps it out along the pulse at my wrist.

“Now wait for a count of four. Count it in your mind. Then raise your eyes. Tilt your head. And smile. Just a half smile. Don’t look away. Another count of four. Then turn. And walk away.”

I picture it, as if I am the one watching. The measured way it operates, like a crescendo, or an unfinished chord, leaving the listener breathless for completion. If he keeps his eyes on me no matter what I do, I will look as if I’ve captured him. As if I have the power.

“But wait,” he says, just before I lift my eyes, his words like a caress on my cheek. “And this is the most important part.”

He pauses. And then he does trace the line of my jaw, almost, but not quite, touching my lips.

“When you walk away—and every time you walk away from me—don’t look back.”

Like Orpheus. Like Lot’s wife. Looking back would break the spell.

He strokes one finger down the center of my upper lip, as if asking me to hush, then releases me.

“Now go.”

I do exactly as he says. The look. The smile. The turn.

I feel him watching me. I feel everyone watching me. I consider emulating Queen Katherine, fingers pressed around each other like a gift, head bent in humble piety. But I am not a queen. Never will be.

So I straighten my spine, elongate my neck. I look down and to the left, not back at Thomas Wyatt. Showing just a hint of my face—an enigmatic glimpse—before I straighten again and walk through the door to the gallery and out of their view.

I hear a rising tide behind me, as if the room has released a collectively held breath.

A sense of power swirls through me like a draft of potent wine, and I have to steady myself, one hand on the cool stone wall. I long to lay my forehead against it but hear the returning murmur behind me and walk away.