Kenilworth, August 1522
Somehow, the celebrations for the Duke of York were actually merrier than those for the Prince of Wales had been. Although Marie and her household had striven to hide the fact that something had been wrong about William’s birth as best they could, the sheer length of her labour had alerted many sharp-minded courtiers to the fact that, perhaps, just perhaps, they were lucky to have a Duke of York at all. A definite sense of relief mingled with the joy that customarily greeted any living child.
Wine and ale and mead flowed liberally and soon, nearly everybody was worse the wear for alcohol.
Including Lady Anne, the Queen’s sister. Somewhere in her brain, she knew that six cups of mead was really far too much for her, but it was so hard to say no when people, alight with joy, kept whirling her out for a galliard or some other kind of dance and then plying her with drinks. Besides, if she ignored the fact that her head was spinning, she felt joyfully reckless. She felt as though nothing could hurt her, not even scandal. After all, Marie had produced two healthy boys. The King was putty in her hands. Marie could protect her if anything went wrong.
“Anne, come on. You’ve had more than enough. You’d better come with me.”
Harry had appeared her side. His arms snaked around her waist as he started to pull her gently towards the doors and the warm, clear, night air.
She turned slowly, sensuously, to face him.
“I don’t -” she began, but then the candlelight hit his rugged blonde hair and highlighted just how chiselled his jaw was. God, he was desirable.
“I want to kiss you,” she blurted, wine loosening her tongue until she was unusually candid about her emotions. Harry looked at her flushed face and pecked her cheek tenderly.
“I’m sure you do, but we’d best get you somewhere safe first.”
Anne pouted, but pretended to comply, at least until they were alone.
Then suddenly, as though she could control herself no longer, she lunged, slamming her lips on to his with more force than she even thought possible.
“Anne!” Harry gasped into the kiss, but he couldn’t resist her passion for long. A few moments later, he was kissing her back, unable to stop himself.
As usual, their hands began to wander and Harry thought nothing of it at first, at least not until Anne grabbed one of his hands and pressed it between her legs. She had pushed her skirts away so that all she had on between his fingers and her underparts was a flimsy shift. A flimsy shift that was utterly soaked.
A jolt went through him and he straightened instantly.
“Anne, no. I won’t do it. I promised not to take your maidenhead until we were married. I mean to keep that promise.”
“But I don’t want you to! Please, Harry, please! We’re betrothed; it’s not as if we’d be doing any harm. But God knows when we’ll be married. There’s been nothing, not even a whisper. And we’ve been betrothed more than a year. How much longer are we going to have to wait?”
Harry hesitated. He could see her argument; could see her logic, but a large part of him wanted to respect her honour when she herself so clearly couldn’t.
On the other hand, however, he wasn’t quite sober himself. He had been celebrating Prince William’s birth too, after all. And Anne was a beautiful young woman, especially with her eyes flashing indignant fire like that.
When she purred, “You can’t deny you want me, can you?” into his ear, he could resist her no longer. Tugging at her hand, he pulled her back into the Palace through a little-used side door.
“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it on a proper bed. You deserve that much, at least.”