Of course that’s who he has to go and pick as my partner. My displeasure at his choice is evident on my face, but he sees it as my not wanting to dance with anyone but him, not my specifically not wanting to dance with Thomas.
“Oh, go on, my sweet,” Henry says obligingly. “Alas, my leg pains me this evening, and I’d rather save my strength for when we are alone.” He gives me a wink, and it triggers an instantaneous bile response in my throat.
My self-preservation instincts kick into high gear as I search the crowd for Bessie. She promised that she’d be finished with the sleeping draft today, and Cecily is milling around under the guise of serving wine as she waits to take part in the drop-off. A group of ladies-in-waiting enter the room. I’m hopeful Bessie is among them when my view is abruptly blocked by none other than Catherine’s deadly sidepiece, Thomas Culpepper.
He bows before us with formality and flare. Henry eats it up. “Your Majesty,” Thomas drawls, rising to stand tall in all his splendor. “It would be an honor to dance with the queen.”
Henry applauds in approval and sends me off with a nudge. I keep my expression impassive as I step off the dais, taking Thomas’s softer-than-average hand. We make our way to the middle of the dance floor, and I steal a glance at William and Bartholomew. They make subtle teasing expressions, eliciting a smile from my sour face. Thomas follows my gaze in curiosity, but my boys turn serious before he can catch them. They ready their instruments, and a spritely melody fills the room as dozens of dancers take their place around us.
I momentarily panic as I hear the notes, remembering that the men and women of court have been taught specific music and steps since childhood, thanks to the watchful eyes of their dance tutors. I, in contrast, was never able to fully master the Macarena.
But as Thomas steps forward and everyone moves in a synchronized turn, I’m shocked to find that I do, too. It’s the same muscle-memory sensation I experienced during my attempted horseback escape on day one, and, oddly enough, I feel a very similar thrill as I move in tandem with the rest of the dancers.
“Well, you’ve truly done it, haven’t you? Just as you said you would.” Thomas’s voice is buttered with mischief as he takes my hand and ushers me into another spin. “Catherine Howard, the queen of England.”
I’m not trying to dislike him, but it’s hard not to. Thomas inherently carries himself with the bravado and entitlement of an Ivy League graduate with no student debt. If I met him in the future, I have no doubt that his chosen mode of footwear would be white tube socks and Adidas Slides.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
We step close, pressing the flats of our hands together. “Why are you so cold to me? But a week ago you held me in the breast of your confidence. Now you hardly speak a word in my direction.”
God forbid he miss an opportunity to say the word “breast.” We move apart then come back together, our hands meeting once more.
“It’s for your own good. It’s not you, it’s me.” I speak the words more cynically than I mean to, but Thomas seems to like it.
“What would you have me do to be back in your good graces? I miss the tender touch of your words.”
I roll my eyes as we all do a little turn. With arms outstretched, the women move in a circular motion around their partners, and I walk around Thomas with banal curiosity.
“Are you always like this?” I ask.
“Like what, my queen?”
Back in two lines, we walk forward with our toes pointed, moving one step at a time. My fingers rest on the back of Thomas’s offered hand. “You speak purely in innuendo. Everything you say and do feels performative.”
His returning half smile is almost sincere. “Says the greatest playactor of us all.” Now it’s the women’s turn to stay still as the men walk around them in a little circle. “I don’t judge you, ofcourse. On the contrary, I respect you all the more.” Thomas is speaking over my shoulder, and I turn my neck to meet his gaze as he steps around to the other side.
“We all do what we must to get by in this world. Don’t we,Catherine?”
Something inside me sinks at his words. It’s the way he says Catherine—like he knows something he shouldn’t. It leaves me off-balance, and for the first time in the dance, I miss a step as he spins away with a wry smile. I think about going after him, but just then my hand is caught up in a warm, large grasp as we switch partners. Someone else is standing across from me now, anchoring my feet to the floor with his steady gaze, which I realize I’m starting to crave.
Exhilaration and nerves rake through my stomach as I stare up into a familiar pair of green eyes. He gives me a barely noticeable smile that’s just for me, and I’m forced to face a very, very dangerous truth.
I have never wanted anyone as much as I want Simon Gainsford.
Chapter Eight
“Hello.” His voice is inlaid with a quiet confidence, and he moves with incredible grace for his size.
“Hello,” I answer, trying to conceal my smile.
The men do a turn, and the ladies turn next. I haven’t fully gotten my equilibrium back after seeing Simon and spinning when I suddenly stop short. Bessie is standing along the perimeter of the dance floor. My eyes stay on her as she subtly slides a small vial from the sleeve of her burgundy dress, the glass twinkling in the candlelight of the room.
Simon and I switch places as the other dancers do the same. My heart is pounding with jittery energy as I turn to make meaningful eye contact with Cecily. She gives me a nod and moves through the crowd, holding her wine jug securely as she weaves in and out.
I’m a little breathless when Simon and I face each other again, bringing our palms together and stepping forward.
“How is our Theo?” he asks.
