Page 34 of The Rest is History

Elodie

‘ I wouldn’t describe this as romantic, exactly.’ I press my palms against the locked door of the room around whose walls the cries of my orgasm echoed a couple of weeks ago. ‘More… opportunistic?’

He moves as close as my skirts will allow, his hands on either side of my face, framing me in. ‘Some things are better than romance.’

‘Do I even have a choice here?’ I ask, pretending like I remotely want a choice.

He kisses me softly on the mouth. ‘I’ll give you a fighting chance. Let’s play for it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A fact-off. We alternate questions. Facts must be Tudor-related. Ideally palace-related. If you get a question wrong, an item of clothing comes off. If you get it right, the asker needs to take something off.’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Is this, like, a nerdy historian’s version of strip poker?’

‘If you like. You game, Peach? Think you can keep up with me intellectually?’

That does it. ‘Bring it on, Charlie Boy,’ I hiss.

He laughs and pushes off the door, strolling around the room. He makes a fine sight in his faux-ermine-trimmed coat and doublet and his jaunty feathered cap.

‘I’ll go easy on you,’ he says. ‘You start.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Fine. Let me think. Hmm.’ I latch onto something one of the tour guides told me when I first arrived. ‘Name the famous painter who visited the palace in Queen Victoria’s reign.’

He grins. ‘Vincent Van Gogh.’

‘Fuck.’ I should have known he’d be good on the trivia. He’s been working here far longer than I have.

‘Off with it, sweetheart.’

I sigh and, reaching up, pull off my hood and untie my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. His eyes darken, just like I knew they would, before he tears his gaze away and begins pacing again.

‘Let me see. Name of the nurse who died nursing Elizabeth back to health from smallpox.’ He winks. ‘Think you met her a few weeks ago, in the passageway, when I rescued you.’

‘You didn’t rescue me. You took advantage of my head-fuck to plant a kiss on me. A very nice kiss. And her name is Sybil Penn.’ Easy. Like I didn’t fall down that rabbit hole of research after my ghostly encounter. ‘Do you have to take something off if I get a question right?’

‘Very good. And yep.’ He pulls off his cap and tosses it away like a frisbee.

I tut. ‘More respect for the costumes, please. Carol would have a fit.’

‘Carol loves me.’

He gets his next question right, so I reach up to unfasten my B necklace, but he shakes his head.

‘Leave it on.’

‘That’s not fair. You’re just trying to get my dress off,’ I grumble, my hands pausing at the clasp.

‘I am.’ He walks towards me, his gaze skimming over me. ‘But I really, really want you wearing that thing around your sexy little neck when I’ve got you naked.’

A thrill washes over me. Okay, that’s pretty hot.

‘Fine.’ I toe off my ballet pumps. ‘Precise date Jane Seymour died.’

He chews on the inside of his cheek and I wait expectantly. I’ve got him.

‘Let’s see. Edward was born on the twelfth of October, and she died twelve days later, so it must have been the twenty-fourth of October, 1537.’

Bugger. My face says it all, and he laughs.

‘Need help getting out of that dress, sweetheart?’

‘I suppose so.’ I turn away from him petulantly, and he comes up behind me, dragging my hair over one shoulder so he can put his lips to the spot right next to where the pearls sit and my neck meets my shoulder.

‘So fucking beautiful,’ he breathes, lips gliding over my skin. ‘I’ve wanted to do this all fucking day.’

Maybe this game isn’t so bad.

Because it’s just a costume, he unhooks the closure down the back pretty easily and helps me lower it down my arms. I step out of it and he turns me around, his blue eyes raking over my body in a black lace bodysuit and, of course, the necklace.

‘Holy fucking Christ,’ he says huskily, and licks his lips.

His eyes are on stilts. His reaction delights me.

I got dressed while he was in the shower this morning, imagining that I’d get to surprise him with this little number at some point today.

Seeing the look on his face, I’m reminded that, while I’m the almost-naked one, I hold all the power in this moment.

‘Thought you’d like it. Feeling a bit overdressed?’

He looks down at his finery. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re going to get many clothes off me,’ he says, smirking.

‘Such a shame,’ I say archly, ‘because watching you take off your codpiece and peel down your lovely white man-tights would undoubtedly be an erotic highlight for me.’ I put my hands on my hips, and his eyes drag to my stomach area. Or possibly lower.

‘You are such a little piece of work,’ he says, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘Let’s see how cocky you are when I’ve got that off you.’ He closes the distance between us. ‘So, my final question is: name the five co-defendants on trial with Anne.’

Oh, thank God. This I can do. ‘Piece of cake.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He slides a finger under one of my shoulder straps and nudges it down over my shoulder.

I slap his hand away. ‘You haven’t earned that right yet.’

