Anne was amused. Richard was so full of questions, the way she remembered him from their childhood, that her heart glowed. She stared up at the beautiful canopy above the bed in the spacious firelit chamber at Westminster, the tapestry depicting a scene from the story of Ruth, and answered every one. Later, she whispered that she preferred Crosby Hall’s intimacy, but that “this is more comfortable than drafty Baynard’s.” She began to caress his chest and tease his nipple, which soon achieved the desired effect. “Never mind Ned,” she said seductively, sliding her petite body on top of his. “Have you missed me? Or have you found a mistress while I was away.”

Richard smiled and took her face in his hands. “If only I had had the time,” he said, feigning regret. “And even Jane Shore is no longer available. Oh! Would you believe she has conquered yet another willing fool—this time my own solicitor, Thomas Lyneham. He was supposed to prosecute her but he fell in love with her instead. They are to be married.”

Anne’s laughter roused Rufus, curled up on the Turkey carpet. He put his whiskered nose on the bed and wagged his tail.

“Lie down, Rufus,” Richard admonished him, and, chastened, the old dog padded away. “Now, my dearest wife, where were we?” He slipped Anne’s chemise over her head and pulled her to him. Soon the rediscovery of familiar urges and intimate places put all but pleasuring each other from their minds.

Their passion slaked, Anne lay content in Richard’s arms. She sighed pleasurably. “I love you, Richard,” she whispered. “The Virgin help me, but I love you more than God.”

Richard stiffened. “Do not say such things, dearest. You need not bring down His wrath on you as He has on me.”

Anne sat up and turned to him. “What now, Richard? What do you think you have done now to displease Him?” Richard would not meet her gaze and instead tried to pull her close again, but she resisted. “Can you not be happy for once? I pray you, tell me your troubles. How can I be a good consort if you can’t entrust your worries to me? If you won’t trust me, then I cannot be happy. ’Tis as simple as that.”

“’Tis not so simple, my precious wife,” Richard replied. He rolled awkwardly onto his right side and then to a seated pose next to hers. Their shadows in the candlelight flickered eerily on the curtain, and he flung it aside. She is right, we must trust each other, he suddenly decided. And so he confided in her the tragic tale of his nephews’ deaths at the hands of Buckingham.