Tarnish Read Online Free PDF Page B

can’t have it, a jewel in someone else’s bonnet. They take notice of something when it flashes a signal—like the white tail of a deer. The signal for pursuit.”
    “So you intend to be the flag on my ass?”
    His grin broadens to double dimples.
    “I intend to hold you up so that you catch the light.”
    A jewel. The image delights me. Wyatt cocks an eyebrow as if he’s scored a point, and I start to turn away.
    “Thank you for your offer,” I say coldly.
    “Thank you for your promise.”
    I pause. Look back. Narrow my eyes at him.
    “It was a bet, Wyatt, not a promise. And I intend to win.”
    “Shall we kiss on that to seal the deal?”
    He steps forward, and my partially turned shoulder brushes his chest, the fabric of his cloak sweeping against my skirts. I can see the stitches in his doublet and feel the heat of his breath on my forehead.
    I look up into his face. He is so much taller than I am that I have to tilt my chin to see his eyes, which are focused not on mine but on my lips.
    I take a step back.
    “I have not yet agreed.”
    “And what will it take for you to agree?” Wyatt doesn’t seem at all put off by my rebuff. Rather, he crosses his arms and leans back lazily, his body completely absent of tension, like a purring cat.
    “Time.”
    “Don’t take too much, Anne, or you may find yourself supplanted in my affections.”
    “Don’t follow too closely, Wyatt, or you may be caught in the hunter’s net yourself.”

Richmond Palace
    1523

6

    I AM ALONE. A GAIN. T HE SETTING HAS CHANGED, BUT THE reality has not. The court moved to Richmond because Greenwich was desperately lacking in air, but the crowded conditions grow even more stifling. I share a bed with Jane and two other girls, sleeping in rotation, the linens always damp and smelling of sleep and perfume. And once, I swear, the acrid sweat of a man.
    Which makes me think of Wyatt’s proposition. I admit, I’m a little afraid he might win our bet. He’s charming and handsome and . . . persuasive. But I refuse to let that happen. Virginity is my trump card.
    I can’t help looking for him in the crowds at court. I tell myself it has nothing to do with his voice or his casual grace or his eyes.
    No, it’s his words that draw me to him. And the fact that he listens to mine.
    But the burgeoning crowds of Richmond conspire to isolate me. To make matters worse, we are now less than an hour by barge from London, which means Cardinal Wolsey and his entourage of hangers-on fill the rooms by day more often than his regular Sunday visit.
    The cardinal is the king’s lord chancellor and most trusted adviser, and his arrival always causes a bit of an uproar. I stand in a window of the queen’s watching chamber and monitor his progress. The barge, decorated in gold and silk and tinsel and landing at the water bridge, becomes the focal point of anyone wishing access to the king. Men kneel before Wolsey, kiss his ring, whisper in his ear.
    One wouldn’t think to look at him that Wolsey wields the kingdom’s power. He comes from nowhere, a family of merchants and butchers. He didn’t need to marry well to join the circle. He just used his brains and spoke accordingly. The droopy skin of his cheeks reminds me of a loose-skinned dog, and his chin recedes into the folds of his cassock. But his eyes—shrewd and calculating—tell a different story.
    I watch as he moves through the throng. He appears serene, despite the press of bodies and clamor of requests and complaints. His face is serene, but his eyes—shaded by his brow—are triumphant. They are those of a man who can change lives with a single, well-placed word. A man to whom people listen.
    Wolsey is followed from the barge by a trail of courtiers. His own. For he holds court at least as well as the king. He collects his courtiers from the best families in the country—young men keen for position but perhaps not vibrant enough to engage the king. And others—like James Butler—are