My Lady Jane(21)

She continued: “My love for you makes the wind appear a mere breath, and the sea a mere drop. I will consult your wisdom. I am deaf to the call of temptation. Your happiness is my northern star.” She took his hand and shoved on the ring awkwardly, her bouquet still clutched in her fingers. “I give myself to you.” Never had she dreamed of uttering such words.

“I receive you.” He, at least, looked equally miserable.

The priest beamed. “Is there anyone who would like to contest this match?”

Please please please. Jane risked a glance at Edward, who had not moved at all. There would be no last-minute rescue. No awful coincidence. Nothing to keep this from going any further.

“Then,” declared the priest, “I name you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

Jane squeezed her eyes shut and waited. Entire seconds fell by, and then a touch warmed her chin and lifted her face, which she’d turned down to her shoes. The kiss came quickly. It wasn’t anything more than a touch of his lips to hers, so light it might not have happened at all. But the guests were cheering and when she and Gifford turned to face everyone, Edward’s eyes were shining, her mother wore a triumphant smile, and the girl with Gifford’s parents was kissing her doll.

“Now to survive the feast.” Gifford’s words were low, perhaps not even for her, but they were the first real words he’d spoken since they’d met.

“Perhaps there will be a buxom serving girl to help you pass the time,” she snapped without thinking.

Gifford met her eyes coldly. “Perhaps there will be a book for you to hide your face in.”

They moved down the aisle together, to lead the way to the wedding feast, and the last shred of hope in her shriveled and died. He was as awful as she’d expected, and now she would be spending the rest of her life with him.

And suddenly the rest of her life, stretched out before her with the marriage bed and children and seeing each other only when was absolutely necessary, seemed like an exceedingly long time.





SIX


Gifford

Maybe he had been a bit rude.

But to be fair, he’d had his reasons. One reason. Which was: he hadn’t been prepared for the fairness of the maiden who had met him at the altar.

Until the ceremony, he had, in jest, been vocal about the possibility that Jane was hiding behind books because she was trying to conceal the hideousness of her face. But deep down he’d hoped it was true. Because that would’ve made it easier to tell her the truth about his horse curse. If she had been less attractive, there might’ve been the chance that a half horse/half man was the best she could do. But Jane Grey could certainly do better than Gifford.

Not that she was a stunning creature. She did have that fire-red hair, after all. But G had to admit that not one in twenty men would find her unseemly. Her eyes were the color of varnished oak flecked with deep mahogany—perceptive eyes that seemed to drink in everything around her. Her skin was creamy and unblemished. Her figure had all the expected parts in all the right configurements. But it was the supple pout of her lips—and they had pouted a lot during the ceremony—that could inspire poetry.

Like kissing cherries, he thought, but that wasn’t a very good comparison.

And now, he had to tell those lips about the curse. He’d promised the king he would share the news with his bride before he and she . . . before they . . . what was the official term for it?

Ugh. Consummated, G thought. What was it with this obsession with consummation of a marriage? As if the “I do”s weren’t enough. At least the nobility of England no longer required live witnesses to the event.

But right now, at the wedding supper, a bigger problem was emerging. Every time G thought about how to break the news to her, he gulped down a cup of ale. And he thought about it a lot. Every time he looked at his new bride. And he looked at her a lot.

As a side note, he decided her frown would not inspire poetry. Because the poem would read: Her frown made him desire they be better strangers.

And what was Jane’s relationship with the king anyway? When Edward had summoned G expressly to tell him how “special” Jane was, Gifford had gotten the distinct impression that perhaps the king would have preferred to have Jane for himself. Yes, she was Edward’s cousin, but perhaps they were “kissing cousins,” judging from the way Jane had clutched the king’s arm as they’d walked down the aisle together. And the way she’d kept glancing in Edward’s direction during the ceremony.

Perhaps his wife was in love with another man.

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He washed it down with more ale.

He turned away and scanned the crowd. Billingsly was coming toward him, threading his way through the tables. “My lord,” he whispered in G’s ear. “Your father has asked me to gently urge you to switch from ale to cider.”

“Billingssssssly,” G said, marveling how long one could sustain the s in Billingsly’s name. Perhaps he had consumed more ale than he’d thought. “Billingssssssssssssssssly.” He leaned away from his bride. “I wonder if you might do me a favor.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I wonder if you might tell Lady Jane about the whole . . .” G waved his hand in a circle as if to say, “Fill in the blank about the horse stuff.”

Billingsly looked from Jane back to G. “My lord, under other circumstances, I would gladly assist you. But I believe the lady would prefer to hear such news from you.”