Page 14 of The Rest is History

Elodie

I f I thought pre-kiss Charlie was frosty at school, post-kiss Charlie is positively Arctic.

By silent mutual agreement, we spent the remainder of Saturday afternoon in deliberate engagement with the other queens.

Charlie barely looked my way. He bantered with the visitors, of course.

He posed and boomed and corrected anyone who dared bring up a historical fact that was the slightest bit inaccurate.

In fact, he was more extrovert, more bubbly, than I’d ever seen him, even in character as Henry.

He even succumbed, willingly, to the teasing and needling and face-squishing of the other queens, both at the palace and in The Mitre afterwards when they dragged us for drinks.

He stayed for one bottle of beer, wedging himself firmly between Shelby and Tess, before running for the hills.

That’s how desperate he was to avoid being left alone with me.

I, of course, spent the rest of the afternoon dissecting and analysing our kiss.

Who am I kidding? I’ve spent every day since then dissecting and analysing our kiss.

I break it into a million delicious fragments, and obsess over each one, and put them back together before letting the entire experience wash over me anew.

I conjure up the fear, the heat in his eyes when he didn’t know what was wrong.

I revel in the soft, plush weight of his lips on mine. The way our mouths fit together so perfectly, even if just for the briefest few seconds.

I relive the pressure of his thumb dragging against my skin.

The unexpected confidence of his touch as his hand closed around the back of my neck.

As if he’d done it before.

As if he was saying you are mine.

And it’s at that point in my wretched replaying of the situation that I start to spiral.

Because Charlie Vaughan has never looked at me like that. Not at school. Not in real life , when I’m Elodie, the substitute teacher in his department, whose very presence seems to irritate the hell out of him.

He only looks at me like that when he’s Henry and I’m Anne.

We all know he’s obsessed with her. I’ve seen his bookshelves. They’re full of the best revisionist history and character rehabilitations Anne has inspired in the world of academia. And it’s clear he’s far more animated, more engaged, when we’re at the palace together.

At school he can’t put enough distance between us.

At Hampton Court, he appears to enjoy being with me.

Maybe I’m just a convenient channel.

An inadequate facsimile of his long-dead crush.

I’m driving myself crazy. When I’m not spiralling into my he has an Anne Boleyn kink doldrums, I spiral in other directions.

Dangerous directions.

Directions where our kiss doesn’t take place at the edge of a bustling courtyard, but in a quiet room.

Where he doesn’t pull away from me, but instead kisses me more deeply.

Where his tongue plunges insistently into my mouth, consuming me.

Learning me.

Teaching me.

Where his hands are a ravenous blur of need as they rip at my jewels, my bodice, sending velvet ripping and pearls scattering across the floor.

Where he acts like a man finally granted access to the forbidden fruit that’s tempted him, taunted him, for so long. Like Henry must surely have acted when Anne Boleyn finally granted him access to those long-denied treasures.

I would like to say at this point that I don’t have a Henry VIII kink. That would be impossible. Horrifying.

But, in a cruel twist of fate, it seems I may have a Charlie Vaughan as Henry VIII kink.

Just the best bits, you see. Charlie’s astonishing good looks, the blue of his eyes against the rich fabrics of his robes, and the terrifyingly easy way with which he assumes a role that’s so synonymous with absolute power.

I don’t have to deal with Henry’s physical inadequacies (he definitely wasn’t my type), his actual power or his endless capacity for self-pity or terrifying penchant for disposing of his wives in the most gruesome way.

I’m shitting myself when I rock up to school Monday morning on my bike.

I wonder what he’ll do. Say. How he’ll act.

Whether he’ll feel the need to apologise again (totally unnecessary, given I loved every second of it, but he’s so bloody proper that he may well feel the need.

But apologising would mean acknowledging, while he’s in painful Mr Vaughan mode, that something happened between us.

I much prefer him when he’s playing an entitled, self-obsessed despot who’s trigger-happy on the wifely death warrants.

I hate that I’ve made an effort with my appearance this morning.

Nothing too obvious, but I’ve spent longer than I should on achieving a dewy, bronzed look, on making sure each eyelash is fully coated from root to tip, and on mixing a lip stain, balm and gloss to the perfect shade (you know, just to remind him that I have lips.

And he kissed them) before blotting most of it off.

I put on one of my favourite summer dresses—a floaty, pale green number with a modest V, cap sleeves and lots of tiny buttons.

It’s comfortable, easy to cycle in and, dare I say, makes me feel pretty.

But it all goes to waste, because when I venture into the History office, he gives me the briefest, disapproving flick of his gaze before returning it to his laptop screen.

He’s in a pale blue shirt—it’s such a good colour on him—whose sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned, hairy, anatomically perfect forearms that look positively lickable.

He told me on Saturday (pre-kiss, when he was actually speaking to me) that he was playing cricket on Sunday. Looks like he caught some sun while he played, because his face is tanned and glowing with health. No need for bronzer there.

My eyes dive straight to his mouth, obviously, and a small, delicious flutter starts up somewhere south of my stomach.

It’s both fantastic and disastrous that I know how that mouth feels on mine.

And it’s both intoxicating and hugely deflating to be here with him after obsessing (okay, and fantasising) over him for most of the weekend. His hair is still a little damp.

He’s had a shower! my sex organs scream at me. There’s a visual for you!

Holy mother of God, do not imagine that man in the shower.

