Mary had lain awake, still hot from the fire of lovemaking, until the first rays of dawn seeped into the room and a familiar, beloved cry alerted her to Henry’s hunger. Henry was hers, and now Lord Lincoln – Thomas – was too. No man could have been so passionate and said such things as Thomas had unless he held her dearer in his heart than any other.
She giggled wildly, she was more Duchess than that woman, wife and mother in name only. She would find a way to be rid of her, she would be Duchess. That would please her parents, a truly glittering match!
Her wedding ring lay forgotten on the floor beside the bed. All thoughts of Edward, all traces of guilt had been banished from her mind; she was a free woman who held the heart and son of a Duke. She rolled over, stifling her laughter in the goose feather pillow.
Henry’s cry became more insistent, and she had not yet been summoned. She would go anyway, she was unlikely to sleep now.
She walked on air as she made her way through the now-familiar maze to Henry’s apartments. She felt loved and needed once more – she had no words, just a dizzy sense of peace.
As she made her way past Jane Ashford’s room, a voice made her freeze in her tracks. A deep, imperious, passionate voice, mingled with moans of heightened pleasure. She remembered the softening of Jane’s face almost two months past, when she had first mentioned Lord Lincoln. Mary felt a physical ripping – it was not enough to think that just her heart had been rent asunder; she was half a heart, half a soul, half a mind.
Her heart raced and a delirious impulse came to her. She moved swiftly and silently to Henry’s cradle, not noticing his infant smile of joy upon seeing her. She scooped him up and tore back through the house, looking for the nearest way out.
A servant’s entrance had been left ajar near the kitchen, she darted through it and out into the turmoil of London.
She ran, not knowing or caring where she was going, clutching her precious load to her chest, not hearing his bewildered wails, nor seeing the startled looks of the people she passed. She sped up alleyways and down tiny side streets until her skirt and legs were caked in the grime of London. She stopped, crouching in the shadow of a jetty. She shook uncontrollably as she looked at the whimpering angel in her arms. Thirst and fever threatened to overwhelm her, and she was soaked in her own sweat. She ached from head to toe.
Mary settled herself more comfortably on the filthy ground, hushing the baby, her baby, rocking him gently as she strove to resist her own craving for sweet, peaceful sleep.
YOU ARE READING
The Lady and the Duke
Historical Fiction1544: Lady Mary Norton has just lost her husband and their newborn son to the sweating sickness, when the powerful and charismatic Duke of Lincoln offers her a place in his household as wetnurse to his own newborn son.
