A Dangerous Inheritance by Alison Weir Page B

of you, your lady wife here, and our two families. More than that I cannot say, but you must accept my judgment—and you owe me obedience!”
    Harry’s mother says gently, “You may keep each other company at will, and enjoy life together—all we ask is that you postpone the consummation of your marriage until such time as it may be accomplished in perfect harmony and peace.”
    Harry looks defeated. Maybe the finality of his father’s tone has silenced him.
    The countess takes my arm. “Dear daughter, I myself will show you to your bedchamber. Bid good night to your husband and attend me.”
    Harry embraces me, kisses me hard on the lips, and whispers in my ear, “Don’t lock your door.” I thrill to his words. We will defy them all, my love and I: we
will
be together, in spite of what they say! My heart is racing as I meekly follow the countess without a backward look. They think they have won—but we will be the victors!
    My room is beautiful, lavish! The tester bed is carved, gilded, and built on a dais. The curtains are of rich red damask looped with gold tassels, the counterpane of costly cloth of gold, with lozenges embroidered with the lions of Pembroke on a background of red and blue velvet. Over a chair is draped the most exquisite nightgown of crimson satin edged with pearls. A bowl of dried petals gives off a fragrant scent.
    My maid is waiting. She detaches my oversleeves, unlaces the heavywedding gown, and lets it fall onto the rich carpet so that I can step out of it; then she attires me in a lawn smock and brushes my hair—twenty, forty, sixty strokes. I am ready for bed now, and she turns back the covers, helps me in, douses all the candles but the one on the table, curtsies, and silently closes the door behind her.
    I feel very alone, lying in this strange bed. I had not expected my wedding night to be like this, and suddenly I experience an unexpected pang of homesickness, which I’m sure I would not be feeling if Harry was with me. Trying not to weep, I fix my gaze on the pictures on the walls: a curious painting narrating the terrible story of Jephthah’s daughter, and a portrait labeled ANNE PARR , who was the earl’s late wife, Harry’s mother, and sister to Queen Katherine. On my nightstand is a dish of figs, a rare delicacy, and a goblet of sweet wine. I am cosseted in luxury. I lack for nothing but my husband.
    Will he come? I lie waiting for what seems like hours. Of course, he must wait until the house has settled down for the night. Dare he come? Or has he thought better of his rash defiance? Lord, please let him come!
    What was that? The sweep of a night owl’s wings as it swooped to its prey? Nay, it was a footfall. And another, stealthy, only audible to one who is awaiting it. And suddenly the door opens and there is my Harry in his black nightgown, his eyes alight with love, and desire in his pale face. My heart is fit to burst with joy!
    Silently, slowly, he closes the door, then pads on bare feet toward me. I hold out my arms and he comes into them and kisses my lips. Then he pulls down my smock and bends to nuzzle my budding breasts.
    “Harry!” I whisper, blushing.
    “Sweeting!” he murmurs, and makes to remove his nightgown.
    “What is the meaning of this?” barks a sharp voice from the doorway. “I thought I had made myself clear!” It is the earl, standing there like an avenging angel, hands aggressively on hips, black brows knit in a frown.
    Harry jumps up startled, gathering his nightgown about him, while I hastily pull up the sheet, my cheeks flaming.
    “Get you hence, my son!” the earl commands. “And do not think todisobey me again. It’s fortunate that I was awake listening for you. I know you, my boy. Adventurous like me. Well, I can’t blame you, but you will not defy me again. Say good night to your young lady and go back to your room, and we will say no more of the matter.”
    “And if I refuse?” Harry challenges.
    “Then I will call my men and