The king played tennis with much power and verve. But then, so did Norris. Henry grunted and threw his huge body several steps into the court each time he served, and he often cursed loudly or flailed the air with his racquet if the leather ball did not land where he intended. She had watched him play for hours in the closed courts at Greenwich. Only last week he had played a two-hour game with Staff, winning only in the last set to the deafening cheer and applause of the assembled crowd. At least in that interminable game she had had Staff to study. His lithe body was angular and lean compared to the king’s, although his muscles bulged across his back and chest. He was there across the court with that fawning Lady Fitzgerald at this very moment. It annoyed her the way the raven-haired woman clung to him and brushed against him all the time. Well, what did she care? She pulled her eyes away and forced herself to refocus on the game.
Tennis players always wore white on the Tudor courts, pure white, a fashion begun by the king, she supposed. Henry hated to play up to the net and was content to stand firm on the back line, smashing drive after powerful drive into his opponent’s court with his quick, rapid thrusts. She smiled and hoped no one noticed how her thoughts always went to her face no matter how hard she tried to look indifferent. That was exactly the way the king made love. Quick, powerful thrusts and then it was over before his passionate kisses or fierce caresses could work the magic on a woman of which a man was capable. And Will was so self-disciplined, even in bed, she could not imagine the babe that grew within her could be a Carey son. Her throat constricted in fear again. If the baby looked like the king, whatever would she do? At least Will and His Grace had similar coloring, but the Tudor hair was a deeper red. If the king sent her away from court, she would be lost. And father might even turn against her.
She was making herself sick from worry. It was too hot in here. All the people so near, looking at her and the king. But her cloak was her protection. She wiped her damp brow again and shifted nervously in her seat. Who was winning? She must put her mind on the game.
Worst of all, Staff was sauntering over, and he could always see right through her. She valued his advice about others in the intricately woven web of courtiers, but she needed none of his lectures on her own behavior now. Besides, there was an unbreakable magnetic pull of attraction between them of which he had long teased her, and she had stopped fighting with him on the point. When he brought it up in jest or in earnest, she raised her armor of silence, but he knew he had won.
She remembered, particularly last month, when Will had been suddenly summoned by the king. She, Will, and Staff had been together on a crisp, clear evening drinking hot mulled cider in front of a fire in the Carey suite of rooms. Will had scurried away with a brief peck on her cheek and a quick word to Staff about the good fortune to be summoned by the great Henry more frequently now that the Carey rise to power had begun.
“I shall just sit a few minutes with Mary, Will,” Staff had called after his retreating friend and then waited until the door banged shut to add, “and then head home to my lonely little bed while sweet Mary sleeps alone tonight.” He had given her a forlorn, doleful look, his hand over his heart and she had burst out laughing instead of scolding him.
“More mulled cider, sweet?” he asked, and leaned over to pour her some from the metal flagon before she answered. She held her mug out for him, annoyed that her hand shook a little.
His next words startled her. “I swear, your husband is as blind as a bat and as foggy as the Thames marshes, sweetheart.” He turned toward her, “If I were Will, I would not let you out of my sight around a ravenous blackguard like myself.”
“Oh, Staff,” she said, trying to sound amused. Then, foolishly she turned to smile at him. The impact of his gaze, his very presence made her insides tilt.
He jerked his head away first, staring wide-eyed into the fire, then downing his cider in several huge gulps. “I have to leave now, Mary, before I do something very, very foolish. And, considering with whom you sleep when you are not with Will, damned dangerous, too.”
“Must you go?” she had said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her again, the firelight edging his rugged profile and dusting his black velvet shoulders with a rosy glow. “Yes, Mary, I really must. The time is not ripe yet, as they say, though heaven knows I would almost hazard it all for one sweet—”
She leaned forward, entranced by his words, unaware of how lovely and vulnerable she looked in the golden glow of firelight. “For one what, Staff?”
He rose and moved away from her, walking around the backs of the three chairs facing the hearth as if he were afraid of being near her. “For more than one kiss, that is certain, love. This little game you and I play is a serious one and do not ever make a mistake about that, Mary. Let us just say I would almost risk it all for one sweet, little—more than you are willing to give me right now. I think you know how I feel and what I want from you, lass. Goodnight, then.”