#leiccsters
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 . . . robert dudley ( @leiccsters ) 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 . . . dover .
the road from london to dover had been made even more difficult by the weather, evening downpours softening the ground beneath their feet in the morning until not even the relentless pace maintained by the front of the entourage could compel the stragglers to move any quicker in pursuit ─ by the time they had reached the encampments around dover castle, the countess of leicester had to be helped out of the litter, fingers pressed against her mouth as a maid guided her from the courtyard to the prepared rooms close to where her mistress was positioned. she would have preferred to make the journey on horseback as the fresh air would have helped to soothe her unsettled belly but amy would not risk the health of the babe with such a harsh pace and an unfamiliar mount, confining herself to the swaying litter even if it had made her feel wretched beyond belief. the only other person who seemed to be as miserable as she felt was, coincidentally, the earl of leicester, whose ill - temper had seen their shared rooms emptied of servants that morning which suited her well as she unpacked their belongings slowly, laying out one of his doublets on the bed so that she could find a gown that closely mirrored the colors of his velvet.
holding a sleeve up to the window, her head turned instinctively towards the sound of his approaching footsteps, lumbering with a heaviness that foretold his prickly exteriors ─ the thought brought a secretive smile to her face as she pressed the rich fabric of his doublet to her lips, turning on her heel to greet him as he entered the room. ❝ you are still in a mood. ❞ a fair brow raised in teasing mockery even as her stomach sank. amy could play the fool quite well but even a fool could not ignore the obvious reasoning behind his change in temperament, his impatience with everyone but a select few. the pleasure of possessing his undivided attention was still fresh but how long could she feign blindness to his unhappiness ? as she held one hand out to beckon him closer, the countess of leicester decided that she deserved to be selfish for a moment longer though she would also attempt to appease and distract him when possible, if only to spare the servants from rotating duties to avoid their corner of the castle. ❝ i have sent the servants away so i fear you will have to terrorize me instead. come here, my bear, and change out of that. i've found a gown that better suits this doublet to let me lay claim on my husband through his clothing, if nothing else. ❞ the babe was still a poorly kept secret, at least until she could tell her mistress anne and receive her blessings and permission to retire to kenilworth once the period of laying in arrived, but already amy had to take out a few inches from her waist to make space for the swell of her belly, the ribbons of her bodice loosened even now to allow her more room to breathe freely.
❝ you are not cross with me, are you ? you cannot be, not after your child has left me feeling bereft of strength. if anything, i should exile you from my bed after this ... already he has inherited your ornery demeanor. ❞ turning back to the bed, she pulled the curled length of her fiery mane to one side, exposing the pale stretch of neck and shoulder with the impishness of a wife, demanding for her husband to slide around the softness of her body kept solely for his delight.
#𝐀𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐓 ♔ ˚ · . [ interactions ] .#leiccsters#amy : babe stop terrorizing the servants and let me dress u up so we match
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& @leiccsters
Years had passed since Meg Welles had first laid eyes upon the inner walls of Hampton Court, its pillars seemingly reaching to the heavens in the eyes of a young girl who had not yet viewed such splendor. Still new in comparison to the other decorated and historic castles build by the Tudors' ancestors, Henry VIII's cherished home sparkled with opulence and exquisite taste. Portraits of the family lined the halls, some even unknown to Meg, who had taken great care to memorize the most important figures leading up to William's ascension - his father, of course, and his grandfather, the victor of the great Lancaster/York conflict. His grandfather's mother, the formidable and fearless Margaret Beaufort, stoic on canvas as she was said to be in life. The list went on and on, each person an important part of shaping the generation that currently held the throne.
Her steps slowed in front of Queen Elizabeth, wife of Edward IV. Their dear country had been thrown into even deeper strife with their marriage, yet that couple's great-grandson now sat on England's throne. Meg wondered how proud the Woodeville woman might have been to know that her line continued, not only with William but with Bess, who carried on her name and ferocity.
Footsteps drew her gaze away from the painting, the sound of heels meeting the floor echoing across the hall. Her lips drew into a pleasant smile for the man she saw before her gaze turned back to the Yorkist queen. "It is uncanny, is it not, how strong a family resemblance can be, Lord Leicester? Though the princess was blessed with her father's hair and her mother's eyes, it is impossible to deny the connection to relatives of yore."
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please follow & welcome the following roles: additionally, our following list has been made public.
@cecilyfitzrys
@edmcndd
@sebastiandelorges
@johnseymour
@richardofrochford
@ursularich
@thunyielding
@boleynsrex
@leiccsters
@agneseymour
@unconqucred
@philippaed
@thquldnunc
@ivorylaced
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As the heavy clouds split in the wine-dark sea of the nighttime sky, Elizabeth hitched her skirts up over her feet and broke into a girlish laugh, the noise as well tuned as any lute, before she cast her net wide to embrace the closest of companions. Her hands — her royal, holy hands — took to the shoulders of others as she tried to hop over the blades of grass in fear of ruining the gold brocade created by loving stitches, before she relinquished them of their responsibility upon seeing the shadow of the one she could not help but love.
Love? Was it that? Of course, it shook her deeply, as if he had set his anchor within her — that with each tug she ran with the pace of the strongest horse. But, then, was it not she who almost always yearned for his presence? Was it not she who etched secret words between lines of careful penmanship for his quick release?
But who was to question the order of their Princess? A woman sculpted by Tudor blood and Boleyn passion, a figure cast in the shape of a mother yet soaked in the fury of a father. No one, bar perhaps the figure who remained in shadow, could coax Elizabeth from what she wanted, and without further thought she pushed her companions aside to guide her vision of glittering gold towards he — Robin, [i]her[/i] Robin whom she had fallen for in the very first days of their common place friendship. What was she but struck by Cupid’s bow, for beneath the glamour of being holy by birth, she was but a girl with the same desires of any other.
