Page 16 of The Rest is History
We make our way down a corridor together, causing a stir among a group of tourists who make us stop for an anachronistic selfie with them. I smile awkwardly while Shelby plays for the crowds with a coy, innocent smile on her head that even Jane Seymour would have been proud of.
It’s not until we reach the near-empty Royal Pew, with its view of the mind-blowing vaulted chapel ceiling of cerulean blue and gold-leaf stars, that I spot Charlie.
Gulp.
Or, to put it more crudely and accurately,holy fuck.
I’m the first to admit I have an unhealthy obsession withThe Other Boleyn Girl, but come on.
This guy leaves Eric Bana in the dust.
It’s not just the serious padding he has on. And I meangoodpadding—no paunch, just massive shoulders with huge, pearl-studded sleeves. His costume is sumptuous. More sumptuous than mine. Creams and golds and blues that look utterly glorious against the blues of the Royal Pew’s ceiling and showcase his gorgeous colouring most unfairly.
He’s always flawlessly clean-shaven at school—he’s a true prepster—but this morning there’s a five o’clock shadow I haven’t seen before, the density of which seems impressive for just one day’s growth. It only emphasises the solid jut of his jaw.
Ugh. Am I seriously that primal, that the sprouting of some facial hair pushes my entire sex drive several rungs back down the evolutionary ladder? Pur-lease.
But also, hello, Charlie’s manly stubble.
If I was feeling a sense of transformation as I stood in the Great Hall in full costume just now, it pales in comparison with the goosebumps I get when I see Charlie, standing in a costume whose original was specifically designed to convey majesty and omnipotence, surrounded by the aesthetic onslaught of the King’s own private chapel.
And it all clicks. Suddenly, his pompous, arrogant, overbearing nature, so irritating at school, seems to fit him perfectly. He’s magnificent.
Even though, physically, he looks nothing like Henry, a fact for which I think we can all praise the gods of the male form.
But none of that affects me in this moment as much as the way he’s looking at me does.
Like he’s seen a ghost.
The Grey Lady, maybe.
But in, like, a good way?
His lips press together and he holds up a hand to stop the lanyard-wearing steward next to him from blathering on. It’ssuch an obnoxious gesture, but sokingly, that I’m not sure whether to laugh or swoon. And he walks towards me.
Purposefully.
Almost as if?—
Almost as if I’mhis.
CHAPTER 7
Charlie
Oh, shit.
I am so fucked.
Elodie’s standing at the entrance to the chapel, her dark dress illuminated in a pool of hazy sunshine swirling with dust mites. But she’s not the Elodie I know, the colleague I lust over from a pitiful distance every single day.
No.
She’s morphed, by some weird fucking alchemy, into the only other woman who’s ever really intrigued me. Bewitched me. Albeit from a far greater distance.
Anne Boleyn.
It’s all there: her dark hair centre-parted, most of it hidden under that iconic hood. Her tall, willowy figure showcased in an appropriately modest but stunning Tudor gown. Her pale hands clasped in front of her skirt.
