“What?”

He sighs as if I am wearisomely stupid. “We are going to consummate our betrothal.”

“I will not,” I say flatly.

“You will have to do this on our wedding night. What is the difference now?”

“Because this is to dishonor me!” I exclaim. “You do this in my mother’s rooms, with my sisters just a footstep through that door, in my mother’s own palace, before our wedding, to dishonor me!”

His smile is cold. “I don’t think you have much honor to defend, do you, Elizabeth? And please—don’t be afraid that I will discover that you are not a virgin. I have lost count of the number of people who wrote to me, especially to tell me that you were King Richard’s lover. And those who took the trouble to come all the way from England just to say that they saw you walking hand in hand with him in the gardens, that he came to your rooms every night, that you were his wife’s lady-in-waiting but you spent all your time in his bed. And there were many who said that she died of poison and that it was you who passed her the physic in the glass. Your mother’s Italian powders were courteously served to yet another victim. The Rivers flow sweetly over yet another obstacle.”

I am so horrified I can hardly speak. “I never,” I swear. “I never would have hurt Queen Anne.”

He shrugs his shoulders as if it does not matter whether or not I am a murderess and a regicide. “Oh, who cares now? I daresay we have both done things we would rather not remember. She’s dead, and he’s dead, your brothers are dead, and you are betrothed to me.”

“My brothers!” I exclaim, suddenly intent.

“Dead. There is no one left but us.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know it. Here, lean closer.”

“You speak of my dead brothers and you want to shame me?” I can hardly speak, I am choking with emotion.

He leans back and laughs as if he is genuinely amused. “Really! How could I shame a girl like you? Your reputation precedes you by miles. You are utterly shamed already. I have thought of you for this last year as little more than a murderous whore.”

I am breathless as he insults me while his hard hands hold my waist, pinning me on his bony knees, like an unwilling child in a forced caress. “You cannot desire me. You know that I don’t desire you.”

“No indeed. Not at all. I’m not very fond of spoiled meats, I don’t want another man’s leavings. I particularly don’t want a dead man’s leavings. The thought of Richard the Usurper pawing you about and you fawning on him for the crown makes me quite sick.”

“Then let me go!” I shout and pull away, but he holds me tightly down.

“No. For, as you see, I have to marry you; your witch of a mother has made sure of that. The Houses of Parliament have made sure of that. But I do insist on knowing that you’re fertile. I want to know what I’m getting. Since I am forced to marry you, I must insist on a fertile wife. We have to have a Tudor prince. It would be a waste of everything if you turned out to be barren.”