So, she ignored the suspicion of other courtiers, slipping in line towards Dudley before the rain could draw the line between them in broad, fine strokes. For as soon as she reached his part of the garden, the clouds had spilled upon the earth as heavy as they could've done, falling in fat droplets that lit a chorus against the awaiting canopies. Rushing to him, her heart a-flutter against her chest, Elizabeth threw herself to him with her hands already grasped around his elbows, her body ready to latch onto his in that first second of their long-awaited reunion.
“The heavens! Look!” She cried, holding back joyous laughter before craning her neck back to look above them, to gaze with widened eyes, her hands clutched around his arms, her faith in his safety, all too obvious for anyone to make some vulgar comment. "What an omen..." @leiccsters
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though bradgate house had not lacked for visitors with the favor - seekers, paltry entertainers and conspiring noblemen that had darkened their doorstep, exhausting her hospitality as the mistress of the household long before her father had passed and the weight of being head of the family had passed onto her, the sheer number of people that had answered the invitation to sojourn in hampton court had taken some familiarizing with after nearly seven years of being away from court outside of answering royal summons and attending the necessary festivities for births, marriages and coronations. her sisters had long since taken their leave from her side to disperse among their old companions, blessed with the chance to shed their concerns for a moment with an optimism and belief in others that she had replaced with a calculating eye that she used to measure the worth of those around her, dismissing or treasuring her friends ( allies, even among those that she considered kin ) according to the value that they might bring into her life. yet even for someone who delighted in the ostentatiousness and subtle politicking of court, the revolving list of names and bodies had slowly grown to grate at her patience and philippa knew that she should seek out of moment to clear her head, allowing the smile that now ached at her cheeks to falter into nothing.
there was a pleasantly gentle breeze that picked up along the riverside, cooling the heated apples of her cheeks as she sought out some privacy though the freshness of the air was soon tainted by a strange scent, sweet and musky in a way that reminded her of a great furred coat or the bark of a tree, if her face was pressed entirely up against it. her nose twitched, chin lifting in the air as the figure that emitted the scent in great puffs of white smoke turned, revealing himself to be the earl of leicester ─ there was no mistaking the width of the gentleman for anyone else and something sour with uncertainty curled around her tongue even as she smiled, dipping her head into a small nod. ❝ i thought you were on fire, sir, and had you not turned, i might have convinced myself that i would be doing you a kindness by pushing you into the water. ❞ curiosity furrowed at her brow, unbidden and in spite of herself, at the foreign contraption and philippa knew, had it been someone familiar at the riverside, she might have bullied them into letting her attempt a puff. ❝ it is strange but not entirely unpleasant. did you come to the riverside in the hopes that the breeze will blow away the smell and cover your habits, my lord ? ❞ or was he similarly spent by interacting with guests of varied backgrounds and motivations ?
robert dudley / 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. event-thread, river thames.
The tip of his long pipe leaked a curl of damp, pungent fog, and with it, the distinctive stench of tobacco clouded the air. Sweet-smelling, earthy, a touch piquant. Smoke coiled around Dudley’s long, black beard, unbound with a deep sigh heaved from within the Earl’s broad chest. Although not yet couth to smoke at court, Dudley had taken the opportunity to escape, without drawing suspicion, as the rest of the assembly fawned over the troupe’s performance – sneaking toward the river’s edge to avail himself of a puff. Dudley was, and always had been, greatly fond of courtly theatrics – it was, rather, the simpering delegation of foreigners on English soil he disdained, each velvet-robbed threat to the Tudors’ sovereignty and security.
What good could come of them, those peacocking French? The French who craved much more than Calais, but to rule England itself? And what of those devout, unwavering Spaniards, sombre in both body and blood? With an arrogance unmatched at court, Dudley openly exhibited his distrust and derision. It was, after all, these very guests – kings, princes, and emperors – that would expect to get an heir off His Majesty’s sister, the only woman in England powerful enough to command the earl's exultant affection.
Dudley’s posture neatened, and his lip curled with quiet annoyance, as his ears pricked to the telltale rustle of approaching footfalls. He turns with a clear-eyed expression to the visitor, cutting a proud, graceful figure. ‘A Spanish vice,’ he quips, touching his pipe. ‘Tainting the blood of a wholly English man. Does the scent trouble you?’
#𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 ♔ ˚ · . [ interactions ] .#leiccsters#me u pip n duds all know he is more capable of throwing her over his head into the river eye ---
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She knew that her words would sting, or dive deep beneath the surface to reveal something that had been almost forgotten. But Elizabeth couldn’t help it, for she felt entirely broken, her heart sliced in two to reveal nothing but a yearning for something to fit that very spot. For since she had known him as a girl, when she had been nothing but a bag of bones with coiled red hair, she had felt to trust him entirely. Without truly taking heed or control of her own feelings, she had offered him pieces of her body in return for nothing but his loyalty, for his companionship, and his damned love. Even seeing him there, fitted for his voyage along with the rest of her brother’s company, was quite enough to evoke a desire from within the fiery depths of her soul, and so she put her hands behind her back — as if to straighten her spine, when in reality she began to press her fingers against her wrist to feel the pulse of her veins, to feel something that was not the emptiness within.
How could she ever release him, truly? How could she ever be anything but his devout follower? How could she ever truly be England personified when she was already spoiled for all? Her eyes narrowed to suppress a cry of anguish, her gaze fleeting across his face before settling to a space by his side, her concentration wavering with every beating second.
On one hand she seemed to get what she wanted, she would become a Lady Regent to her people, she would lose the headache of Robin and his swollen wife. But the other, oh the other. To be away from Robert Dudley was enough akin to driving a blade into her chest, enough to riddle her foolish or useless to anyone who may have found themselves in need of a leader. And yet, she stood tall, even if it was he who would be wise enough to see through her facade of cool stone. Pressing her heels into the ground beneath, Elizabeth only stared ahead, her attention then only stolen upon the mention of love once more, the coldness of her gaze pierced through his own eye — her lips down-turned, her misery spilling from one gaze.
