Free The Last Boleyn by Karen Harper Page B

the English party would approach the enthroned Francois, he ordered the desk cleared and removed. Only one young man, taller and broader-shouldered than the rest, remained in low conversation, so Mary paused a few steps distant, poised, excited.
    The young man listened earnestly to Lord Bullen, his strong brown head cocked, his muscular silken legs slightly apart, and still he was as tall as her father. She had never noted that man before. He was either French, on her father’s staff or maybe newly come from London. Anyway, he was in the way, for she seldom spoke with her father alone and never when he was in such a fine mood. She tapped her silken slipper in growing impatience.
    Then they both stopped and glanced at her and her father extended his beringed hand. “You look lovely, Mary. Being the English ambassador’s daughter has helped you to be here today, though you will look the part. Whose attendant are you to be?”
    â€œThe queen’s, my lord, though the king’s mother and sister have as many bearers.”
    â€œFine, fine.” He turned away and gestured to an aide who advanced swiftly. He seemed to forget she stood there at all and that he had not even seen her for three months. It was then she noticed the other man again, and realized he had never looked away from her nor stopped his deliberate slow perusal of her face, her figure, her mauve-hued brocaded dress. He seemed to study her, quite unabashed.
    Her first impulse was to turn heel on such a rude scrutiny, but she still hoped to speak further with her father. And, somehow, she was curious about this tall man, though his frank, roving gaze unsettled her.
    He wore rich browns to match his hair, but his raiment did not look as fussy or costly as she was used to seeing at the grand and glorious court of Francois. He had a rugged face with high cheekbones and not the chiseled features of a Francois or Rene de Brosse. His brows were raven dark and rakish; his jaw square and strong; his nose was well-formed enough, although it appeared he had broken it at least once, probably in some brawl or joust, she thought. She hated to admit it, but the man stood with an angular grace of easy stance and masculine charm. His mouth, which quirked up in apparent amusement or pleasure at her emboldened stare, was wry and somehow very interesting. Then he grinned brazenly and she looked away to feel the color mount to her breasts, pushed up above the neckline of mauve silk and seed pearls, to her neck, her cheeks.
    â€œTell the fool to see to it in the anteroom before the
gendarmes
form up,” came her father’s exasperated words into her consciousness. “’Sblood, I shall see to it myself!”
    He spun and was gone in a swirl of jade green cloak, the distraught messenger trailing after him. Mary was embarrassed to find herself standing only four feet from the staring, tall man with no one in shouting distance in the whole, vast, purple-bedecked hall.
    â€œWhat good fortune,” came the man’s low voice in an English accent.
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir,” she returned as icily as possible and stood her ground as he took a presumptuous step forward.
    â€œThat the Lord Ambassador leaves me here as escort to his so lovely daughter, Mary Bullen.”
    He said her name somehow differently, and it intrigued her. “He hardly left you as escort, sir.” She hesitated, not wanting to leave despite his rank impudence. “I must return to my duties.”
    He fell in easily beside her as she walked slowly along the edge of the velvet runway. “Please allow me to introduce myself, Lady Mary. I am here on my first visit to France, and my French is rough at best. It pleases me to find so charming a lady with whom I can converse in my own tongue. The French women seem to flit about a great deal, but I prefer a fair and honest English maid anytime.”
    How did we get on this tack so suddenly, Mary wondered, keeping