‘I’ve sent you an email,’ he says to his laptop screen. ‘Next half-term’s lesson plans are due in my inbox by Friday.’

He doesn’t have to be such a dick. I’m sure it’s because he’s the world’s most socially awkward person, so he must be dying of mortification right now, but still. He doesn’t have to be so fucking rude. Dismissive.

‘Good morning to you, too, Charlie,’ I say brightly, less to take the high road and more to piss him off. ‘How was cricket yesterday?’

‘Hot,’ he mutters, and I roll my eyes. He’s not worth the bother. I’ll ignore him till Zara gets here. If he can sit in stony silence and pretend nothing happened, then I’ll take my cue from him.

Because of his hostility, and because I’m driving myself insane with my relentless obsessing, I confide in Zara over lunch in a discreet corner of the staffroom.

It’s unprofessional, because I know Charlie would die if he thought I was spilling such a personal encounter, and because it should be my responsibility to keep it quiet and not Zara’s.

But I have no choice. I wouldn’t tell the other queens—that would make what happened between us seem like a bit of gossip, to be scattered around for everyone’s amusement.

And something’s stopping me from telling Grace at the moment.

I’m not sure why. I think I feel frivolous, telling her I kissed a guy at work when she’s got so much on her plate.

Zara is my only option. She always has my back, and she knows Charlie as well as anyone can, given the closed door he is at school. The only downside is that she’s already convinced he has some sort of interest in me, so she’ll be insufferable.

My misery over almost forty-eight hours of endless spiralling and a morning of Charlie ignoring me makes me positively cut-throat when it comes to delivering the news. Henry would be proud.

‘Something happened at the weekend.’ I fork up a spoonful of the delicious-looking rice salad the school chefs have created for the staff today alongside some baked salmon. I’ll really miss the food at this place when my teaching stint here is done.

Zara raises an elegant eyebrow. ‘Pray tell.’

I look her in the eye. God, I’m a badass today. ‘Charlie kissed me. Like, properly. On the mouth.’

I resist an urge to punch the air at the expression on her face. It. Is. Priceless.

She leans forward.

‘Holy fuck. At the palace?’

‘Yep.’

‘Were you in costume?’

‘Yeah. He was too.’

‘Hot,’ she hisses. ‘Tongue?’

She’s so predictable. I roll my eyes. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’ She collapses back in her chair, slightly deflated, before perking up again. ‘Any groping? How long did it last?’

I consider. ‘No actual groping , exactly, but he brushed my cheek with his knuckles and stroked my collarbone, and then he kind of grabbed the back of my neck very firmly and kissed me.’

‘Holy shit,’ she says faintly. I think I’ve managed to impress the salacious Zara. ‘That neck thing sounds very Mafia of him.’

‘I thought so too.’ It certainly felt very Mafia. Like I was his, and his alone, and he knew it. Fuck, it was hot. A flush rises up my neck as I relive it.

‘Maybe I should leave a couple of my dark romances on his desk,’ she muses. ‘Give him some more ideas to work with.’

‘He’d shrivel up and die.’

‘So tell me exactly what happened. Don’t leave anything out.’

Between mouthfuls, I talk her through Grace and Olive’s visit, my unfortunate solo foray into one of the most haunted parts of the palace, my mini meltdown, Charlie finding me, and the kiss.

While she seems disappointed that the kiss itself was relatively parent-friendly, the overall romance of the encounter cheers her up.

‘He definitely nailed the setup,’ she muses. ‘You know, damsel in distress, almighty leader sweeps in to her rescue, engages in seriously intense eye contact and some meaningful touching. I mean, it’s the tiniest leap to imagine that he actually uttered the immortal words, who did this to you? ’

I snigger. ‘You definitely need to lay off the romance books. But yeah, he did sort of growl I thought you were fucking hurt before he made a beeline for my lips.’

‘Jesus!’ She full-body shivers with pleasure. ‘So fucking good! Who knew he could deliver a line so well? That definitely makes up for the lack of tongue in my book. But today—he’s back to being Churlish Charlie?’

‘Churlish Charlie on steroids.’

‘He must be so mortified. I mean—shock, horror—he lost control there for a minute.’ She smiles smugly and jabs a finger in my direction. ‘ You , my little friend, all dressed up as his favourite woman of all time, made Charlie Vaughan lose control.’

‘Only for a few seconds.’ I jab at my salmon with unnecessary aggression. ‘And only because I was dressed up as his beloved Anne, as you say. I think he was just living out a fantasy there for a moment.’

‘Bollocks. I’ve told you before, he has the serious hots for you. He eye-fucks you all day long.’

‘You’re delusional, because I’ve never, ever seen that. He avoids me like the plague. Speaks to me like I’m dirt. He’s only ever shown any interest when we’re both in character.’

She leans forward. ‘I’m telling you, he does it to your back all day long. Maybe buy one of those little head cameras cyclists have, but wear it backwards. All you’ll see on the footage is Charlie Vaughan’s creepy little eyeballs following your arse around the room like a sad puppy.’

She’s being ridiculous. I know she is. Zara has an over-active imagination. But something about her words light a flare of hope in my heart. I don’t know why.

Because I don’t want a man who ignores me and belittles me only to pounce when he’s feeling bored or horny or fulfilling a fantasy.

Actually, I don’t want a man full-stop. I have enough on my plate.