“I care nothing for her, but I had your sister send my kind congratulations. Is that not enough? You know very well, no — you know more than anyone upon this Isle — how such a thing tears at my soul? I do this for you, I give my blessing for you, to keep slander from your door and that would be my parting gift, my last omission of love. For I do love you, I have loved you since I was old enough to think of such an emotion. You know, oh you know so very well, that I would have married you a thousand times, in a hundred lives, if it was not for the fortune of my birth. I will never marry, I should never think of it. But if I had had a choice, the merest hope of normalcy, then you are aware that I would’ve chosen you,” Elizabeth hissed, the confession spilling from her lips in an unstoppable wave, her hurt then painted across her face in lines of youthful skin, her weight then misguided as she began to pace that very spot, a single finger jut in his direction.
“You think I rebuke you for my selfishness? For my own satisfaction? Oh, Robert, you are bigger and brighter than that…” With pause, Elizabeth tried to centre herself, her temples aching with the burning of a first headache, “ — but you love her, too. You do not love me alone. You cannot, not with she being with child. No, no. If this it to be it, then know that I must — I will — release you of our past promises. I give you my blessing, I will give Kismet pride of place. But you, do not think that I can stomach your presence. Do not think that you are ever to be invited to my table again. To see you, happy or in love with someone else… No. Not even I could suppress that,” Elizabeth cried, salt-fresh tears then spilling over the high arch of her cheekbones, her head turned away from Robin with a final, silenced sob before she struggled to contain herself. “Burn my letters, burn everything I have ever given you. This all ends here. It must.”
Robin bore an uncanny talent for reading Elizabeth’s mind, and she his. Perhaps it was that the entirety of their lives had been entwined, like the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, the white and red of the Tudor rose interflowed. She’d been scarcely a girl when Robin, fresher than a lanky-legged colt, first came to court – she, the daughter of Great Hal, and he the son of a gentleman usher with no title, and precious little riches, to inherit; charisma and confidence and drive jostling him to the innermost of her father’s dying flame, the Dudley bear borne with pride on his sleeve. Natural affection and shy-eyed lusting predisposed the pair to friendship. Shared talents and hobbies drew them closer than convention and honour and her mother would dictate. There was no one in the world over, save Amy, with whom he’d felt more at home – and long before his goosequill scratched across the parchment that augured their demise, he’d known Elizabeth would intend to deride him and mock him with her petulance, if only to conceal her own hurt.
Foresight, howbeit, did not prevent her words from stinging.
Dudley had the good sense to hang his head low, shielding himself against the Tudor rage that rushed across him, his narrowed gaze trained to the dust scattered across his boots. It was a rage he knew well – only, this time he found himself at its embittered receiving end, felt its piercing blade etch on his skin, painting a thin line of scarlet across his neck. With great reserve, the earl uttered a gruff ‘yes,’ before his gaze lifted to the vaulted plafond, dredged with cobwebs and ancient carvings of warriors. ‘I imagine there was a time when there was a worthy answer to that question.’ Now the uncertainty of his fate gives him pause, an Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat, exposed to her gore-drenched claws. ‘Though I suspect your calumny rhetorical, is it?’ A way to take the knife that had wounded her and plunge it into his own heart? ‘In any event, both Amy and I have been summoned. You’ll be rid of us yet, Princess.’
Thinning his lips, Dudley regarded Bess directly, his expression pained. ‘But pray tell, Elizabeth, and I will gladly take my leave of you: why do we praise Odysseus for his loyalty, but gnash your teeth at the man who has ever loved you?’ His jaw twitched involuntarily. ‘I have not always been a perfect husband, but to you and to Amy, I have always striven to be a good man, worthy of your affection, and my love has been pure – if not misguided.’ Fisting a hand around Hestia’s rein, Dudley breathed, ‘I would have chosen you. It would have been you, Elizabeth, who I would have taken as my wife, my life and limb. It was you who would not have me. The Cleves duke. The French dauphin. Hell, Northumberland’s boy. How many times do you think your brother has thought to marry you off to one of them? Praying they’ll fetch a pretty price, a firm alliance?’ He brought his chin to his chest, his black gaze burning into her. ‘You have always been out of my reach, with or without her. It is I who has sinned; it is I who repents knowing the taste of you. Save your fury for me, for she has suffered my indiscretions long enough.’
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His reaction may have deserved a different answer to the one she gave, but Elizabeth was in no mood to split her personality towards the one sculpted by the sharp talons of her mother’s falcon. Did she not risk everything to see him? She was no girl, no woman to be touched as he had touched her — she was England, born and bred. She was Britannia. Boudicca. She was every woman and man born upon those shores, then how, pray tell, was she meant to deal with the longing that caused an earth-shattering ache between her legs, her bones and upon the beating of her heart that shook with each determined exhale.
Extending her neck, oblivious to her own place in the world, her hand grapples for him, her mouth parting in the same manner one would split a peach as she moaned for his embrace before he, in his stubborn manner, turns from her with the same expression as a man would wear when losing a round of cards. It was frustration then, or something akin to such an emotion, that left Elizabeth to fall slick against the garden wall, her hands clumsy as she sought the sturdy leverage of the brickwork, her fingertips tangling for just a moment into wild flowers that had fought against the human construction to part through the mortar; nature prevailing against the menace of intrusion.
What else could she have said? He knew. She knew. It didn’t matter how much she wanted him — or how many nights she had spent dreaming of him when caught in a sleepless night. With her heart drop with a thump into the bottom of her stomach, Elizabeth sought his true self through the vain naivety of manhood, then against all logic, she allowed him to take advantage of her benevolence, for did he think that the hardship stood alone against him? Indeed, perhaps physically it was all too obvious that he bore such a heavy task, but Elizabeth still ached in a similar tug of the heartstrings, her gaze lingering upon his own as he approached once more – and yet, against her better character, her lips remained shut in some tense action of a jaw clenched.
