Page 19 of The Rest is History
I sneak a glance at Elodie. She’s smiling shyly at the girl.
‘My queen is the most beautiful woman in the land,’ I say smugly to the family and several other visitors who are creeping nearer to our little cluster. ‘And the most accomplished. She dances like an angel.’
I glance down. Elodie’s turned her head to mine in shock, her lips slightly parted. I take great satisfaction in giving her the broadest smile possible, and patting her on the hand that rests on my sleeve. It’s possible she’s never even seen my teeth. She stares for a second, searching my face, before her expression lightens as if she likes what she sees.
‘You smile now, do you?’ she murmurs after the family has taken selfies with us and faded away. She waves graciously at a couple of children who are watching us suspiciously from across the courtyard. ‘Do they pay you extra for that?’
‘I’d much rather be a miserable fucker and scare off all the kids, but unfortunately I need that per-smile bonus,’ I mutterback. She throws her head back and laughs, and I shamelessly admire the view.
Her beautiful green eyes sparkling.
Her lips curved into a dazzling smile.
And that neck. Arched and elegant. So perfect. Her lean white throat exposed.
I would give a limb to kiss a trail down it.
To mark it.
The mere sight of it turns me into Count Dracula.
I watch her, my face soft, hoping she won’t see the hunger in my eyes. I simultaneously can’t believe I got lucky enough to find myself here with her and consider this to be the most dangerous, ill-conceived plan I’ve ever had.
She recovers and rights herself. ‘You’re full of surprises today,Your Majesty.I might speak to Mr Willoughby about incentivising you better at school.’
‘Phil gave up on me and my personality a long time ago,’ I tell her. I have an inkling as to why I’m finding it so much easier to behave like a semi-normal human being with her today. It’s being here, in costume. Pretending to be someone else entirely. Someone full of entitlement and swagger and confidence. A man the world looked up to. Flirting gently with his beautiful queen on a late spring morning.
This is a safe space, an opportunity to try out a new way to be with Elodie in safe mode. To actually enjoy up close all the aspects of her I marvel at from afar.
And this afternoon, when I hang up my ermine and my fucking codpiece and white tights, I’ll close myself up again. Reinstall my armour. Lock the fortress.
But for now, I’m Henry and she’s Anne. And she’smine.
CHAPTER 8
Charlie
We amble around Base Court a little more and wander under the clock, through Anne Boleyn’s Gateway, to Clock Court. She tells me that though she’s been here a few times, she doesn’t have the layout quite straight in her head, nor is she familiar with all the public rooms. I mentally make it my mission to acquaint her with this magical place that’s come to feel like a second home to me.
An elderly couple approaches. The woman is clutching a book and has a chain hanging from her glasses. Uh-oh. I can smellamateur historiana mile off. They’re the worst type of visitors.
They stop in front of us, and she looks Elodie up and down before leaning in and peering up into Elodie’s face.
‘Anne Boleyn’s eyes weren’t green. They were almostblack,’ she crows, the venom in her voice causing Elodie to take a surprised jerk backwards.
What the actual fuck? I’m standing here, looking like the physical opposite of Henry (I hope). Elodie’s the consummate Anne Boleyn, and this old bat is having a go at her for hereye-colour? Not on my watch.
I step forward, looming over her. ‘Madam.’ My voice booms. ‘To insult my queen is to commit treason. Should I have you escorted to the Tower?’
She gives me a disgusted glance and hobbles off with her husband. They both shoot us vicious glances over their shoulders as they go.
‘Easy there, tiger.’ Elodie puts a light hand on my arm.
‘Stupid old crone,’ I mutter. ‘Come on.’
Being ‘on’ for a few hours at a time is something I usually find exhausting, but Elodie’s presence by my side is a shot of adrenalin. I feel compelled to put on a good show for her, to demonstrate that she’s made the right call by taking on this role, that it can and will be enjoyable and rewarding, and that she doesn’t have to worry about my being a miserable fucker the whole time.
I’m amazed and impressed by how quickly she gets into the role until I’m hit with the uncomfortable realisation that the swing factor is probably me. She’s always easy. Friendly. Approachable. She’s a people person. Every last bit of awkwardness between us at school is down to me. So when I ramp down the fuckwittery, I allow her to do what she does best.
