The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(7)
Today, he felt only that she was his sister and dearest friend. That there was nothing about him she didn’t already know and forgive. And so, less grudgingly than he’d intended, Kit began to talk.
“I can’t do it,” he confessed. “I cannot sit around Anabel’s household and watch the parade of men hoping to claim her. Don’t ask it of me.”
“I wouldn’t. I know you need to go.”
“But she doesn’t.” As Kit spoke, he felt hollow at the truth of his words. “And that’s the hardest part of all—that Anabel does not know why I’m going. She thinks I’m merely being difficult.”
“You could tell her the truth.”
“To what purpose? You know better than anyone, Pippa—Anabel is not meant for me. I’ll get over it. I’m not stupid enough to stay hopelessly in love with a woman I cannot have.”
It was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told, for he and his siblings lived daily with a father who had only ever loved one woman, one who had remained steadfast at the cost of his honour, his left hand, and very nearly his life. Did Kit’s siblings ever feel, as he did, that such a love was both a hope and a dreadful burden?
“Yes,” Pippa said, and Kit thought for a moment he’d heard her only in his head. It happened from time to time, this silent communication—mostly in moments of strong emotion—but no, just now her mouth was moving, although she was answering the question he had not uttered aloud. “We are not Mother and Father, Kit. You must rule your own life and your own heart. Go to Ireland. Work hard and be yourself. You were not wrong when you said you needed to discover your own path. Go and find it.”
“And you?” he tried to tease, but it came out more wistful than light. “Pippa, must your path always parallel the princess? Do you not wish for independence?”
“What makes you think I don’t have it? Independence is not a matter of situation but choice. I am where I choose. You can always trust me for that.”
And then, as Pippa so often did, she walked away, leaving her brother to try and decipher another of her cryptic statements. So he did what he usually did—ignored it and went about his own business.
There was plenty to do in preparation for Ireland, and Kit threw himself into filling requisition lists and planning supply routes for the Earl of Leicester’s trip. On his last day at court he was walking abstractedly through the halls of Greenwich calculating the weight of horses on board ship when a woman—blonde, beautiful, experienced—called his name.
And suddenly abstraction gave way to wariness, for Eleanor Percy fixed him with an amused expression that promised a playfulness he had no patience for. She was of an age with his mother, but behaved as though any man would be grateful for her attention. It was an effort wasted on the Courtenay men, but that did not stop her from trying.
“Where are you off to with such a distracted expression, Lord Christopher?” Eleanor was one of those women who purred rather than spoke, her words a caress that made his hackles rise. She went on without pause. “Oh, that’s right…you’re going to Ireland. I suppose you must be sulking at being forced to leave the princess. But then royalty does tire of their lapdogs so quickly. Just ask your parents.”
Or I could ask you, he thought ungraciously. How long did you keep the last king entertained before he pushed you out of his bed?
Kit shuffled mentally through the various marriages in Eleanor Percy’s past, trying to pin down the right name to give her at the moment. Finally he gave up and said simply, “My lady.” He bowed, and began to walk once more.
She stepped in his path, so that he could not continue without absolute rudeness. Stoically, he waited for her to say whatever it was she’d stopped him for. “I imagine we’ll cross paths from time to time in Dublin. Lord Leicester seemed quite pleased at the prospect of my company.”
“You’re coming to Dublin?” was all Kit could manage.
“Oh, yes. And a little further. An invitation to Kilkenny from the Earl of Ormond, you know. And there will be so many of our eligible young men in Ireland this autumn, how could I deprive Nora of their company?”
And there it was. Kit wanted to swear aloud, but stifled the impulse. Now he knew why Eleanor had stopped him. Her daughter Nora, despite being the acknowledged daughter of Henry IX, remained unmarried at the age of twenty-seven. Either because Nora was naturally shy and resisted being courted for her blood or because her mother was considerably less than shy, and few men wanted Eleanor Percy as a mother-in-law.
Eleanor would settle for no less than an earl for her daughter, and would prefer a duke. And if she could spite her former antagonists through matchmaking, all the better. Eleanor wasn’t talking to Kit for his own sake, but because his older brother, Stephen, was Earl of Somerset and would one day be Duke of Exeter. What better vengeance on Minuette than to trap her son for Eleanor’s daughter?
Sure enough, Eleanor said, “You must persuade your brother to come to Dublin, or at least Kilkenny, during our visit. The Earl of Somerset should not be spending all his time in the wastelands beyond the Pale.”
There was little Kit liked less than being courted solely for his relationship to his older, wealthier brother. “As you pointed out, I will be mostly in Dublin. If you have Lord Leicester’s promise to see you, then I’m afraid the company of one Courtenay brother will have to suffice.”