“Do you think I am a fool?” She asked, through the tremble of her sweetened lips, her hands flush against his chest as he went to hold her again, his embrace a torment to a body that yearned to submit. “A Monk cannot be married… You would be a terrible Monk, we both know that,” Elizabeth whispered, her throat tightening at the facts that began to push their way into view, to destroy the original torment filled only with wanton lust, for to mention his marriage was against her own happiness, to even think of whom waited for him with a life to offer for his own entertainment was enough to leave the clouds to turn from heavy rain to furious thunder. And yet, she could not help but fall her brow against him, her torment ever present as her hands cascaded down his chest to the taut fall of his hose.
With a slow, steady breath, she seemed to once more contain herself — the deft work of her fingers made haste as they untied his breeches, a hand slipped between the material to come against the warmth of heated flesh. No, no. If he were to return to someone else that night, then let it be sure that she remained upon him in mind, body and soul — and with a determination, she took his hardness into the cup of her hand, working his length with certain jerks of her hand as her lips found the neat throb of his neck, the dark glare of her gaze shot over his shoulder as she looked to the shadows for any sign of an intruder, an ever present will to be in charge of all that she could touch taking some command as her head tilted towards his before drawing his lips into her own, her warm breath yet sticky with what she wanted more than anything else. How was it fair that anyone else could make such a mistake? To fall unnecessarily in love with a man she could never boast off? With her eyes closed, she mapped his cock, his lower stomach and hip bone with her hand, knowing the path across his skin as well as she had mastered her tongue in all languages but his own.
“Dare I count the ways how I would have you if there was nothing standing in the way? I would love you so fiercely, with more intent than any woman may ever boast of a silken lover. Do you hear me, Robin? Will you try to understand?” Her voice strained, as if teetering on the edge of a slovenly beg, before she pushed his breeches from him, lowering herself by the slight bend of her knees to risk all exposure to the weather, as she took his arousal between her lips in an act performed only ever behind the safety of locked doors.
Elizabeth’s admonishments drew him back to the present, though her hand palming at his arousal kept the passion and lust he’d long held for her ignited, held so long in loyal check. He slides his forehead against hers, his breath fanning against her skin in ragged, frustrated pants, his skin slick with sweat and need. He drags his mouth against her cheek – with his lips and teeth and body lavishing her captivating, familiar, vulnerable face with his kisses, open-mouthed, nothing short of a declaration of devotion. Cloaked in darkness, Elizabeth clung to Robin and he to her, his hand finding the thin swell of her breasts as hers dallied upon his hardness, a heat bubbling in his belly and welling in his chest that seemed, in a moment illuminated by the purest of desire and tenderest love, inextinguishable. Only…
You know – you know.
Her words pump in his ears like hot blood, circulating with the fervent exhaustion that comes from a long, wild hunt, his thighs trembling with the fierce fury of a stallion. Robert reluctantly, desperately, tears himself from her, untangling their long limbs, detaching his mouth from her throat and her nimble fingers from his waist. ‘I know.’ The Earl stalks off, turning his back to the Princess, biting his knuckles between his teeth. For all his strutting and arrogance and confidant intimacy with a woman of royal blood, Elizabeth’s refusal humbled him, enraged him. More than that, he felt the loss of her coaxing hand shutter through his body, as his cock surged with raw need. ‘God’s blood, I know this, Elizabeth!’ His voice roars louder, sharper, than he intends it to, like a schoolboy deprived of his toy, a king deprived of his crown. Elizabeth will tell him ‘ought you mind your place, Robin,’ but if she had any sympathy for his soul, she would pardon him for it – this one great, unpardonable indiscretion: love. His fingers trace and pinch the long bridge of his nose, his chest heaving out a guttural sigh.
He bit his tongue, on which held many bitter words, and turned to face her. Without words to express his tenderness he pressed his lips to hers, as softly as the lighting of a butterfly, her mouth cold and unyielding. He tipped her head back, looking into the liquid amber of her eyes, and watched her slip away like fine grains of sand in an hourglass. He’d taken too much; she would punish him, keeping her affections more tightly-fisted than the privy purse for it, but he was powerless to express it. ‘I am sorry, Bess. Know that I would give anything to have you. Not your money. Not your titles, or gold. It is you I crave, Elizabeth. This –’ His hands knead her backside, roughly pulling her back against his subdued arousal, a throbbing reminder of his desire. ‘All this but for a moment of your time.’
His mouth cracks into a faint smile, their foreheads joined once more. 'I will be your monk. Monk Robin. How does that sound, beloved?
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But, despite claims later stated through a practised mouth, Elizabeth was not simply a Tudor offspring from red-haired crowns and hot-heated tempers — no, she was more than that. She was half-Boleyn, with the bottomless onyx of her eyes and fore-planned ambition that saw beyond the clouds and into the stars. So, she did not fall into his seduction, into his rare form that pushed against her as if he were less in control of his actions, but rather coaxed him thus with her thigh held up against his hip bone, one hand yet clasped around the warmth of his neck, the other trailing between them as she felt his arousal pressed against her in an obvious ploy to get what he wanted.
