He eventually stills, and it takes me some time before I pull in a breath to speak. I’m not entirely sure if words are even possible when we suddenly hear a noise through the door.
Holy shit! There are people on the stairs.
We’re unmoving and breathing heavy as we attempt to stay quiet. Simon’s fingers are still inside me. The voices are right outside, laughing and talking for a moment before they eventually begin to weaken as they continue past.
Simon’s gaze stays with mine, both of us knowing just how close we were to being discovered. His fingers slip from my center as he kisses me again, this time much more softly.
“Thank you,” I hear myself say when he pulls his head back.
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “I assure you, no thanks are necessary.”
A few seconds later, our breathing has leveled to a manageable degree. My leg unhooks from around his waist and my foot touches the floor, feeling unstable as I gradually get my bearings.
Simon drops his head forward, nuzzling his nose against the swell of my breasts as I tuck them back inside my gown. He stands up straight, readjusting himself inside his pants with a half-pained exhale.
“I will walk you back,” he tells me.
I wish he could, but I shake my head.
“We have to be more careful,” I tell him. “No walking me to my rooms.”
He isn’t happy but begrudgingly nods. I take a step forward, but he pulls me back to kiss me again. When I eventually do make my way toward the door, a bittersweet smile crosses my face as I imagine how our goodbye tonight could have played out if we were in my time.
Simon would have walked me to my door. We’d kiss one more time, maybe a few more times, and make plans to see each other in a couple of days. He’d text me that night and I’d smile in bed when I saw it, hopeful and curious of what the future held. I know that’s not something we can have here, but just for now, for tonight, I’m going to make believe that we can.
Chapter Fourteen
“Why did you ask for an embroidery session if all you want to do is sleep?”
Bessie pulls the embroidery hoop off her face to look at me, wincing her eyes against the light of the room. She’s sideways in her chair, half reclining with her legs dangling over one end. Theo is biting at her shoes. “Alice Wharton was practicing the lute directly in my ear. If I stayed sitting over there, I would have emptied my stomach onto the floor. It may still happen now.”
I complete my feather stitch and give her a knowing look. “That’s what chugging ale gets you. William said he almost had to wrestle you to the ground when you tried to steal a full barrel out of the pub tent. He was drenched when he brought you back.”
“Oh, shut it,” she grumbles, putting her embroidery hoop back on her face.
I put my own embroidery hoop in my lap. “Couldn’t you go straight to jail for saying that?”
“Apologies. Kindly shut it, Your Most Regal, Royal Highness.”
Satisfied, I pick up my hoop, ready to start the next stitch, when the sitting room doors open, and a messenger enters. “The Duke of Norfolk,” he announces.
My least favorite uncle enters behind him. Lady Rochford stands from her seat in the corner and gradually moves in my direction.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. Ladies.” He attempts a relatable smile, but the embedded insincerity of his face fights it hard. “I am here bearing news. The Italian ambassador is to visit our court. Indeed, he will be here in the coming weeks. I will be meeting with him on political matters, but in his absence, the king wishes you to arrange an entertainment for our guest.”
The fifteen women in the room, some ladies-in-waiting and some maids of honor, look to each other in excitement as the duke goes on, his attention now entirely directed at me.
“The king bid me tell you that no one could better display the beauties of our court than his beloved, perfect Catherine. And in less than a month, he will be ever by your side.”
Oh joy.
Bessie excuses herself as the duke approaches, and the room is doused in an eager flurry of whispers as he steps forward to greet me in relative privacy. “Niece, are you well?”
“I’m well,” I answer, albeit unenthusiastically.
He steps the smallest bit closer. “How well?” He lowers his voice and makes an invisible baby bump with his hand over his belly. “Are youverywell?”
His cringe level knows no bounds. “Not that well,” I tell him.
