“Can you find a better match than an earl of Witton?” he asked seriously. “I could probably find a girl with better bloodlines, but as Lord Cambridge has reminded me, an over-bred girl would be a poor breeder. If you are like your mother you will prove more than worthy, Philippa. Aye, it is settled between us, and you will be my wife.”
“I have not said it!” she cried, jumping up from her chair so suddenly that the game table between them shook, and several chess pieces fell to the floor.
“But you will, Philippa,” he taunted her. “You will agree to be my wife.”
“It is the land you want,” she flung back at him.
“In the beginning, aye. But not now,” he told her. “I beheld you for the first time at court the other night, and decided the matter then and there.”
“Do not dare to say you love me!” she cried.
“Nay, I do not, for I barely know you,” he responded. “Perhaps we shall learn to love each other one day, Philippa. But few go into a loving marriage. You are not a fool, as you have so carefully pointed out to me. You know that marriages among people like us are arranged for a variety of reasons. Land. Wealth. Status. Heirs. We will respect one another, Philippa. We will make children together. And if we are very fortunate the love may come. But you will make me a good wife, and I will make you the countess of Witton, and a good husband. Do you find me unattractive, or unpleasant to be with, Philippa?”
“Nay,” she admitted. “You are not a beautiful man, but neither are you an ugly one. And you have wit, and intellect, both of which I value far more in a man than a handsome face. But I think you arrogant also, my lord.”
“Aye, I can indeed be arrogant, but nonetheless I believe we have made a good beginning, Philippa.” Then reaching out he drew her from behind the table, and wrapped his arms about her. “I want the betrothal papers drawn up soon,” he said, looking down at her, his fingers tipping her face up to his. “I find I do not choose to wait long for you.”
He had taken her by surprise when he enfolded her into his embrace. She felt herself blushing once again. Worse, her heart raced at the proximity of their two bodies, though her skirts protected her from too great an intimacy. He was going to kiss her, she realized. His head was descending. Her eyes closed slowly of themselves. Her moist lips parted slightly. She sighed as his mouth touched hers, and her head spun with the pleasure the kiss offered. It had certainly not been anything like this with Roger Mildmay. Philippa was astounded. And then his lips were gone, and she felt a sense of deep loss. She almost cried out a protest as her eyes flew open.
“There,” he said. “The bargain between us is sealed now, Philippa.”
“But,” she protested once again, “I have not said it!”
“You will,” he promised her in his deep voice, and he released his hold on her.
Philippa almost stumbled when he did, but she recovered herself quickly. “I must go to bed,” she told him. “I will have to arise early to be back at the palace in time for the early mass. The queen always expects her maids to attend the first mass of the day with her. Good night, my lord.” She curtseyed to him, and almost ran from the hall.
He watched her go, and then walking to the sideboard he poured himself a silver goblet of rich red wine from the decanter there. Seating himself by the fire he considered the evening that they had just spent together. Was he mad to wed such a young girl? Perhaps a girl of twenty would suit him better, but nay. He wanted Philippa Meredith. And he was not of a mind to wait the next several months or a year to wed her. She had admitted to kissing another, and yet the touch of her lips on his had sent his senses reeling. Her mouth had not the experience of a courtesan. Indeed there was a charming innocence about it. He would let her go to France, but while she could not know it yet, she would go as his wife. Tomorrow he would seek an audience with the cardinal, and offer Wolsey his services for this great meeting that was to take place in the coming summer between King Henry and King Francois. Crispin St. Claire knew there would be a need for skilled diplomats at this endeavor. The cardinal knew what was needed, but he had not the patience to work out all the tiny details that would need to be settled. A minuter of details that would decide where each king’s pavilion would be set; how many horses each man would have; how much, and what kinds of foods and wines; how many courtiers each king would bring with him. And then there would be the similar preparations for Queen Katherine and Queen Claude. Nothing would be left to chance. Each of these kings was filled with his own self-importance. Each considered himself the first among rulers. Each would have to be catered and cosseted equally. It would require much patience, and a great deal of planning. And not just before the event transpired, but during the event and afterwards, as both Henry Tudor and Francois Premiere sought to claim that they were the greater of the duo and had gained the upper hand at this event.
Philippa departed early the following morning before either Lord Cambridge or the earl was up. She did not want to see or speak with either of them until she had had time to consider all that had happened in the few short hours she had been with the earl. She had slept badly. Her time with Crispin St. Claire had left her somewhat confused. He was a strong-willed man, she quickly divined. He was used to having his own way. So was she.
Her father had died when she was so young, Philippa thought. She had been raised in a house of women. Edmund Bolton was a quiet man, and while the management of Friarsgate was left to him, in the hall he was relatively silent while her mother and Maybel had ruled the roost. And Uncle Thomas never interfered with her mother. Indeed, if anything they had been close companions and confidants. And while she had been at home when her mother had wed Logan Hepburn, her stepfather never interfered with her mother’s rule at Friarsgate, and Philippa had rarely gone to Claven’s Cam with them, as she was considered the heiress to Friarsgate.
She was simply not used to having a man tell her what to do, and how to do it. But he really hadn’t, she reconsidered. He would simply exercise his rights as the man of the house. His house. Why was she chafing like an unbroken mare at her first bridle? This was an incredible match for a girl like her. And when he had kissed her ... Philippa felt herself grow warm with the memory of it, and she smiled to herself. She had enjoyed kissing him. She had almost wished he would kiss her again, and perhaps not stop for a brief time. She wondered what Crispin St. Claire would have thought of that.
The earl of Witton entered the hall at Bolton House that morning to find it empty but for the servants. Lord Cambridge would not make an appearance until afternoon, the earl knew. But where was Philippa? Certainly she hadn’t returned to the palace this early? He stopped a servant.
“Where is the young mistress?” he inquired of him.
“Gone back to Richmond, my lord,” the man replied. “It were barely first light when she called for her barge. May I bring you breakfast, my lord?”
The earl nodded. He had hoped to speak with her before she left. Had she fled him? Or was it that she really did want to be back in time for the first mass of the day? Would the queen really have minded if she had not been there this one time? He ate the meal placed before him, and then spent a restless morning until Lord Cambridge finally made his appearance dressed to the nines, and obviously preparing to return to court himself. The earl had noted that the Bolton barge had returned, and was bobbing in the river waters by its quay.
“Dear boy, how long have you been up?” Thomas Bolton asked his guest, taking a goblet of watered wine from the tray a servant was holding.
“Several hours, Tom,” he answered.
“Did you see my darling girl before she departed back to her duties?”
“She was long gone when I came down into the hall. A servant told me it was barely first light when she left,” the earl answered his host.
“So faithful in her duties, my young cousin,” Lord Cambridge murmured.
“I want the betrothal papers drawn up as soon as possible,” the earl began. “Philippa will accompany the queen in a few months’ time, but I have decided I would prefer it if we were man and wife before we leave for France. I am going to Wolsey this morning to offer my services for the event. The king will take only a chosen few, so I must put myself in the cardinal’s service if only for a brief period of time.”
“And is Philippa as eager to be wed as you are, dear boy?” Thomas Bolton asked.
“I have not discussed it with Philippa. It is not her decision when we wed,” the earl told Lord Bolton.