But a Tudor never surrendered, not like that, and a Boleyn knew what she was doing. Temptation was the role played between them, the emotion only cut when either partner fell to their knees — gone were the Holy harmonies sung on high, absent were the guards withstanding their watch. What remained were two souls bound together, two souls that could not just split the boundaries into physical forms, but rather rolled into their breaths like gasps surged from the back of their mouths. And so, she waited — or at least, her tongue paused to relish in his…
Well, one may think that it was rash, harmless or simply tied up in the lust that came with prolonged exposure to a woman whom you could not have. But to Elizabeth’s eyes, it was devotion, an aggression that splintered his bones — a love that left his throat gasping for air. And oh, did she enjoy it, did she savour his need like a cat toying with its dying prey, her hand cast between them as the bow of her palm rubbed over his reckless hardening, her eyes narrowed to the point that she could barely see him through the light hairs of her eyelashes. Perhaps, after all of this, she was teetering on the point of giving in, to fall to the need that had often overcome any other King with their numerous wild oats.
Clasping her hand against him, the other pressing half-crescent redness into the back of his neck, Elizabeth almost hissed with her own unflinching pain, her tongue stubbornly pressing between her lips as she tried to fathom what to say in that moment, or what to confess to with the front of her skirts bunched up above her waistline. “Hush, Robin — hush,” the Princess whispered, her command lucid against the sickly-sweet taste of her mouth, the aftertaste of something deemed suitable for a royal affair. “You know —” a curse ready on her tongue, her breath heavier than before, her hand still touching him through the material, her caress suddenly twisting to bare-knuckled desperation. "You know."
Lily-white skin yielded familiar blooms, a flourish of colour searing underneath his mouth and the weft of his hand; the taste of rose-water and brine sampled by the warm lavishing of his tongue. What woman could frustrate him, enrage him, unravel him, such as Elizabeth? But God, what woman’s touch could set his skin aflame, command his body with such powerful need, control him with exultant strength? She’d been nothing more than a simpering child when he’d first come to court – the King and Queen’s summer-haired delight – peering at him through a fan of pink lashes, her black eyes kindling approval, her delicate hands caressing the stomacher cinching her waspish waist, but now… his loyal affections had taken a fervent quality, for she was a woman grown, an irresistible, formidable, vexatious woman, ruling him with her tongue as Theodora did the Byzantines.
A groan ensnared in his throat, Dudley sighed against her supple flesh as Elizabeth gyrated against him, the half-moons of her nails clawing at his skin and the bones of her hip prodding into a wall of taut muscle. ‘Careful, yes, always careful…’ He assures, mindlessly, numbly repeating her words, spitting them back into her mouth, drawing them out with his teeth. But as he speaks, a rod of hardness implores against Elizabeth’s thigh, and his hand craftily slips into the partings of her gown, holding her calf, cupping the back of her knee, lifting her leg so that it winds around his waist like a lithe serpent, luring him to his demise. With this grasp, he pulls her firmly against his body, so there can be no question of his desire, and grins ruefully at the sudden gasp of pleasure that unleashes from her mouth.
‘Say the words to stop me.’ His voice is gruff, a hoarse plea, his hand groping her soft thighs, his blood racing. ‘Release me, Elizabeth. Or pray God give yourself to me, take my flesh and blood, or I’ll die a torturous death in your arms.’
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the inhabitants of dover castle bemoaned the bad weather and the more irrational of the king's courtiers marked the dampened beginnings as an ill - omen for their conversations with the entreating spaniards ─ while she was inclined to voice her agreement to such peasant superstitions, what use did she have for the sun when robert dudley was near ? pinned into place by the weight of his gaze, so dark beneath the dampened strands of his hair, she was but a rabbit now ensnared in the trap that he had so expertly laid out, her throat bared for his teeth, her skin flushed with an onslaught of sudden warmth that coiled deliciously in her belly and around her heart at the sight of his smile and how it softened the shadowed contours of his features. the sight evoked a bashfulness in the countess, her pleasure at his return hidden as she tucked the expression ( and her chin ) against�� her neck, watching as his fingers made quick work of his chains and clasps before turning to her own feigned unfolding of their belongings if only to conceal how, even after nearly a decade of marriage, the faintest hint of teeth behind his lips was enough to widen her own smile to points of absurdity. surely it was not commonplace for a wife to feel such joy at inspiring gentleness, happiness and comfort in her husband as though they were newlyweds and the burdens of wifedom had not yet crushed the first blazes of love ─ what sorcery did he practice to hold her captive in his arms after all this time, after such hurt ?
discomfort faded into a dulled ache in his presence, as though her affection for him was too great to allow anything else to disrupt the peace between them, a soft laugh escaping her chest at his words. ❝ my bear. ❞ it lacked any sense of possessiveness and carried the weight of her adoration, her regard for him as husband, father and lord, the length of her torso melting against his front as she attempted, poorly, to fold one of his shirts away. like a puppet in the hands of a puppeteer, she moved in accordance to his slightest touch ─ her head tilted in the opposite direction of his to allow him space to rest his chin, her back arched forward at the gentle press of his thumbs to the center of her shoulders and she sighed through her nose, the sound a near - purr of a satisfied feline.
an indignant noise was hummed into the air, brows furrowing briefly at the words that followed. ❝ oh, my sweet husband ... beloved ... my poor, poor robert ... ❞ still, she teased through her concern, unable to stifle the delight at the opportunity that dover castle and their growing child had offered her to monopolize his time and his attention for her own. amy had not been told in so many words of the sacrifice that he had made following the revelation of her expectant state, but had come to a sensible conclusion after studying his foul moods and reading through the barrage of letters from his sister that had followed them from hampton to dover, conveying her confusion at the sudden change of heart in the princess. a part of her, however miniscule, felt ashamed for the sorry state that she had dragged both robert and kismet into with the news of her pregnancy ─ it would only grow larger by the day as they continued, threatening to consume her with a guilt that she had no reason to carry, but it was the size of a mustard seed now, wedged between her chest and her womb, easy to ignore with more pressing concerns at hand. ❝ fortunately for you, i am as easily pleased as i am displeased. now, it pleases me to merely look at you ! i would find myself content to spend the rest of my days gazing at my ridiculously fierce and handsome husband, no matter his faults. ❞ of which there were many, though she did not speak the words so much as imply them with her punctured silence, amusement at his expense tapering off as she turned to face him, taking in the exhausted lines of his face, first with her eyes and then following the path with her fingers, ghosting her touch across his cheeks before pressing a quick, sweet kiss to one.
