Tarnish by Katherine Longshore

clears his throat again. A judgment. He thinks I’ve complimented Wyatt because of an attachment.
    “You dance very well,” I tell him. Men need flattery. Especially noblemen.
    “Thank you.” He turns. Frowns at me. “So do you.”
    No comments on my sensuality from Henry Percy.
    I watch him from the corner of my eye as we promenade away from each other. He is watching Wyatt’s catlike grace. Comparatively, Percy is a bit stiff. A bit unsure of the steps. I find his insecurity appealing, a nice change from Wyatt’s relentless self-confidence.
    “I hear that you play the lute,” Percy says when he returns to me, all of his attention focused through that penetrating gaze.
    “I enjoy music.”
    “And I hear around the court that your voice could rival Orpheus. That it charms all the animals of the forest and entices the birds to dance.”
    I laugh. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear at court.”
    “There is much loose talk,” he replies, and narrows his eyes once more at Wyatt.
    He’s trying to make sense of what he has heard. And I hope he is not one of the small-minded people who believe Wyatt’s hints and implications.
    “The court is full of stories told by perjurers and poets,” I say a little more loudly than I had intended. As we turn again, I take a deep breath and when I come back to him, I murmur warmly. “And one can only believe the things experienced in the flesh.”
    My timing is just right. As I say the word “ flesh ,” his hand is at my waist. I feel a squeeze of pressure before the flush starts at his ears and floods his face and throat.
    Wyatt will be delighted. I risk a glance at him, expecting a nod or a wink or a single dimple at the very least. But his back is turned.
    “Then I should like to hear you sing one day,” Percy croaks, and I look up into his face. Vulnerability softens his features.
    I lower my gaze, the steps of flirtation taught to me by Thomas Wyatt as measured as the steps of the dance as it comes to an end. Just as I begin to sense Percy’s concern at offending me, I look up and smile.
    “One day I will,” I tell him. “For I would like to see what it entices you to do.”

17

    “Y OU CERTAINLY MADE A SPECTACLE OF YOURSELF LAST NIGHT.”
    George enters the maids’ chamber at Richmond as if he’s been here a hundred times before. He probably has. I shudder at the thought that he could have been the man I smelled on my bedclothes.
    “You certainly made yourself scarce,” I reply. I’m all alone—for once—looking for the little pot of ceruse. Wanting to give it back to the duchess. I find it and twist it in my hands as I sit down on the bed.
    George sits next to me with a flourish and then lies down, his head in my lap, looking up into my eyes. Like a lover. He grins.
    “The best girl was already taken by the king.”
    I stroke his hair, trying to tame it.
    “Hardly,” I say, the glow from last night still lodged in my chest. And the glow of George’s praise.
    When we were children Father sneeringly called George a girl when he cried. So we played a betting game to soothe the sting. Who’s the best girl? The winner got all three desserts at dinner. Mary peed herself laughing the day George came into our room dressed in bodice and skirts, singing a love song in falsetto and salting it liberally with profanity and counterfeit flatulence.
    He got all our sweets for a week for that stunt. Made himself sick on them.
    “You deny the fact that our sister was the prettiest girl there?”
    I sigh and drop my hand to the bed. Of course George wasn’t complimenting me. Or renewing our childhood friendship. I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirts—George’s hair is a little greasy.
    “No need to be jealous. Mary’s success benefits us all.”
    “What good has it done me?” I snap. I’m sick of George. Sick of his backhanded compliments and sly criticisms. I want so badly for him to sit here with me, reveling in our success. Not cutting it