‘What are you waiting for, then?’

I raise my chin defiantly. I’ll show him.

‘Rochford, obviously.’ Accused of adultery with his own sister. So ridiculous.

Charlie nods.

‘Mark Smeaton.’ The young boy. The only one who ever admitted guilt.

‘Yup.’

‘Henry Norris.’ Henry’s Groom of the Stool, and the closest thing he had to a best friend at court. ‘Francis Weston.’ A shrewd choice on Cromwell’s part. Weston’s affiliation was with those hostile to the Boleyn faction, so his charge made the whole farce look less political.

Charlie smiles. ‘Looks like you might earn my codpiece after all, sweetheart. Or at least my coat.’

‘And—’ I stop abruptly. Shit. Who the hell was number five? Smeaton, Norris, Rochford, Weston, and?—

I’ve drawn a complete and utter blank.

Fuck.

This is ridiculous. I know this trial inside out. I covered it just a few weeks ago, with Charlie’s class, for God’s sake.

He cocks his head, a wolfish smile on his face. ‘Too overcome with desire to think straight?’

‘ No . I just—give me a minute.’

‘Or maybe she’s just faking it,’ he muses aloud. ‘So desperate to get my hands on her, she’s willing to humiliate herself.’

‘You are infuriating.’ I fold my hands over my chest. ‘Why do I find you so attractive when you’re being smug and arrogant? Ugh. I hate my life.’

‘I promise you’—his fingers toy with both my shoulder straps—‘you’re going to fucking love your life in a couple of minutes.’

His face is so close to mine. I want his perfect mouth on me. Anywhere will do.

‘So,’ he continues. ‘Do you give up?’

Smeaton, Norris, Rochford, Weston.

Smeaton, Norris, Rochford, Weston.

Shit.

I huff as loudly and childishly as I can.

‘Fine,’ I say through gritted teeth.

His mouth grazes my ear, and goosebumps spread over my body at his proximity. He hooks his thumbs through my shoulder straps and slides them down.

‘William Brereton,’ he whispers, and I groan.

‘Nooo.’ Brereton. The random older dude. Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot him.

‘You know what the consequence of losing are, Elodie,’ he whispers, pulling back.

‘You’re such a smug, self-righteous prick,’ I mutter, but I’m sure my face is telling him just how far my anticipation is rocketing right now.

‘And you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

’ His hands skim up my thighs, over the lace of my hips and up my sides before they cup my breasts, thumbs skimming over my nipples.

‘This little lace thing is so fucking gorgeous with your necklace that I’m almost tempted to leave it on. ’ His hands still. ‘Almost.’

And then they’re dragging the bodice down, down, and I’m stepping out of the scrap of fabric.

He has me naked.

In the palace.

Oh well. It certainly won’t be the first act of utter debauchery these ancient walls have seen. I’m sure James I’s courtiers could tell a few stories.

Charlie's eyes rake over my body. ‘Jesus Christ.’

He shrugs off his coat and chucks it towards a chair, his gaze not leaving me. ‘Up on the table, sweetheart,’ he says, his voice just rough enough to ramp the electric current pulsing between my legs up a notch.

I glance behind me and settle my bare backside on the sturdy wooden table. I really hope it’s not valuable.

Charlie moves in. Slowly. Assessing what he sees.

Where to start. He lifts a hand and wavers for a second before curling it around the back of my neck, the pearls of my B choker rolling under his fingers.

I open my legs a little and he steps between them.

My face is tilted up to him. A sunflower seeking the sun.

‘Remember when you got this caught in your hood?’ he asks hoarsely.

I lick my lips. ‘I do indeed.’

‘God, I wanted to bite down on your neck so badly. I was so fucking dizzy from being up close to your scent, I thought I was going to pass out.’ He drags his fingers over the skin.

‘I wanted you to kiss my neck,’ I confess. ‘I had goosebumps everywhere, just from the anticipation. But you definitely made up for it when you got me in here.’

A pained laugh against my mouth. ‘I certainly fucking did.’

He kisses me, his tongue parting my lips and delving into my mouth with hungry strokes. I respond greedily, my tongue matching his beat for beat as I attempt to devour his beautiful mouth. I grab at the stubble on his jaw, cupping his face in my hands.

‘This bloody costume,’ I moan. ‘Take it off.’

He laughs. ‘In a minute, gorgeous.’

Pulling away from our kiss, he runs his lips down the column of my throat and I throw my head back for him. His hands rake through my hair, pulling it away from my face and off my shoulders.

‘So fucking heavenly,’ he mutters against my throat. ‘This necklace against your skin has killed me every single time I’ve seen it on you. Your skin. Your hair. Your pink, pink lips. Those eyes I drown in. I’ve never seen anything like you.’