❝ there is nothing to forgive, darling, or did you imagine me unfamiliar with your moods and how best to navigate them ? it was a frightful journey and already i am dreading the return back to court ... ❞ for more reasons than just the roads and the weather, though her soft gaze did not betray such thoughts. ❝ the maids prepared a hot bath before they left ... i had the intention to take a soak to soothe my poor legs but i find myself persuaded to relinquish the tub to you first, husband. as forgiving as i am, i fear you smell too much like horse for my delicate belly. ❞
Potted, cragged, swollen with insistent rain: the ancient Roman roads stretching from London to Dover made intolerable the hard ride from Hampton Court. The furrowed brows, wan faces, and occasional red-rimmed iris among the King’s entourage suggested it was not just the Dudleys who suffered from the biting, incense-thickened air, the relentless humming of the clergymen limping about, swinging their heady censers and crosses like weapons, warding away sickness, staving off the encroaching fog, the rain like whetted arrows pouring from the skies. Miserable, Leicester spat, this overwhelmingly frivolous display, as he looked about and found William’s entourage riding by like a guild of pilgrims, rather than a royal court – so habitually famed for its luster, horns blasting, stags bounding majestic, all eyes ablaze with happy furor and cheeks reddened by whipping wind, pomp and circumstance and gold banners brandishing about.
Now, the troupe trailed limply, colorlessly, all the way to Dover – like unwilling sacrifices – the news of Seymour’s rebirth dampening the spirits of the court.
Not even the King’s people, usually so eager to line up in the towns which the court passed unblinkingly, straggled to catch a glimpse of him, red-gold hair piercing through the mist, a gaggle of delighted gasps following, blackened fingertips jutted out to grab hold of an inch of his majesty, a vanished mystique. And, of course, not a one stuck their necks out to see if Elizabeth and her decorated ladies trailed behind, for they hadn’t. She hadn’t. And, as rain hung like blood to Dudley’s feathered cap, he knew that there would be no more of her entirely: Elizabeth Tudor was dead to him, a red-gold wraith of the past, bobbing at the tail of his eyes. Why, then, as he flayed open his doublet and tossed it to the window bench, rain-soaked fabrics usurped with fire-warmed furs, did the thought clout him with a sort of murderous rage? This searing agony? Was this Divine?
Wordlessly Robert Dudley undressed and re-dressed, for there was nothing left to speak: not to himself, nor anyone else. As he wrested the gold chain from his neck and the locket from his wrists, he thought of the Irish triad that haunted his early expeditions to that emerald isle, and grimaced, the lines of his face crowded with ghosts. ‘Three things that are worse than sorrow: to wait to die, and to die not; to try to please, and to please not; to wait for someone who comes not.’
Dudley’s gaze snapped to Amy, lingering in the doorway, as she spoke. She looked herself, today, standing by the sleek, gilded archway: a newcomer to noble ranks. Out of place. The woman who for nearly half a decade his kisses had rained like Manna upon – her face, the hair that streamed over her shoulders, neck, breasts, thighs. He’d felt her tremble against him. Dug into the blades of his shoulders as he heaped her up against the mattress of their marital bed, driven into her with an intense and intoxicating desire, filled with his seed, for Amy Robsart at once his and something else entirely. Passive, yet not passive; a yielding presence. The dutiful wife; the loving mother; Helen before the war. Why, then, he again asked, did God now see fit to bless them with a child? His smile toward hers was surprisingly gentle, concealing the conundrum of emotions closing ranks behind his poker face. ‘Shh. Say naught.’ The last gilded clasp on his wrist unbroken, Dudley said, ‘the bear does not like to be disturbed.’
Dudley followed Amy blindly, mere inches of space wedged between husband and wife as his chest cocooned the arch of her spine, his large hand shifting her river of hair from one shoulder to the other, allowing him access to Amy’s soft neck. Peering down the bridge of his nose at the swell of her belly, he took note of the loosened stays laced up her back to accommodate for her burgeoning midsection. He wondered what she might look like when her belly was puffed up in four month’s time, a king’s ransom worth of fabric draped from her swollen body. He bit back the urge to reach for it, keeping his hands at the ridge of her shoulders, softly kneading the tension coiled in the twists of her muscles. ‘Or yours.’ He murmured, adrift in reflection. Dropping his mouth to her throat, Leicester kissed her not; but left his lips pursed there, breathing deeply of her powdery scent. ‘Forgive me. The trip taunted me; I am no use for the sparring of words. Do you feel quite well, despite my intolerableness, wife? Have I displeased you, Amy? Tell me, and I shall spend my life begging your humble forgiveness.’ For what else but forgiveness could she ever grant to him?
#𝐀𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐓 ♔ ˚ · . [ interactions ] .#leiccsters#this is so funny aksoakskksks#robert : i MUST make the sacrifice i MUST give bess up :( i will be a grump about it tho#amy : hehe hoho haha my handsome husband ... stinky bear man who i will kiss !!!!
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For as much as Elizabeth yearned for Robin in his entirety, there was something bigger than either of them that commanded the careful shift of words and movements - and yet, she filled her head with sinful ideals that she meant something more than what her mother or father had ever dreamed possible for her. As if, some would whisper, she was greater than God himself. And yet, though she knew this to be blasphemy in the greatest sense of the word, she embodied it with her pride that possessed her body, that left her fingers to trace over the shape of his shoulders, arms and chest with a desire that burned through her skin like hellfire.That left her to tease just what she ought to keep at arm’s length.
