But Edward had asked her, and she would do this for him.
A knot tightened in her stomach when she thought of Edward.
Once, when she’d lived with Katherine Parr, when she and Edward had been hiding in the back of the library of Sudeley Castle all afternoon, which they often did, and after she’d started complaining about her many terrible engagements, which she often did, Edward had poked her in the ribs and said, “Such high standards, Jane. Well, I suppose you could always marry me.”
Back then marriage had seemed to her like a silly game rather than a cage to be locked in, as it was starting to feel now. “That’d be quite a risk you’d take, getting engaged to me,” she’d replied. “You know I bring about the ruin of all of my potential suitors. Besides, I don’t think I’d like to be queen. Too many rules.”
“Oh, come now, it wouldn’t be so bad.” Edward had tapped her upturned nose and smiled. “We’d have a jolly time together.”
They’d both laughed like it was a joke, and never spoken of it further, but Jane had thought about it later. That he might have meant it. She’d suspected for a while that Thomas Seymour and her mother were plotting that very thing—sending her to live with the dowager queen to be educated and refined, on the off chance that one day she’d marry Edward and become queen herself.
He was right, too. It wouldn’t have been so bad, even if it was difficult to think of Edward as anything more than her friend. She’d read about romance, about how your heart was supposed to pound in the presence of your beloved, your breath was supposed to catch, etcetera, etcetera, and she’d never felt anything like that around Edward. But she could think of worse things than marrying her best friend. Far worse things.
But then Katherine Parr had died in childbirth, and Thomas Seymour had committed treason and lost his head. Jane had been sent back to Bradgate, and her mother had started looking for eligible husbands again.
And now Edward was dying, and Jane was getting married tonight. Probably.
Unless some kind of miracle happened.
Afternoon transformed into evening, and it seemed less likely that a horrible catastrophe would befall the Dudley family and save Jane from her fate. The Gown went on, the green velvet headdress went up, and Jane’s hopes went down.
The worst part?
No books.
Between all the hair plaiting and gown adjusting, Jane let her fingers drift across the book spines on the shelves of the library. History, philosophy, and science: her favorite things. Things that would save her if the wedding got boring.
“No books.” Lady Frances smacked Jane’s hand away from the gilt-lettered spines. “I will not have my daughter say her vows from behind a dusty old book.”
“They’d be less dusty if the Dudley family took care of them.” Jane gazed longingly at the literary cornucopia. Indeed dusty, but certainly still in fine enough shape to read a hundred times. “Maybe you’d prefer I brought my knitting.”
“Watch your mouth. No one likes a sarcastic wife.” A strand of Lady Frances’s brown hair turned gray, as if by magic. (Not actual magic, mind you, but the magic that daughters possess over their mothers. As we all know, the only actual magic is E∂ian magic.)
At least the wedding meant Jane would no longer live with her mother.
After a bit more tugging and twisting and distress over Jane’s general flatness of bosom, there was a knock on the library door. “It’s time.”
A glance at the window revealed dusk had fallen. It was night.
“What kind of man insists on getting married after dark?” she muttered as she was ushered from the room. A boorish brute, Jane thought. That’s who.
She shot one last longing look at the neglected books. Maybe, at least, they would come with the husband. They could make a trade. The books for— Well, she would figure out what he wanted. Besides women. Edward had said he would speak to him. Even someone like Gifford couldn’t say no to his king.
Jane couldn’t seem to catch her breath. (And it wasn’t just that her corset was too tight, although it was. Extremely.)
She’d always known she’d have to get married, of course. The string of destitute ex-fiancés could not continue forever.
But to someone who’d spent time with dozens—maybe hundreds—of women, how could she compare? To Gifford, what would she be but another woman and the end to his debauchery? He’d resent her every