Page 120 of The Favourite

Privately Jane agreed but could see little point in bandying words with guardsmen. “The Queen will send for us in due course, I am sure,” she told her companion.

The older woman looked resigned. “Yes, I suppose that is so,” she responded grudgingly. They retreated together and walked toward the courtiers’ wing in companionable silence, as both were lost in their own thoughts.

Sadly, Jane’s were awash with alarm and dismay. Try as she might, she could not help but think it was her own advice to the Queen that had led to this disaster. What if it should be traced back to her somehow? The Privy Council would doubtless hold her to blame for the Queen’s outrageous ideas.

Only once she had Mistress Bartree had parted ways did Jane allow her footsteps to increase with panic. Just as she rushed through the door, she remembered that Alisander was not returning until suppertime and felt her spirits plummet entirely. Then, she thought she caught his accents nearby. Surely, that was him?

A door opened and Robert came shuffling out. “Robert, is your master returned already?”

“Just now, milady,” he said, gesturing toward the sitting room he had just emerged from. “Can I fetch you anything—?”

“No, thank you, Robert,” she assured him, hurrying past him and slamming the door behind her. “This is all your fault!” she blurted immediately on finding Alisander seated at the desk. “Telling me to give the Queen my sincere thoughts! Now she has gone completely overboard, and no one can rein her in!”

Instead of being perplexed at being addressed in such a fashion, Alisander merely looked amused. “Excellent,” he replied, sitting back and cracking his knuckles. “You are just in time to help me bulk out my letter to Wilhelm. Now tell me, what has she been doing?” He picked up his pen and held it poised ready to write.

Jane made a noise of frustration in her throat. “She has—she is encouraging the King to indulge his grief to the utmost, without limitation. Moreover, she is helping him plan a most sumptuous and excessive interment for Bathilde.”

His pen started moving over the page in its elegant strokes and loops. “What else?”

Jane gazed at him. “You don’t understand! Alisander, this is serious! She recommended, in front of the King’s Council no less, that Bathilde is interred at Kilnacre Abbey! Have you ever heard of such a thing? A non-royal?”

“But what a novel idea,” he drawled, his pen continuing its course. “Of course, Armenal has always been a woman of singular conviction.” He looked thoughtful. “She perhaps lacks the initial spark of creativity, but once she has an idea in her head, you must admit, she runs with it to the furthest extent.”

“The Bishop of Hudde will have an apoplexy!”

Alisander shrugged. “If he objects too strenuously, I daresay Wymer will simply replace him with one who is more amenable to his ends.”

Jane listened to the scratch of his pen, her mind a whirl. “You—you think so?” She was incredulous. For one horrible moment, it even occurred to her that Alisander might have had some nefarious reason to get rid of the Bishop of Hudde. Could this have been his intention all along?

Alisander set down his pen and regarded her critically. “Are you suspecting me of outrageous things again, Jane?” he asked her, narrowing his eyes.

Jane opened her mouth and then closed it again. She recalled that the burial idea was all Queen Armenal’s. Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Of course not,” she denied, coloring hotly and pressing her hands to her cheeks. “I am a little … disordered that is all.”

He turned fully toward her on his seat. “Come here,” he ordered imperiously. It did not even occur to her to deny him. Instead, she walked straight to him, and when he tugged her into his lap, she went willingly.

He set a hand over her bosom. “How fast your heart is racing, wife,” he murmured. “Have you been so anxious over this? It is too bad of the Queen. Only I am allowed to make it beat this quickly.”

As was her habit when he toyed with her like this, Jane turned instantly tongue-tied. “I—well—that is, yes,” she managed to sputter. “But I am the least of Her Majesty’s considerations, at this time.”

He tutted. “So modest, but you will always be uppermost in my considerations, Jane,” he assured her. She grew even more red-cheeked, tucking her chin and attempting to avoid his gaze. “Shall I take care of you now? And soothe that hot little brow?” he suggested.

Jane gazed at him. “Why are you returned so early?” it occurred to her to ask. “I thought you would not return home until suppertime.”

He shrugged, avoiding her eye. “It occurred to me, I could write this report here as well as anywhere else. Fortuitously, as it turns out, now you have given me all the news.”

“Perhaps you returned so soon because you wished to see me,” she hazarded boldly. Surely it could not just be her that was starting to feel this way? When he did not answer at once, Jane felt a sense of dread overtake her. Suddenly, it seemed to her that it was Viscount Bardulf in whose lap she was now sat.

His eyes seemed to have a sardonic gleam to them, and she realized he was about to say something dismissive and maybe even cruel. Jane knew she should brace herself for whatever was about to come her way, but instead she just patiently waited.

Alisander did not disappoint her. He leaned forward. “I collect you are now determined to see me in a positive light, wife,” he murmured. “I think you must have fallen in love with me, even if it is only the smallest amount.”

The old Jane would have been appalled. Indeed, Jane could feel thoughts shrieking, “Deny it at once before he humiliates you!” in a corner of her mind. Instead, impulsively, Jane reached for his hand. He glanced down in surprise a moment, then back at her face, and Jane knew he must have seen the color slowly climbing up her neck. If he said something cutting now, something very new and tender would shrivel entirely inside of her and die.

It was only the flimsiest and tiniest of shoots in any case. If he killed it now, it would be no great loss, she told herself uneasily as she held her breath. She felt slightly queasy. He was going to crush it, stone dead. Gods, let it be quick and merciful, she prayed as she swallowed and bent her neck, waiting for the death blow.

It never fell. Instead, she felt his warm fingers slide over her own, grasping her hand tightly in his own. “Ah Jane, Jane, what the fuck are you doing to me?” he groaned, pulling her more firmly into his arms. “Don’t do this,” he warned and then pressed his lips passionately to her neck. “Don’t … just … don’t,” he whispered against her sensitive skin. “We can’t!”

“I think it’s too late for me,” she answered, her voice wobbly. “So just save yourself.” Oh, my gods, what was she saying? Was she admitting to … to …?