By all means her neck was his, her fingertips and earlobes his by command. Who else could get away with treating her as if she were any other woman? As if she were but flesh, blood and bone for him to savour between secret meetings — oh, those meetings, the adrenaline that throbbed through her veins in some act of survival! With a sigh that left her lips soft and all but swollen with need, Elizabeth stretched her throat for his embrace, her eyes suddenly closed to etch the sensation into her skin for later, when she was alone or beside her ladies’ cots with nothing but the whisper of his touches to keep her company.
Alas, before she could truly take control of the situation, Robert had lulled her forward, her feet skimming the stones of the courtyard as they broke into the flourish of blossoming roses and dew-coated thorns. As the world turned around them, Elizabeth found herself weightless, her hands grasping his arms in some effort to take charge before he pressed himself against her, leaving the Princess to murmur and whine as if caught in the height of untamed passion. Squeezing him tight, Elizabeth passed a noise akin to a moan before one hand took the back of Robert’s tender neck, the other set of fingers already working at the taut tug of his shirt, wanting to somehow feel the warmth of his skin before the night could all too suddenly come to a close.
“I dare not answer, Robert… Let us pinch this moment into an existence all of its own, let us have this,” she yearned, her voice tense and fragile as she moved her head, as she nudged his wet mouth aside to crane instead for his lips, to kiss the mouth she thought as her own as her brow fell slick against his, Robert’s broadness almost hiding her entire visage if it had not been for her golden brocade and numerous pearls that shimmered even in the haze of rain and moonlight. “You are my torment, my greatest desire. Now we find ourselves at Court, we must be — no, listen. We must be careful…”
Dudley had always been an ambitious man – a peril of the Dudley blood – though his natural confidence had been enhanced by the heat of the princess’ ardor and the relish of the young King’s favoritism upon him. Yet his crafty diplomacy set off his reckless charm, and in Bess’ presence, innate talents became intensified. She summoned his masculine prowess, flattered him with courtly charm and won his favour with her booming, youthful spirit. He’d taken many liberties with Elizabeth – spoke to her like a lover, and, when she permitted it, like a commander, although at other times no more than the lowest subject would dare to – and he intended to take more. Many more. But Elizabeth gave inches where Dudley desired miles, and his eyes flashed as she ordered him about with fierce determination.
Bess’ lips trembled not in her lordly demand; they stretched boldly, stretched endlessly, and uttered the oaths of a wizened sailor without provocation. How, the Earl mused, could this magnificent woman ever be just one’s man wife? He would come to share her, he knew, and though he could never have her completely, he would beg for tatters.
Her lovely neck. Her long, white, tapering fingers, tickling his throat as she bestowed upon him a chain of gold. Her waist, the size of a bodkin. Narrow black eyes, so strikingly like her father’s. Dudley clenched his jaw and looked about. ‘I would not dare stray,’ he ground out. With dew dripping from his chestnut beard, curling hair, and emboldening his jaunty, reckless nature, Dudley cut the Princess a grin and greedily snatched her hands in his. ‘Save your protestations, Bess, you’ll only waste time.’
With little more than a word of warning, Dudley hauls Elizabeth into the pitch-black evening, where safety had become elusive but privacy was offered in spades – provided, of course, that there were no other pair of lovers darting about, with this exact scheme in mind. They race neck-and-neck through the tall, rose-splashed mazes of the queen’s knot garden, hidden amongst rows of lofty, bristling hedgerows. He forces her bodily against the a cluster of blackthorn, one hand caging her wrist against the bush as his leg crams between her knees; his mouth seizes upon her neck, lapping at the sweet, briny alchemy of her skin. ‘Elizabeth. How I’ve desired you…’ Dudley growls. ‘What can I do, Bess, but crave you? Your presence is no more a comfort than death itself – but your absence is its very grief.’
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sleep seemed to be as elusive of a creature as her husband had been that evening, skittering about in dark corners and fleeing from the light as though he were a rodent in search of the comforts that only his bonny bess could provide ─ there were mousers for such a problem back at stanfield hall, wiry - haired fat cats that hissed in warning if her boots drew too close to their space but if there had been any claws in her hands, it had long since been clipped short when faced with the magnetic force that was robert dudley and certainly, the princess had far sharper tools in her arsenal to counter with should amy attempt to swipe at her ankles. it had been easier to find rest when he was far from her, when the tireless demands of her beloved mistress anne or her darling children would invite exhaustion to leaden her limbs until she was weighed down into a dreamless sleep but without such distractions, amy could do nothing but overthink whilst at hampton court, gaze darting up at the first muffled sounds that neared the door. silence had been her companion for hours so the slightest change in the air, the weight shifting around the floorboards and the door creaking open had given her enough time to school her features into feigned disinterest, the words in her holy book blurring as he approached his side of the bed, the sheets cool from his missing warmth.
a soft hum was extended in greeting, her determination to remain unmoved by his presence warring with her desire to aid in his undressing but her body was rooted into spot by the growing bump that she had grown increasingly aware of whenever he was near, shuffling back into the pillows so that her shift tented further around her front. ❝ husband. ❞ clipped, the title dripped with subdued resentment ─ the only hint of emotion she can allow. motherhood had gentled her flame, giving her two impressionable young minds to mold that she refused to traumatize by fighting loudly and frequently with the only father figure they knew but that did not mean that she felt any less than before. ( perhaps that was what was lacking but amy could not take things so lightly, so impulsively as she did at twenty, though god alone knew how much she ached to hiss and scratch and slap at him until his outsides matched her shredded heart. ) ❝ were you victorious in your conquest ? ❞ flinty - eyed, she glanced at him as the metal met with wood. ❝ of the gambling tables. ❞
watching his motions, her gaze caught on the framed miniature and unwillingly, the wall she had painstakingly built around her heart over the past few hours that she had spent stewing in bed begun to crack, one hand extending across the sheets to rest on his empty side ─ a silent invitation to hasten, to sit so that she might unlace his boots and busy her hands so that her mouth did not overshare. for all his faults, robert was a good husband, a better spouse than she had been to dear sir christopher with her roaming eyes and coquettish nature, and a wonderful stepfather to the children. she did not doubt that he would love their own children, in time, though she feared making him choose, knowing what ( who ) his first choice would always be. setting the book aside, she rose till her knees were tucked under the weight of her body before crawling the short distance to his side, fingers at his sleeves, gently guiding him until he faced her. ❝ i prayed for you. ❞ for a devoted husband, though she would not ruin the night with her bitterness. best save that for the morning when it was not as cold and she was not as lonely with the household awake around her. ❝ i missed you ... i have half the mind to petition the king to return you to my side earlier. do you think i could convince him to show clemency on your neglected wife ? ❞
@robsartd / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. the dudleys' apartments, hampton court.
