The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(35)

When he stepped into the chamber, the door was politely closed from outside and the two of them faced each other alone for the first time in five years.

“You are truly looking well, Elizabeth,” Philip said. “It was not simply courtesy when I said it before.”

“Would it be rude if I mentioned that you look a little tired?”

The ghost of a smile that came and went so fast as to be almost missed. “I am the one who has had the burden of travel. As I always have through the years of our marriage.”

And that slight sting was perhaps the most attractive feature of her husband—for not many men in this world could speak to her like that. She arched an eyebrow with feigned disapproval. “I was not aware that you ever wished me to visit Spain. It’s one thing to have married a heretic bastard queen—quite another to force your people to accept me in person. I thought you liked me at one remove.”

“We are both easier, perhaps, with a silent partner rather than the complications of a daily partnership.”

Except it wasn’t a partnership, and never truly had been. In Spain, Elizabeth would be nothing more than the barely tolerated Protestant wife of their Catholic monarch, as likely to be assassinated as welcomed. And in England, Philip fared little better. No one had tried to kill him, but he’d only ever received grudging acceptance. England had a long history of disliking foreign royal spouses. There had never been a question of Philip receiving the crown matrimonial, such as the wives of kings did, and Elizabeth admitted there was little to tempt her husband in this country. Save herself, and their daughter.

And now, after twenty years, those temptations were no longer enough.

She waved her courteous spouse to a chair. “Do we begin the end of marriage wrangling tonight?” she asked. “The discussions of Anne’s future husband?”

“That is not why I came. There will be time enough for necessities in the days ahead. Tonight, I thought, we might simply talk to each other. As we used to do, in the first weeks of our marriage.”

Damn the man. Philip was not a charmer, not careless in bestowing affection—in short, nothing in the least like Robert Dudley had been—but there was no denying that their marriage had been more than business. Never easy, never simple, never uncomplicated…but none the less vital for all that.

“And what,” Elizabeth said with a tartness that Philip would be able to read as affection, “shall we talk about if not business?”

Philip had several different smiles. The one he gave her now she wagered only a handful of women in his lifetime had been privy to. Elizabeth felt a flash of jealousy as she wondered what woman would have the benefit of that smile in the coming months and years, then quashed it. “You are my wife,” Philip said softly, “and the mother of my only living child. You might try simply sharing your burdens with me. Not your royal burdens, but your personal ones.”

I am tired, she considered saying. I worry about Anabel all the time—is she safe, is she happy, will she ever understand why I do what I do in her interests? How can I make her strong enough to bear the burden she will one day have as queen? There is nothing I will not do for my daughter…or for England.

And that was why she said nothing. Because there was nothing in her life that was not political.

As if he could read the reasons for her reluctance—as perhaps he could after so many years—Philip took her hands in his and said softly, “Or we need not speak at all. Some of the finest moments of our marriage have been entirely wordless.”

With his fingertips, he caressed her skin from palm to wrist, teasing touches that were both familiar and arousing. Philip had always known what to do with his hands, she remembered. Not every moment of their marriage, as he’d said, had been political. For a heartbeat of piercing pain, Elizabeth felt the loss of never again being touched by a man.

But one could not go back. Withdrawing her hands from his, Elizabeth said cautiously, “It is not unpleasant to have your company one last time. You have been a friend to England when most we needed it. I hope that friendship will continue.”

His expression darkened briefly, for no man and for certain no monarch liked rejection. “My daughter shall always have my friendship. But you must know that Spain’s interests continue to diverge from England’s with each passing year in which you keep your people from the comfort of the Church.”

Five minutes—that’s all it took for personal concerns to become political. “I think,” Elizabeth said, “that this is enough for now. No doubt we have plenty to say to each other in council with others. If it were likely that we should agree on these points, then I don’t suppose this visit would end with a divorce.”

Philip stood, a righteous sorrow evident on his still handsome face. “I am sorry for it,” he said simply. “I hope you will not object to my spending time with my daughter, at least?”

Her own smile was a thing of frosty power. “No objection at all. You will find Anne quite capable of defending her own positions without my aid. Goodnight, Philip.”

Not a bow this time, but an incline of the head and the familiar calculation had returned to his expression. “Goodnight, Elizabeth. Tomorrow, the end begins.”

And not a moment too soon, she finished for him.

—

Julien’s worry about Lucette’s lies vanished the moment he reached his chamber still damp from the river. A courier had brought him a letter from Paris, anonymous in the address, but in a handwriting he knew instantly.