“Okay, Hampton Court officially steals the show,” I said under my breath.
Nick’s voice exposed a quiver of nervous pride. “Before long, all my palaces will be ours to share.”
I squeezed his fingers, but what I wanted to say was: I only want you.
The king spoke calmly but held the room’s attention. “My dearest lords, it is with every pleasure that we proclaim Mistress Emmeline Grace our most dear betrothed. God willing, this precious lady has agreed to marry your true and faithful king and will make a most blessed queen.”
The lively music cut to a desolate silence as the sea of faces gaped up at us. The reaction was so arctic that I’m surprised I didn’t freeze solid on the spot. One guy with a pointed beard even glowered at me like he’d caught me double-dipping the ketchup and fries. What the...? When Nick’s forehead tipped regally forward, however, the nobles clapped politely and bowed. The crisp harmonies of lutes, violins, and oboes again floated from the balcony, and my shoulders loosened as the room’s chatter resumed. Had I imagined the icy reaction?
Nick and I crossed the tiled dais strewn with perfumed rushes to take our seats at an ornate table crowned with a green-and-white canopy. Servants washed our hands with rose water while guests hurried into their assigned seats at trestle tables positioned around the hall’s edges. Nerves had dried out my mouth, so I threw back a shot of sweetened wine.
After the king said a prayer of thanks, the servers began their parade of dishes, offering slices of roasted eel, porpoise, lamb, turkey, pheasant, and swan. I hunted for vegetables but found only sliced citrus fruits artistically displayed like Chinese fans. A sweaty chef carved the turkey in front of the king and used a two-pronged fork to distribute it smoothly onto our gold plates. Nick grabbed a dark slice of meat with two fingers and slid it into his mouth.
Everything he did was adorable, but I raised my brows at him. “You saw that guy use a fork to pick up the meat to put it on the plate, right?” I whispered.
He licked his fingers. “I believe so.”
I leaned closer. “So you haven’t joined the dots on what else a fork might be good for?”
He reached for his wine, considering my question. I nearly disclosed the answer to my riddle when it hit me that I might bring the fork’s prevalence in England forward by a century or two. I’d changed more than enough history merely by being here. To divert Nick’s mind from my reckless question, I dug into the turkey with my fingers and probed him about our audience of stony-faced guests.
He whispered funny stories about some of the men sitting below us, thawing some of my unease. When he began discreetly caressing my fingers in his lap beneath the table, every inch of me fluttered.
While Nick briefly spoke with one of the passing chefs in French, I focused on surveying more of the crowd, nearly choking on my turkey. My old court bestie, Alice Grey, was watching me from the far end of the hall. Beside her sat a courtier with trimmed gray hair—the man I’d seen her dancing with at the Midsummer’s Eve feast. I tried to nod hello to her, but she didn’t look my way again through four more pungent meat buffets and an onslaught of sugary desserts. A chill blew through the drafty hall. I’d expected at least a smile from Alice.
Nick’s warm hand cupped mine. “I will present you to my most favored nobles, and we may then retire. You must be wearied.”
I swallowed alarm as the king stood up, guests scrambling to their feet in response. Servants carried away plates of half-eaten marzipan treasure chests as the courtiers left the tables and huddled into groups like a networking event.
Showtime.
The first man brave enough to approach us was the Earl of Dorset, who was the same height as me and shaped like an upside-down egg. He bowed to the king and kissed our hands.
“I have had the pleasure of seeing you at Whitehall, madam,” he said to me, subtly tugging at the sash stretched too tightly around his waist. “It grieved me to hear of your family’s demise.”
“Thank you,” I said softly. “It’s been a difficult time.”
It was a necessary lie, but it still made my jaw clench with guilt. I reminded myself that lying to people in this place was going to become my full-time job.
The conversation had barely begun, but it was immediately exchanged for introductions with the Lords Chancellor, Chamberlain, and Privy Seal; a tipsy mayor of London; and several earls and barons, including Lord Ashley, who I’d once saved from choking. It was all so different from the days of the Palace of Whitehall. Rather than secret trysts with the king behind closed doors, I was now openly by his side, presented to the most important men in the country as his chosen bride. My nervous panic was beginning to feel like motion sickness.
“The woman who has bewitched the King’s Majesty,” called the baron Lord Wharton in an insulting tone as he approached me with Alice Grey behind him. Beneath a pearled hood, her wavy hair was woven into a cluster of braids pinned with fresh flowers. Alice hated wearing her hair up.
Despite my efforts, she wouldn’t meet my gaze and angled her neck past my shoulder like she was more interested in whatever was happening behind me.
The baron’s face held a sinister smirk beneath his walrus-style beard trimmed into two points. “Mistress Grace, do I recall your person from Whitehall, when the king proclaimed his betrothal to Henriette of France?” he asked. Bringing up Nick’s former fiancée was a clear strike at me.
“I can’t say; you’re not familiar to me,” I couldn’t help but reply. My eyes flashed to Nick, but he’d stepped away with the new French ambassador.
Wharton pursed his lips. “I understand that your late father was a physician?”
“That’s right. Doctor Martin Grace from Sussex. Worthing, to be specific.”
I knew I was sounding like a dingbat, but the baron was already edging his way into the king’s conversation as if I’d bored him, rudely angling his back to me.
Alice and I were left alone. “Welcome to Hampton Court, madam,” she said to me, curtsying stiffly in her prune-colored gown. “It greatly pleased me to receive the happy news of your betrothal to the king.”
“Thank you. It’s so good to see you.” I smiled nervously, breathing in the cinnamon scent that was an Alice Grey hallmark.
She didn’t return the smile. “It seems the circumstances of loved ones may change substantially without any caution at all,” she added coolly. “As you are quite aware, I have come to suffer this knowledge on more than one occasion.”
The smile slid off my face. I’d never seen Alice angry with me before. Her mom once vanished from court without a word—just like I did several weeks ago. Was she pissed at me for putting her through the same thing again?
A pair of arms pierced the tension between us, offering two cups of wine. It was Francis Beaumont in a stark-white coat strikingly draped over a doublet of emerald green. He looked as suave as always, but Alice scarcely glanced at him as she strode back to the baron.
I accepted one of Francis’s cups. “Are Alice Grey and Lord Wharton a couple now?” I asked him, taking a large sip of wine. I already knew from Google searches that Alice was destined to marry Francis, at least until I first arrived in the sixteenth century and began influencing their relationship. If she married the snide Lord Wharton instead, she’d die in childbirth. A lump grew in my throat.