She let out a little sigh. “I suppose there is one other thing you can do for me, cousin,” she said after a moment.
“Whatever you desire,” he said. “Name it.”
Her warm brown eyes met his. “Walk me down the aisle?”
His heart squeezed again. “Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”
After he’d seen her off in a carriage back to Chelsea (where the Grey family stayed while they were in London) Edward sought out Lord Dudley, who he found in the council chambers engaged in what appeared to be a very serious conversation with Mistress Penne. On the subject of his failing health, no doubt.
“So,” the duke said as Edward drew near. “Did you persuade her?”
Mistress Penne felt his forehead with the back of her hand. At his side, Pet let out a low growl, and the nurse withdrew her hand.
“I’m fine,” he said.
The nurse gave him a look that conveyed that she was still offended by his earlier flippancy, and retreated with a rustle of skirts. He watched the door swing closed behind her. Then he dropped into his red cushy chair and reached for the bowl of blackberries.
“Sire,” Lord Dudley began. “You must take care to—”
Pet stuck her long nose into the blackberries and snuffed, sending the bowl clattering to the floor and berries rolling in every direction.
Edward gave the dog a stern look as servants rushed in to clean up the mess.
“Bad dog,” he said.
She wagged her tail.
“Sire, you mustn’t overexert yourself,” Dudley said.
“I’m fine,” Edward insisted. “The fresh air did me good. And yes, Jane has agreed to marry your son. But why did no one tell her about the horse . . . situation?”
Dudley shook his head as if the issue was entirely unimportant. “I’ve found that women do not need to be burdened with such minor details.”
Well, that makes sense, thought Edward. “Even so, I’d like to speak with your son.”
Dudley’s mouth disappeared into his beard. “My son Gifford?” he asked, as if he hoped Edward might inexplicably need to parlay with Stan.
“Yes. Send for him immediately.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Highness.” Dudley gestured to the window, where sunlight was streaming in from the west. There were still hours before sunset.
“Oh. Right,” Edward said. “Well, as soon as night falls, then.”
Dudley still looked uncomfortable. “But, Sire, there are so many preparations that need to be made before tomorrow’s ceremony. It will be difficult to get my son away from—”
“I desire to speak with him,” Edward said in his I-Am-the-King voice. “I will speak with him tonight.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dudley conceded. “As soon as the sun is down.”
Suddenly Edward was tired, so very tired. He sagged against the back of his chair. Pet whined and licked at his hand.
“Are you all right, Your Highness?” Dudley asked.
“I. Am. Fine.” Edward straightened. “I’ll be in my chambers,” he said, although he had no idea how he was going to manage the stairs. “Send Gifford there when he arrives.”
“Yes, Sire,” the duke said tightly, and then he left Edward to catch his breath.
It was less than an hour past sunset when, as expected, there came a knock on the door to Edward’s room. Pet started barking but stopped immediately when Gifford Dudley stepped inside.
The two boys stood examining each other. Gifford was predictably tall, broad of shoulder, and boorishly square of jaw. He was as comely as his father had described him, and for a moment Edward actually hated him for looking so decidedly strong and able-bodied. But then Gifford dropped into a bow, and Edward remembered he was king.
“You sent for me, Sire?” Gifford murmured.
“Yes. Please sit down.” They both sat awkwardly. “I wish to discuss Jane.”
“Jane?” Edward couldn’t tell if Gifford meant this as a statement or a question or if he even knew who Edward was referring to.
“Your future wife.”
Gifford nodded and scratched at the side of his neck, bearing an expression very similar to one that Jane had been wearing earlier today: the staring-into-the-face-of-doom look.
“Jane is a special person to me,” Edward began. “She is . . .”
There really wasn’t a good enough word to describe Jane.
“I have yet to meet her,” said Gifford delicately. “But I’m sure she’s very . . . special.”
“She is.” Edward sat forward in his chair. “What troubles me, Gifford—”
“Please, call me G,” Gifford interjected.
Edward frowned. “What troubles me, er . . . G, is that you haven’t been at court these past years, and while I understand why”—he cast Gifford a significant look that said,