His eyes have an indulging tint. “Will we?”
“Yes,” I say, only half believing it myself. “Every week.”
He waits a beat before he runs his index finger along my cheek. “Every week, then. I’ll be here.”
The journey back to the palace is a quiet one. When we reach the garden wall with our clothes and hair back in place, he hoists me over as he did before. Walking through the maze of hedges, I’m the first to speak.
“I should head back the rest of the way on my own. If we’re seen together, people will talk.”
Simon nods in stoic agreement but then takes my wrist to stop me from walking. There’s a fearful sort of hunger in his gaze as he pulls me into another demanding kiss. I give myself over to it, a moan lingering in my throat, when someone starts calling my name.
“Catherine! Are you here?”
I instantly recognize Bessie’s voice and tear myself out of Simon’s arms. Her footsteps draw nearer, and out of sheer panic, I shove Simon with all my might into the shrub behind him. He goes down with a muffled crash, and I see nothing but his feet in the air until they disappear between the leaves. I’m about to check if he’s all right when Bessie rounds the corner.
“Catherine, what in the world are you doing? Lady Rochford is on the hunt for you, and if she found you first, I’m sure she would have you flayed.”
She links her arm through mine and pulls me in the direction of the palace. I look back over my shoulder and see the top of Simon’s head popping out over the bush. There’s some dirt on his cheek, but other than that, he appears fine.
I give him an apologetic wave when Bessie isn’t looking and then turn my head forward as we continue on. It’s not the most graceful thank-you I could have given him, considering the world-altering orgasm that he just gave me, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Chapter Sixteen
Pregaming is a rite of passage. That’s what Zoe told me when she religiously blasted music in her dorm room every Friday night, requiring me to drink no fewer than two shots of Tito’s before I was allowed out the door. I didn’t expect to like it, but somehow I always did. I don’t know if it was the ritual aspect or the camaraderie we built with the other girls on her floor through it, but something about pregaming just feels good.
That’s what I’m trying to convey to my ladies-in-waiting at this very moment.
It’s the night of the masque, an hour before it’s set to begin, and I have all the women who are participating gathered in my sitting room. We’ve rehearsed for at least an hour almost every day for the past two weeks, and we deserve a victory lap. We’re dressed in matching gowns that are a far cry from comfortable, but they’re strikingly beautiful. Each is white with sparkling specks of silver and gold—very Drew Barrymore circaEver After, and I’m feeling it.
Bartholomew and the boys are playing what sounds like elevator music in the corner, and I walk over to them with a half-formed plan.
“We need a change of pace,” I tell them. “If I hum a song, do you think you could play it back?”
Bartholomew scoffs. “I should think so, Your Majesty.”
“Perfect.” I proceed to hum the melody to my favorite Chappell Roan song.
Bartholomew watches me and listens with his arms crossed across his chest. When I’m done, he pauses for several seconds until he nods. “Let us confer.” He turns and convenes with William and the rest of the musicians, and I return to the ladies.
“More wine?” I ask, pouring another cup for Lady Wessex.
“I don’t understand why we’re all here when the masque doesn’t start for an hour yet. Wouldn’t we be better off rehearsing?”
“What’s to rehearse?” I ask. “We already know all the steps.”
“Maybe we should have a snack before we go,” Elizabeth Norworth suggests.
Lady Wessex rubs her temples. “Fill your garters all you wish, Elizabeth. I’m returning to my room.”
“Wait!” I call after her. “Come on, pregaming is all about bonding and building excitement and reducing social anxiety. Everyone, stand up. Just stand up for one minute.”
The ladies do as I ask, and as I lift my cup in a toast, Bartholomew and Co. drop the beat to “HOT TO GO!” It’s a banger that is impossible to deny, even via flute and lute. Lady Barrow’s hips inadvertently start to sway, and I lift my cup higher in optimism.
“Here’s to us. We’re not going to worry about our husbands, or our suitors, or anyone else. Tonight is for the ladies.”
“And the maids,” Elizabeth chimes in.
“The ladies and the maids,” Bessie says with a smirk.
