22

HENRY PERCY. SOON TO BE EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND. Warden of the east marches, charged with defending the Scottish Borders against the Duke of Albany and the barbari-ans of the north. Doomed to become a battle-scarred army rat like his father. Like the Earl of Surrey, my uncle.

The trouble is, Percy doesn’t look cut out for all that. He looks like a musician. Like a cleric. His features are stark and shadowed in the candlelight, his face so full of feeling, his hands large and strong, but smooth, as if they’ve never held anything more solid than a quill in his lifetime.

“How do you like court, Mistress Boleyn?”

He presses his lips together. Not the thin lips of a cleric. Full lips. Soft. I return my eyes to his.

“At the moment, it’s frightfully boring.”

He looks shocked.

Oh, God. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m supposed to be using my feminine wiles.

“With the king away,” I amend.

Neither does that sound right. As if I look to the king for all my entertainment. Which I can’t. But he is the king. Divine. Divinely anointed.

Our conversation stutters to a halt. Stillborn.

“I mean, everyone seems at a loss. Without the usual entertainments. Seeking escape.”

I look over Percy’s shoulder to the doorway through which Wyatt just exited, trying not to think about where he went.

“Thomas Wyatt is not the most faithful of men.” Percy looks as cross as I feel.

“I think he and his wife loathe each other. And from what I hear, she isn’t necessarily a paragon of virtue.”

“It doesn’t give him the right to . . .” Percy blushes. And I realize what his original statement meant.

“You think he should be faithful to me?” My heart clenches.

“I heard . . .” Percy cannot finish that thought. “And he kissed you.”

I wipe the spot again.

“After a fashion.” I shake my head. “Thomas Wyatt is not my lover.”

“Oh.”

So much meaning in one small sound.

“He claims we’ve known each other since I was two and we played in the fountains naked,” I add, and immediately want to bite my tongue off. Because Percy blushes so hard his fingertips turn red.

“I mean we’re like . . .” We are not like brother and sister. Not like George and me. “There is nothing between us.” Something about the words sends a shard of ice through me.

“You’re engaged to James Butler,” he says with strained casualness.

“I am not! Who told you that?”

“All the court.”

“Well, all the court is wrong.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t believe everything I hear at court.” He throws my own words back to me.

“Certainly stories have a way of being told.” I lace my words with a lightness I don’t entirely feel. “Or worse, believed.”

He nods, and we lapse into silence.

“For instance,” I say to break it, “I hear you’ve been engaged to the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter since infancy.”

“Mary Talbot is a sour-faced harpy. Full of nothing but complaints and demons. Like her father and her brother and the whole of the English north.”

“My Lord Percy,” I say, touching his arm lightly with my fingertips. “I do believe that is the most unkind thing I have ever heard you say.”

He has the grace to blush again.

“But you haven’t denied my statement.” I pretend to pout, feeling ridiculous. Pouting isn’t my style. More like the duchess’s.

“It is my father’s choice, not mine. And I have not agreed.”

“Fathers,” I say knowingly. “Family pride. Alliances.”

“You understand,” he says, his face brightening. I’m starting to like the look of him when he smiles. The boy takes over, negating the angry young man.

“My father doesn’t care that I have no wish to marry James Butler.”

“James isn’t so bad. He just doesn’t know how to interact with people.”

“Doesn’t bode well for a marriage, does it?”

The seriousness returns.

“Has it been solemnized?” He presses his lips together. “Signed? Your betrothal?”

He looks away suddenly, as if the question was more than he intended to ask.

“Not yet.” I plan my pause carefully. “But my father returns from Spain soon. And I think he’ll apply himself to the business of alliances when he does.”

“I should like more control of my life,” Percy says, and I see his fists clenching at his sides. “To do as I see fit.”

“You already did tonight,” I say, and grasp his hand in mine. He shudders at my touch. Or trembles.

“Tonight?”

“Wyatt and my brother can be quite adamant. And yet you didn’t go with them. Why not?”

I can’t look away from his eyes.

“Because I’d rather be here with you.”

Christ. At least he’s direct.

“Well, you know, sir, you won’t get the same from me as you would get from the companions my brother would search out for you in London.”

He reacts with such shock and horror, one would think I’d handed him a serpent.

“I-I would never ask,” he stutters.

He leaves me with an opportunity. One that I can’t pass up.

“I hope someday you will.”

His eyes widen. The black centers expand to encompass the whole of the iris. I turn before the surprise leaves his face and lead him back to the queen’s apartments. Safety in numbers. I have to move quickly and keep raising the stakes. But I have to play carefully.

Because if I do—if I win—I could be somebody, somewhere. Instead of nobody, noplace.