I lurched past Nick, but his fingers caught my arm. “My lady, you may first accompany me to dinner,” he said smoothly. “I am quite famished after such a journey.”
“The king flatters our lady with his personal visit and invitation,” Alice said behind me, subtly reminding me that rejecting the king’s direct invitation would be unthinkable.
Nick dipped his tousled hair at my curtsying ladies and led me out the doors.
Our arms rubbed together through our silks as we crossed the small courtyard. “So how did it go in Calais?” I said without looking at him.
He sighed. “The alliance is presently secure, and the Spanish appear to have retreated from the channel.”
“That’s great.” Relief loosened my tight shoulders. “I knew you’d pull it off.”
I wanted to reach for his hand—to play with his fingers again—but there was the whole ‘Lucy’ thing; plus, there was something so formal about striding through court with the king. The guards announced his presence at every turn, and courtiers would bow like their lives depended on it, never meeting Nick’s eyes or turning their backs on him. I gathered my skirts so I wouldn’t trip as we ascended the stone staircase leading to the king’s apartments. Sometimes he wasn’t my boyfriend, he was just a monarch—so frustratingly untouchable.
“What was the French king like?” I asked him, genuinely curious about the omnipotent sovereigns of sixteenth-century Europe.
“I must say that Henry was rather ordinary,” Nick replied. “Shorter than I remember and quite gaunt. He refused my invitation for a cheerful wrestling match. I suspect because he feared he would lose.” I could tell that this pleased Nick. He didn’t bring up Henriette, and I felt a touch looser in my shoulders.
The Great Watching Chamber had been reorganized into a dining room for the most important men at court, with competing aromas of savory and sweet dishes. The nobles bowed at Nick from their chairs ordered by rank, with the Duke of Norfolk in prime position. His staring eyes were a pair of daggers in my back as we passed through to the king’s private dining chamber.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” Nick said to me as we sat down at opposite ends of the long table. He rumpled his dark auburn hair with his fingers.
“What do you mean?” I replied, my cheeks hot. After so many weeks of craving Nick’s return, something felt uncomfortable between us. His reaction to Lucinda Parker had thrown me; I’d felt the chemistry between them, not to mention that I couldn’t forget how accomplished she was compared to me. Another barf.
He brought a gleaming wine cup to his lips. “You seem not at ease.”
“Oh no, I’m fine,” I said, the reply an obvious lie.
He cleared his throat, helping himself to a bread roll. “Well. You may wish to hear that, as part of the treaty terms, King Henry has proposed a marriage alliance between his brother and the Princess Catherine.”
“You mean Kit?” I blanched. “But she’s eight.”
“It is a betrothal, Emmie, not a marriage until my sister comes of age.” I couldn’t believe how delighted he looked. While the idea of French royalty didn’t stink, it was still an arranged marriage for an eight-year-old.
“How old is this French guy?”
Nick dipped his bread roll into a saucer of melted butter. “The Duke of Anjou is twenty and five.”
I nearly dropped my slice of mustard chicken. “Twenty-five? That’s a massive age difference. Don’t you want Kit to marry someone she loves?”
Eyes of glistening sea-green flashed at mine. “I must protect England against Spain. A marriage alliance with France is more important than ever. It will bring peace to the realm.”
My stomach sank. The political marriage alliance was supposed to be between Nick and Henriette until I came along and refused to play the role of mistress. Was poor Kit to be the trade-off? Marrying an old French duke that she’d never even met?
We sat there chewing in restless silence while servants and gentleman milled about, trumpets blasting beside my ear at the arrival of every deluxe dish. Memories of our private picnics on the grass at Robin House stirred my chest. Maybe being the king’s secret mistress hadn’t been such a terrible option after all. At least it meant some privacy and no arranged marriage for Kit.
Nick’s knife clinked as it dropped to his plate. “For the love of God, Mistress Grace. I beseech you to tell me what vexes you.” Lines of concern crossed his brow.
It took me a moment to clarify my thoughts. “This is all so amazing,” I said honestly, my eyes circling the overdone extravagance. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But I haven’t seen you for more than a month, and I guess I want some time with my boyfriend Nick, not King Nicholas, if that makes sense. It’s just…there’s always so much pomp. And a heck of a lot of people.”
I knew my words sounded foolish. In this world, Nick was a divine creature, appointed to rule by God’s hand. How does one even separate man and king?
The perceptiveness of his reply stunned me. “You wish for less formality and more seclusion.” He flicked his silk napkin over his plate. “I understand. I have missed four and thirty dinners with you, and I could hardly bear it.”
Thirty-four days. He’d also counted.
“Mister George,” Nick said without raising his voice. One of his gentlemen appeared through a tapestry that’d been sliced up to hide a secret door. “Pack up some of this. Make certain to include wine, and water for Mistress Grace.”
“Pack it up, Your Grace?”
“In some manner of pouch,” Nick said with annoyance. He gave an order in French to one of the gentlemen, who dashed off ahead of us.
“What’s going on?” I said as we both rose to leave the table.
Nick gestured toward the Great Watching Chamber. “This way, my lady.”
The visibly confused nobles rose again over half-eaten platters of meat as we passed back through the chamber and descended the king’s staircase to the clock courtyard. A discreet series of twisting corridors spilled us out into the majestic gatehouse that guarded the road entrance to Hampton Court. We crossed the stone bridge to where two saddled horses stood snorting and stamping their hoofs. A groom whose skin was overrun with zits was tying leather pouches to the saddle of Nick’s mocha stallion. Another boy gripped a pair of my riding boots.
“You’re kidding,” I said through a breath, rushing to my favorite horse, Stella, and running my palm across her furry side. “We’re going riding?” I beamed at Nick like an idiot.
“Riding and dinner. And, dear God, I have dreamed of that smile.” He looked at me in a way that roused a butterfly swarm in my stomach as I tied on my riding boots.
Nick mounted his horse in a single, swift motion while I fumbled with two grooms to clamber atop my neighing mare. The king clicked his tongue, and our horses lurched into a trot past the iron-tinged stench of the slaughterhouses and into the grassy hunting park. The guards who accompanied us kept their distance as we accelerated to canter across miles of wooded fields and swampy meadows, eventually stopping at a thin stream that gurgled contentedly through the wild landscape. A stone wall peeked through the gnarled trees. We must’ve reached the perimeter of the palace grounds.