ignoring it,
treating that homely girl with as much courtesy or attention he would pay to any
female. Anne sat sulking in a far corner—which was how she had such a good
view. It didn't lend too much detail, but she could see the entire room. An
enviable position for any people-watcher, but a bad spot for picking up
partners. Not that it bothered her, she sulked because she felt like it. She
decided to fully bask in the pleasure of her own company, and to purgatory with
anyone who didn't want it.
She’d wanted to dance with George. And may he rot in his
splendidly cut clothes as he danced with that chit of a girl he pined over, and
now coddled—his wife.
"Too busy," he’d said with a wink, obviously
expecting his favorite sister to understand and comply with his meaning. Well,
she didn't understand. She had barely seen him in the three years, needed to
catch up. Besides, he saw his wife every day. She sat staring up at the
musician's gallery—engrossed in her own thoughts, bad company though they were,
and jumped nearly off her perch when she heard a voice addressing her. The
voice was deep and penetrating, vibrated in her chest, and sounded much like
Percy’s but with a more commanding air.
"You look sad, Mistress Boleyn, is something bothering
you?" Henry's voice drifted to her, and she swallowed her impatience at
his question.
The answer had to be obvious even to the most ignorant
courtier.
Instead, she smiled up into deep blue eyes that were fringed
with a lace of thick lashes. Such beautiful eyes, so sensitive. She refused to
listen to the rush of her heart. She eyed him somewhat suspiciously, stubbornly
stuck in her mood as she was. What was he doing over here, away from Mary? And
as she looked into his wide eyes, blue and naive, trying to appear either
sympathetic or sensitive, she made a decision that grew from her mood. Before
she could stop herself, she blurted out an answer.
"Thinking of my lost love, I suppose." Which she
wasn't, but he had opened the gate, and she intended to go through it.
"Lost love?" His question sounded ignorant, which
she knew he wasn’t. Oh well, if he wanted to play the game...
" Oui . Three years gone now."
"Oh, I'm sorry. My sympathies." His round face had
taken on that blank look she recognized as accompanying a feeling of ineptness,
or a lack of empathy.
"Oh, he hasn't passed on," she stated flatly, She
discerned a sense of vindication blending with her ennui. The hundreds of
milling people became a little more interesting, the room a trifle more
lighted.
"Oh," he began, his full mouth gaping into a
matching shape. "I don't know what to say."
She swallowed the comments she wanted to make, licked her
lips, and smiled her biggest, most disarming smile.
"You can say you're sorry." She hoped the green
velvet drapes that surrounded her back would darken her eyes.
He smiled, obviously confused. She spread her arm over the
cushion of the brocaded settee, offering him the place next to her.
"Sorry, say you, Mistress Boleyn?" He shifted and
sat, icy blue eyes melted to sea green. "Why? Am I responsible for you
losing him?"
Again, she licked her lips, a brief wetting that held her
tongue still on the tip for just a second. Then she reached out to touch his
wrist.
" Oui ," she withdrew her hand as soon as the
word left her mouth, but not before she felt the tremor in his muscle as she
touched him. With a quick glance, she noticed the gooseflesh that took her
finger’s place.
"My betrothed, Henry Lord Percy, made a better
match—with your help, Your Majesty."
No matter how she felt Henry’s presence, she remembered
yearning for her betrothed, and couldn’t forget that this man was responsible.
"Ah." She could tell by the way his face fell, and
the set of his shoulders that he felt contrite. She almost felt disposed to
forgive him. Almost. But for that other thing in his expression—that thing that
spoke of disappointment, not of sadness for her—she would have.
treating that homely girl with as much courtesy or attention he would pay to any
female. Anne sat sulking in a far corner—which was how she had such a good
view. It didn't lend too much detail, but she could see the entire room. An
enviable position for any people-watcher, but a bad spot for picking up
partners. Not that it bothered her, she sulked because she felt like it. She
decided to fully bask in the pleasure of her own company, and to purgatory with
anyone who didn't want it.
She’d wanted to dance with George. And may he rot in his
splendidly cut clothes as he danced with that chit of a girl he pined over, and
now coddled—his wife.
"Too busy," he’d said with a wink, obviously
expecting his favorite sister to understand and comply with his meaning. Well,
she didn't understand. She had barely seen him in the three years, needed to
catch up. Besides, he saw his wife every day. She sat staring up at the
musician's gallery—engrossed in her own thoughts, bad company though they were,
and jumped nearly off her perch when she heard a voice addressing her. The
voice was deep and penetrating, vibrated in her chest, and sounded much like
Percy’s but with a more commanding air.
"You look sad, Mistress Boleyn, is something bothering
you?" Henry's voice drifted to her, and she swallowed her impatience at
his question.
The answer had to be obvious even to the most ignorant
courtier.
Instead, she smiled up into deep blue eyes that were fringed
with a lace of thick lashes. Such beautiful eyes, so sensitive. She refused to
listen to the rush of her heart. She eyed him somewhat suspiciously, stubbornly
stuck in her mood as she was. What was he doing over here, away from Mary? And
as she looked into his wide eyes, blue and naive, trying to appear either
sympathetic or sensitive, she made a decision that grew from her mood. Before
she could stop herself, she blurted out an answer.
"Thinking of my lost love, I suppose." Which she
wasn't, but he had opened the gate, and she intended to go through it.
"Lost love?" His question sounded ignorant, which
she knew he wasn’t. Oh well, if he wanted to play the game...
" Oui . Three years gone now."
"Oh, I'm sorry. My sympathies." His round face had
taken on that blank look she recognized as accompanying a feeling of ineptness,
or a lack of empathy.
"Oh, he hasn't passed on," she stated flatly, She
discerned a sense of vindication blending with her ennui. The hundreds of
milling people became a little more interesting, the room a trifle more
lighted.
"Oh," he began, his full mouth gaping into a
matching shape. "I don't know what to say."
She swallowed the comments she wanted to make, licked her
lips, and smiled her biggest, most disarming smile.
"You can say you're sorry." She hoped the green
velvet drapes that surrounded her back would darken her eyes.
He smiled, obviously confused. She spread her arm over the
cushion of the brocaded settee, offering him the place next to her.
"Sorry, say you, Mistress Boleyn?" He shifted and
sat, icy blue eyes melted to sea green. "Why? Am I responsible for you
losing him?"
Again, she licked her lips, a brief wetting that held her
tongue still on the tip for just a second. Then she reached out to touch his
wrist.
" Oui ," she withdrew her hand as soon as the
word left her mouth, but not before she felt the tremor in his muscle as she
touched him. With a quick glance, she noticed the gooseflesh that took her
finger’s place.
"My betrothed, Henry Lord Percy, made a better
match—with your help, Your Majesty."
No matter how she felt Henry’s presence, she remembered
yearning for her betrothed, and couldn’t forget that this man was responsible.
"Ah." She could tell by the way his face fell, and
the set of his shoulders that he felt contrite. She almost felt disposed to
forgive him. Almost. But for that other thing in his expression—that thing that
spoke of disappointment, not of sadness for her—she would have.
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