Page 32 of The Rest is History
My nostrils flooded with her sweet, sweet scent.
And now I know. In the most fleeting, infuriating way, I know how she smells up close. How her lips taste. How perfectly her neck fits the cradle of my hand.
Worst of all? I knowshe liked it.In those few seconds of suspended reality, before I came to my senses and got myself the fuck away from her and her intoxicating charms, I had my answer to the question that’s tormented me for months:what would Elodie do if I kissed her?
She’d lean in.
Her neck would heat.
Her breath would hitch, then come more quickly, causing her breasts to tremble against me.
And her slim hands would grapple at my sleeves. Seeking purchase. Asking for me.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Today was another insight into what it must have been like for Henry. Setting eyes on Anne Boleyn and wanting her for so long, and being unable to have her. From what we know, she allowed him to take some liberties with her before she gave herself to him completely.
Those glimpses at what he was missing must have been fucking torture.
In case I haven’t made it clear, I’m not the slightest fan of Henry. Sure, he’s a lot of fun to impersonate, mainly because he could do whatever the hell he liked, but I’ve always been on his queens’ sides. Especially Team Anne Boleyn. That said, being an historian isn’t about liking the protagonists of your period of study, but rather understanding their motives.
I’ve made continuous efforts to understand what motivated Henry, and significant strides over the years in achieving somelevel of understanding, if not empathy. But my greatest teacher, albeit unwittingly, has been Elodie.
I now truly comprehend the agony for Henry of being a man, used to having his way in all things, proven unable to have the one thing he wanted more than anything else.
A woman.
A woman who tantalised and amused and tormented and beguiled and fascinated him.
As Shelby laughs over a comment a visitor made today, I slide my gaze over to the woman who’s caused me similar torment, even if my expectations for a happy ending with her are set far more realistically than Henry’s were for one with Anne.
She’s in a lightweight sweatshirt sporting the sloganC’est la vie, frayed denim cutoffs and lightweight trainers. Her long hair is free from the knot she often has it in, casually tossed and cascading over her shoulders. The shorts aren’t super short, but she’s still showing far more leg than I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing at school. And I’m buggered. Because her legs are, unsurprisingly, gorgeous.
Long and lean and pale and smooth.
Toned thighs. Shapely calves. Narrow ankles that I itch to cuff with my hands as my nose and lips glide upwards, worshipping every inch. And worst of all, a couple of dark freckles punctuating her pale skin like chocolate drops in a sea of cream.
Like fucking beacons.
My eyes slide back up her body and lock with hers. She’s watching me, which means she saw me ogling her. She gives me a tentative smile. It’s not smug—not by a long shot. More pleased. I don’t acknowledge it, instead turning my attention to Shelby.
I hate doing that. It crucifies me to let her think I’m slighting her (even if the reality of my obsession would have her runningfor the hills). But it’s the best option in an impossible choice. Hurt her feelings—let her think I don’t care, that our kiss meant nothing—or show my cards.
And I can’t show my cards. Because Elodie Peach isn’t the type of woman you do casual with. She’s the type of woman you throw everything you’ve got at, in the hope that she’ll let you slide a ring on her finger and make you the happiest fucker on the planet.
But that’s only an option if you’re good enough for her. If you’ve got what it takes to make her happy. And given I’m damaged goods, as my ex-wife so kindly put it, and fundamentally incapable of giving Elodie what she deserves, I have no choice but to let her think I’m a total arsehole.
I force myself to focus on the conversation in general. I tried—hard—to get out of coming for a drink, but my queens feel I’ve cried off too many times and they were having none of my excuses.
The sad, pathetic thing is that my masochistic side is glad to be here.
Glad to be close to Elodie, no matter how shitty the circumstances are. It shortens the gap between bidding her farewell on Saturday afternoon and seeing her again on Monday morning.
Because I. Cannot. Stay. Away. From. Her.
The conversation has moved ontoSix the Musical, which is coming to the palace next month. I already know more than I’ve ever wished to know about the show, mainly because the queens witter on about it far too much. From their high-concept pitch—it’s a Spice Girls-esque take on Henry’s six wives—it sounds utterly horrifying.
It seems the rest of the world disagrees, becauseSixis a Big Deal, and apparently it’s an even bigger deal that HamptonCourt is hosting a handful of live performances as part of its summer festival.
