finish the word. “Please, Edward,” she said, and to his horror, her voice wavered and broke. “You don’t understand. He’s a hor—”
“I know,” he said.
She stared at him. “You know?”
“Yes. Lord Dudley told me.”
“But then why did you agree to the match?” she cried indignantly. “How could you wish me to marry such a—”
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Edward said.
Her brown eyes widened. “What?”
“I thought you’d be intrigued by his condition.”
“No, I can assure you, I am not intrigued by anything to do with him.” Jane’s nose wrinkled up in distaste. “And I wouldn’t exactly say he has a condition.”
“Then what would you say?” Edward was starting to feel as though he’d missed something.
“He’s a horrible skirt-chaser!” she exclaimed. “A stud, a lady-killer, a womanizer!”
Oh.
So she didn’t know about Gifford’s steed-like state.
“Well, Janey,” he said with a cough. “That’s hardly surprising, is it? They say he’s handsome.”
“Do they?” she said, with an edge of hysteria. “Do they say that?”
“Yes,” Edward affirmed. “And rich, handsome young men with titles can generally have their pick of the ladies.”
Unless you were a teenage king with a coughing problem.
Jane’s mouth pursed. “I can’t marry him. Please, Edward, you must put a stop to it.”
Edward couldn’t stop this wedding, he knew, not in his country’s present political climate. But he sensed that if he explained the true reason for her rushed nuptials (that they were in a great hurry for her to produce an heir who would inherit the throne of England after he died), it would only upset her further. Instead he tried to think of something soothing to tell her, but nothing especially soothing came to mind.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he tried. “I can’t. I . . .”
“If you care for me at all,” she said then, “you won’t force me to marry him.”
Edward experienced a tightness in his chest. He coughed into his handkerchief until purple spots appeared on the edges of his vision. Pet raised her head from his lap and cast an accusatory glare in Jane’s direction.
“Are you all right?” Jane murmured. “Edward. Are you . . . ill?”
“I’m dying,” he confessed.
He watched the color drain from her face.
“I thought it was only a chest cold,” she murmured.
“No.”
“Not ‘the Affliction’?” she guessed, and closed her eyes when he just gazed at her sadly.
“I do intend to get a second opinion,” he said. “A better one.”
“When?” she asked in a small voice. “When do they think . . .”
“Soon enough.” He took her small ink-stained hand in his. “I know this marriage is not what you want. Believe me, I understand. Remember when I was engaged to Mary Queen of Scots?” He shuddered. “But you have to marry somebody, Janey, because that’s what young ladies of high birth do: they get married. You can’t hide in your books forever.”
Jane bent her head. A lock of runaway red hair fell into her face. “I know. But why him?” she asked. “Why now?”
“Because I trust Lord Dudley,” he said simply. “And because I’m out of time. I need to know that you’ll be taken care of. After I’m gone, who knows who you’d be matched to? There are worse fates than ending up with someone young and good-looking and rich.”
“I suppose,” she said.
He knew he should tell her about the horse thing. This was a detail she should be aware of. But he couldn’t find the appropriate wording for what was essentially, and by the way, the guy you’re marrying actually is a stud. Literally.
He should tell her.
He’d get someone else to tell her.
“Do this for me, Jane,” he said gently. “Please. I’m asking as your king, but also as your friend.”
She remained silent, staring down at their clasped hands, but something changed in her expression. He saw there the beginnings of acceptance. His chest felt tight again.
“All will be well, you’ll see.” He squeezed her hand. “And, if it will make you feel better, I’ll speak to this Gifford fellow about his carousing problem. I’ll make him swear to be a picture of fidelity. I’ll threaten him with the rack or something.”
She looked up. “You could do that?”
He smirked. “I’m the king. Anything else you’d like me to do to him? The stocks? The cat o’ nine tails? Thumbscrews? The Spanish tickler?”
He was relieved to see the hint of a smile that played across her lips.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, sliding her hand from his to bury her fingers in the fur at Pet’s scruff. “He might be in need of a good foot