“And why is that?” he asks.
My gaze falls to the couple dancing beside us and find Elizabeth Norworth, my favorite cheese-pilfering maid of honor, paired up with an older gentleman. I catch a whiff of Stilton from her suspiciously drooping sleeve just as I notice that the man’s hand is dangerously low on her waist. I’m deciding if I should tackle him or shove him off when Thomas suddenly steps forward and speaks close to her partner’s ear: “Mind your hands or I will cut them off.”
The man flushes as Elizabeth smiles and purposefully stomps on his foot. Thomas takes my hand as he returns to my side.
“My apologies. Do go on.”
I slip my hand under his so that I’m the one leading, still a little startled by his defending Elizabeth. “I was only going to say that Bessie is one of my closest friends, and you don’t seem like the marrying kind.”
Thomas positions his hand back under mine as his aristocratic face tilts in feigned regret. “I’m precisely the marrying kind. No man here loves love more than me.”
I shake my head slightly as we both do a turn and bring our hands back together.
Thomas keeps his eyes locked on mine when we face each other again, peering at me more closely than usual. “I’m beginning to wonder if your fall has something to do with your newfound disdain for me. Was I the villain in a bad dream you had when you were asleep? Tell me what I did to offend you.”
I feel a nervous twinge in my belly. I can’t tell him what fate has in store for him if the real Catherine were here and not me. That their mutual death was waiting just around the corner.
“My priorities aren’t what they used to be, that’s all.”
“Stop, stop, stop!” The music halts as the choreographer addresses a couple near the front. Most of the partners begin to talk among themselves, and Thomas checks that we’re a safe distance away from listening ears before he approaches me.
“You are the only person at court I can truly talk to. When we first met—when we would talk as we used to do—we swore to always trust each other. I miss our friendship, Catherine. Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it. Please.” His eyes are still trained on mine, and his voice sounds honest.
“Is friendship really all you’re after?” I ask.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
I feel the tug of a nagging feeling that maybe I’ve been too hard on Thomas. Knowing what I know about his shared fatal future with Catherine, I was determined to protect her and me by cutting him out of the equation. But what if I was being too mercenary? Since I’ve been here,I’ve been trying to rearrange the chessboard of Catherine’s life to set us up to win, and in the process, I labeled Thomas as a hollow pawn, not an actual person.
“Fine,” I tell him before I can change my mind. “Maybe I have been a little unfair to you.”
“I’m sorry, what was that? My hearing goes in and out.” He leans in closer to me for a better listen, and I give him a blank stare back.
“You’re making me instantly regret my decision, and we’ve only been friends for five seconds.”
“We’re friends again, then?” he asks with a sly smile. “I knew it was just a matter of time until you succumbed to my charms. I don’t blame you, of course. Everyone’s first instinct is to hate me, but I always grow on them. I’m like a very distinct, handsome chin mole.”
“That is a super specific choice of metaphor. Still, if we’re going to be friends, I have ground rules. No more flirting, and no more innuendos.”
Thomas’s face scrunches like he just force fed something bitter. “So I’m never supposed to speak again?”
“You can speak,” I tell him. “Just be friendly about it. Platonic and friendly.”
“To everyone or just you?”
“Just me is fine. Outside of you and me, you’re free to seduce away to your slutty heart’s content.”
“I can accept that,” he says. He then turns and looks toward the musicians, giving William and Bartholomew a wink. Bartholomew drops his lute as Thomas turns back, very pleased with himself.
“I like to keep my options open.”
Dance rehearsal goes on for an hour, and it was more enjoyable than I thought it would be. Thomas is tolerable, even entertaining, and Bessie and Richard have yet to stop talking. The vibe in the room is relaxed and chipper as people start to disperse. As they do, Simon enters, seeming unnoticed, but not to me. To me, the air shifts, electric with his presence. I watch as he approaches, and my legs go a little loose.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” he says with a respectful bow.
The gesture is so formal, in no way reflecting the fact that we were dry humping in a closet a few days ago. The back of my neck grows speckled with heat as I think about it.
“Good afternoon, Lord Gainsford. I’m going to assume that you didn’t volunteer as a masque dancer?”
