years. Sir Richard Weston, Longford’s faithful chamberlain, would have ensured the business was dealt with, but she was as proud of George as his indulgent grandmother was.
Longford had not been the only place that had stopped her leaving England. Tyringham Hall had seemed almost a prison to her during the early years of her marriage. Then she had been so consumed by grief for George’s father that it had blinded her to the love Thomas bore her. He had married her for Tom’s sake, having assured his friend that he would take care of her if the Powder Treason failed. Frances had only narrowly escaped implication in it: the whole court had known of her friendship with Tom Wintour. Thomas had made great sacrifices on her behalf, yet she had repaid him with coldness, determined that theirs would be a marriage in name only. She had defied him, too, breaking her promise not to involve herself in the Catholic conspiracies that had swirled about James’s throne in the aftermath of the Powder Treason. It still frightened her to think how close she had come to losing everything.
‘Shall we walk the rest of the way?’
Lost in thought, Frances had hardly noticed that they had reached the end of the long path that swept down to the hall. She nodded. Watching her husband dismount, she noticed him wince as his right shoulder pressed against the horse’s flank. ‘You will not accompany the King on every hunt, will you?’ she asked, her brow furrowed. Though it had been three years since the riding accident that had almost claimed his life, she worried every time he set out for the hunt. She wished that the King would bestow the mastership of the buckhounds upon one of his younger favourites.
‘I had hoped my senses would return by now,’ Thomas said, rubbing the back of his head. The deep wound she had stitched was hidden, but she could still feel its smooth edges when she ran her fingers through his hair. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her deeply. ‘But the madness still has me in its grip,’ he murmured, his lips brushing her neck, ‘for I love you more than ever.’
Desire pooled in her stomach. His eyes closed as she coiled the hair at his nape around her fingers, pulling him closer for another kiss, her lips parting. She could feel his arousal as she pressed her hips to his, trailing her fingers down his spine.
The whinnying of her horse startled them and they sprang apart, breathless.
‘It is well that we have Hartshorn to remind us of our manners,’ Thomas said, patting the horse’s neck. ‘Though who will safeguard our respectability when we are in the privacy of our chambers, I am at a loss to say.’
Frances planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. ‘I hope we will soon be alone again,’ she whispered.
Taking Hartshorn’s reins, she led him slowly forward, Thomas and his horse at her side. As they neared the hall, the hedges that lined the path grew thicker. Frances breathed in the sharp tang of yew, relishing the shade it offered. A movement ahead caught her eye and she paused as a young groom hurried towards them.
‘Sir Thomas, my lady,’ the boy said, with a quick, awkward bow. ‘Please, allow me.’ He took the reins from them and led the horses towards the stables.
Frances saw another figure approaching from the gatehouse. He was tall and slim, and walked with an easy grace that belied his years. It took her a moment to recognise Sir Anthony Mildmay. It had been many years since she had seen the handsome courtier who had been a great favourite with the old Queen. His absence from court since James’s accession suggested that his hopes for further advancement had been disappointed.
‘Sir Anthony,’ Thomas said, with a bow, as his wife curtsied.
‘Welcome to Apethorpe. And Lady Frances,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you after all these years.’
Frances could not but admire his gallantry. She doubted he had any recollection of the shy young girl who had accompanied her mother to court in the later years of Elizabeth’s reign.
‘Tell me, how does the marchioness fare? I see you have inherited her beauty.’
Frances smiled. ‘My mother is in excellent health, thank you, Sir Anthony.’
‘How is His Majesty enjoying Northamptonshire?’ Thomas asked, diverting their host’s attention from his wife.
Frances sensed the older man’s hesitation, but his