Free The Queen's Mistake by Diane Haeger

not to think too much about what would happen tomorrow with these women of the court, and with a new queen who apparently was not in any more favor than she.

    Agnes held on to the polished oak rail of her staircase at Horsham as she climbed it with slow, labored steps. She was feeling drunk and, surprisingly, more than a bit sad at the absence of the little mischief maker. Catherine had been gone for only a single day, yet Agnes had
actually begun to miss her, although she had trouble admitting that to herself. What would the excitement around here be now?
    Yes, at least she would miss that. And having to pretend to dislike her.
    The truth was that Catherine had always reminded her of herself as a girl, far too much for the good of either of them. Agnes did not want to revisit the past through one so young and beautiful with a promising life ahead of her; it only made her more aware of the fact that she was now nothing but an aging dowager.
    The foolish child had no idea that Manox and Dereham had both been planned so that Catherine could hone her skills in the time-honored art of seduction. What courtier or king, after all, would ever desire a clueless country beauty for more than a meaningless tumble without the talents to capture, then keep him?
    What Agnes had not anticipated was both boys falling in love with her.
    Beyond that, Anne Boleyn had been a teacher in terms of what would be required of a new Howard girl. Just because Anne had lost control in the end, there was no reason to doubt the formula: Beauty. Resolve. Seduction.
    Howards were not born and raised up to be anyone’s fool. In that respect Catherine would be more than a small challenge, since she still had no idea of the full effect she had on men. But at court she would learn that soon enough.
    He was waiting when Agnes came into her bedchamber, when she was weary and far from interested in seeing him. But it was their dance, as it had been all of these months as he rose up from village boy to page in the opulent house of a duchess. He was magnificent in his simple brown jerkin and nether hose, his coils of honey blond hair loose on his forehead.
    Francis Dereham came to her as she paused near the door and
placed his hands on her shoulders in the precise way that she had taught him months ago.
    “Did I invite you here?” she asked coldly, moving away from him and into the room, pausing only to slip off her shoes.
    “You rarely do. Experience has been my teacher.”
    “As you sought to teach my granddaughter?”
    “At Your Grace’s request, as always.”
    What a mature woman of her sixty-three years had longed to believe, what memories of youth had forced upon her, had driven Agnes to more regrets than she could ever count. Years made women pathetic and desperate to rekindle their youth, and she was no exception, no matter what excuses she gave herself for beginning this dance.
    She sank heavily into a carved chair beside the hearth, and he came to her just like always. She was angry that he was here, but she would have been angrier if he had not come at all.
    Ah, the discontent of age, when mirrors and memories were the enemies almost as much as time . . .
    As Francis knelt before her, she held out her bare left foot. He pressed back the hem of her dress in the way that months ago had become their custom and their prelude. It was the one thing he could do for her that she actually missed from a man. Ah, Thomas, she thought . Look what has become of me with you gone. Once I was the social center of court. Entertaining all, confidante to the queen . . . Now I am reduced to seducing a lowly page boy.
    He was plying her toes with deft fingers, and her eyes rolled to a close with the pleasure of the sensation. As Catherine’s life was beginning, her own felt nearly at an end, and the constant realization of that—along with the reason such a young man was truly here—made her angry all over again. Aging was repulsive. At least that is over for you, my