“What are you?” he demanded.
“A girl,” I stammered in surprise. A foolish answer, but I couldn’t stop my tongue.
“I see ’tis so. But you have the bosom of a woman. Where is your husband?”
My cheeks grew uncomfortably hot. “I am not married, my lord.”
“Ah, poor mite.” Seymour leaned over the fabric, his handsome face coming close to mine. “Would you like to be?”
I was thoroughly bewildered. Why such a highborn gentleman would even notice me—a seamstress and a governess’ niece—let alone speak to me so familiarly, was puzzling.
“I am too young to wed,” I said shakily.
“Indeed, you are not.”
Seymour moved a bit closer to me, and I backed a step. My retreat seemed to amuse him, because his smile broadened as he took another stride forward.
I repeated my glide backward. He likewise continued forward, and we moved on and on across the passageway until my heel connected with the stone wall.
“You are a woman.” Seymour’s voice dropped to a low rumble. “What is your name, lady?”
“Eloise,” I said faintly. “Rousell.”
“Es-tu français?” he asked in curiosity.
“Non, mon seigneur.” I resumed speaking in English, as my French was sparse, though I was fluent enough to know he addressed me familiarly, or as a superior would an inferior. “My father had a French name, is all.”
My grandmother had vowed that the man’s name had been Russell, plain and simple, but he, a strolling player who’d seduced my mother with his charm, had changed it to the French spelling to make himself seem more important. This was the story my grandmother told me after my father’s untimely death and my mother’s second marriage had caused her to lose interest in me.
“Ah, better still, a good English girl,” Seymour said. “The king, he is a good English lad, son of my English sister and the very English King Harry.”
“Yes, my lord.” At that moment, I think I’d agree if he’d said his sister had been a mad Amazon from Saracen lands.
“Where are you taking all those clothes, Eloise of England?”
Seymour’s breath smelled heavily of wine, and another smell clung to him that I could not identify—warm, sweet, and cloying. He was not drunk, but his eyes were heavy, his cheekbones flushed.
“To the queen’s chamber,” I managed.
“She is no longer the queen, you know. She is plain Lady Sudeley, my wife.” His eyes took on a strange glow. “Do you find her plain?”
“Of course not, my lord.” My eyes widened in astonishment. “My lady Catherine is most beautiful.”
“For her age, I suppose.” Seymour smiled as he said the disparaging words, as though it was a joke between us.
“She is no longer young, but . . .” Catherine had a dignified beauty that I admired. She was also kind, with a courteous manner she extended to all.
I could not decide how to express this while her new husband had me backed against the wall, smiling at me in an odd manner. I feared to offend him and be punished, so I kept silent. Gentle Catherine might grow angry at me for displeasing her beloved Admiral.
“Young, that is the thing,” Seymour was saying. “I like a young lady. What is your age?”
“Fourteen in September,” I managed.
“An excellent year. Ripe for marriage. The Lady Elizabeth, how young is she?”
“She will be fourteen as well, my lord. We were born five days apart.”
Seymour’s teeth gleamed in the half-light. “Now, there is a fact. I will remember it.”
