Page 142 of The Favourite
“Really? What’s the difference?”
“You were Viscount Bardulf in the Queen’s presence, but quite often in our bedchamber, you are Alisander de Balon.” He snorted. “At first, it used to really disconcert me when you would switch between the two, but then …” Jane’s voice turned thoughtful.
“Then what?”
“I realized it was not so clear cut as all that and anyway … It did not really matter, for I dearly loved them both.”
“Jane,” he whispered. “Oh, my gods, say that again. That was …” He broke off his words to kiss her, gently at first, and then with increasing enthusiasm. “Say it again.”
“I love you both.”
He drew back instantly. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do. That makes me a little jealous.”
“Of yourself?”
He hitched her leg over his hip. “Let’s try you on top. We have been neglecting Aunt Maud’s instructions.”
“I wish you would burn them!” she grumbled even as she allowed him to arrange her over his lap.
He looked instantly guilty. “I know. Which reminds me, I could not burn your letter. If you let me keep that, I promise I will destroy Aunt Maud’s,” he vowed. “Gods, I could not part with your letter, Jane. Not for the contents of all the King’s coffers.”
“Why should you?” she asked. “It is not treasonous, after all.”
He gave a startled laugh. “But Jane,” he muttered. “What if other eyes should read it, in say a hundred years? What would they think of Lady Bardulf, then?”
She felt too light of heart at present to really care. “They will think, my lord, that your wife was a wanton hussy.”
He stared at that. “Only for me,” he said with a rasp in his voice.
“Only for you,” she agreed with a shy smile, then leaned down to kiss him.
Afterward, when Jane was too sated and her limbs too heavy with languor to really care, he rolled her onto her stomach covering her back with his body, kissing and mouthing her neck, and letting her feel the graze of his teeth there.
“Did you like that, Jane?” he wanted to know. He had to know already from the way she had reacted. Still, it was a lot more tiring when she had to do all the work like that. She made a sound of affirmation in her throat. “You will have to wear a high neck tomorrow, my lady,” he warned her, rubbing the faint stubble of his chin over her shoulders. Jane moaned against the pillow. “Tell me you will.”
“Yes, I will,” she promised. Then belatedly, sleepily, she asked, “Why?”
“Because I’m marking your fair skin,” he admitted. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said with satisfaction. “It’s a good thing Wymer means to plague the Queen’s every step now,” he whispered into her ear. “For I mean to demand all your attention these days, Wife. I am very demanding.”
“Mmmm.” Jane was not unduly concerned. “I’m not her favorite anymore, anyway.”
“No, you’re mine,” he pronounced with satisfaction. “You always were, but at least now you reciprocate appropriately. Took you long enough.”
Jane’s eyes fluttered closed. He said something else, but she was not really attending. Instead, Jane was drifting off into beatific sleep.
Of course, he teased her mercilessly the next day in the Queen’s presence. Remarking on the height of her neckline and deriding it as excessively modest. Surely, Lady Bardulf was aware the current fashion was for the necklines to extend from one armpit to another? Did he not provide her with enough pin money to clothe herself adequately?
The other ladies present watched them avidly, one moment sympathetic to Jane, and the next minute giggling at her presumed discomfiture. Jane, catching the gleam in his eye, pretended to bridle. “My lord,” she objected faintly, pressing her hand lightly to her throat.
“Have I said aught amiss?”
“That word,” Jane said, reproachfully. When he looked blank, she leaned forward and whispered, “Armpit,” in a scandalized tone.
For a moment, his expression was still, then she saw he was struggling not to laugh. His shoulders shook for a moment, then he bowed his head. When he looked up, he was composed again. “My apologies, madam,” he said gravely. “My remarks were in bad taste.”