The family’s attendants were fast asleep when Lord Leicester crept back into the Dudley’s apartments, bundled beneath the heavy quilts strewn across a cot at the foot of his sister’s bed, their round faces shadowed by the flickering yellow light of torches. Their chambers were not as lavish as those allocated to higher-ranking families, such as the Boleyns, though they commanded a fine view over the courtyard in which the Princess Elizabeth was said to take her morning walks, and the palatial hearth which heated the space was carved with the emblem of the late Tudor King, a heady reminder of where their loyalties, and their fortune, lied. Leicester treads lightly across the space, the deafening silence absorbing the striking of his boots across the floor.
Dudley’s knuckles graze the door leading into the bedchamber he shared with his wife, a sliver of light leaking through the hinges; a moment of hesitation, of doubt, as his forehead brushes the deep, ancient grooves of the oak, Bess’ lingering perfume and the familiar gnawing of guilt coating his skin. He is unsurprised to find Amy still awake, a river of hair forming an amber curtain around her Book of Hours, gently haloed by the bronze-gilded glow of candlelight. Dudley’s jaw shifts, his clear-eyed expression sliding from the manuscript in her hand to his side of the bed – untouched from his early rising, blankets neatly aligned with the pillows – back to the white linen shift tied in a knot underneath Amy’s chin. ‘Good evening, wife.’ He clears his throat, shrugging out of his velvet overcoat. He cannot yet sense if she is cross with him, for Amy never allows her feelings to pour out; she does not possess Bess’ fierce jealousy, nor her animalistic rage. ‘The gambling tables ran late. You know how the King is. He’d have us paying court to him ‘till morning if he could.’
As he undresses, plucking jewels and brooches from his doublet, he casts a sideways glance in Amy’s direction. His wife’s kindly spirit and vivacious disposition ensured there was no absence of conjugal bliss in their marriage, and his attraction to her – blinding from the start – had not been warped, or tarnished, by time. What, then, was missing? Was it simply that she was not, could not be, Elizabeth? What honourable man fault her a shortcoming that was itself divined by God? Leicester runs a hand through his beard, woven with threads of red-gold – growing thicker and more impressive as the years toil on – before sliding each ring off his long, deft fingers. He saves Elizabeth’s sapphires for last, placing them gingerly beside a miniature of his stepchildren. It clinks noisily as it meets the wooden surface of his desk, ringing like Anne’s trickling laughter, or Robin’s infectious hurrahs.
‘What is it that you pray for?’ He asks, gesturing to her devotionals. ‘Warmer days, new gowns, better rooms?’
#𝐀𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐓 ♔ ˚ · . [ interactions ] .#leiccsters#soft wife ... until she smells bess on his clothing ... :stand:#also am still figuring amy out but !!
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Though she was sure that her brother would not claim the sudden upheaval from London to Dover a blessing, Elizabeth had found the arrangement quite to her liking. Not only had she been given the surrogacy of a regency in the stead of William’s forthwith absence, but also the time it took up thus meant that Elizabeth was far too busy to dwell on the ache that throbbed in her chest with uneasy, almost thunderous beats. She had occupied herself with letters sealed by her signet ring, her pen scribbled to the name of the council sent to Florence with the rumour of her late father’s illegitimate child newly found, and then to the incoming visit of her sister before making some note to be sent beneath the curtain of darkness to the King and her mother. Then, as was her duty, she would sit and take petitions as her ladies lay in wait around their Mistress. To court, Elizabeth wanted nothing amiss, nothing to be whispered about in chance of what was to come nor to the double-edged sword that came with the absence of the Tudor King.
She was, of course, still furiously angry with what had passed in the two months that had taken the court by storm — but most of what she had once thought was then nothing but ash collected from the fire grate and passed into thin air. But it was a hard road to climb when everything had once been done with he by her side — her horses, well bred and cared for with the same love she thought her people took to her own noble self, had only ever seen her Eye as a counterpart to their excursions,and so had been left to the green fields beyond Hampton to stretch their own fine legs. Even card games remained a constant torment, and so, Elizabeth had turned to hold a sober household of fine theological debates, dramatic retellings of the Giants that had once called England their home and then to the secret whispers from messengers whom she had sent in some wish of knowing more than one could really offer.
So, then to be faced with his sour features left the Regent with pursed lips and a narrowed, venomous gaze. Yet was she not a fool for him? One noise was enough to leave Elizabeth to flounder like a fish caught outside of water. How did he have such a grip on her person? Even if he had performed his duty as a husband and Earl, Elizabeth had somewhat thought that he would practice a certain type of restraint, that he would savour her own taste rather than his wife’s, who had more than enough offspring to play pretend as a happy little family. And so, it would never be as easy as that, to break ranks and embrace him as she had done many times before. Instead she held herself upright, her lips stern set into a neutral line, the dark glare of her gaze settled just passed his shoulder in some effort to not look directly into his own wandering eye.
“Thrilled is not the word I would’ve used,” she snipped, a single finger flexed to give her ladies an adieu, sending them into the surrounding corridors where they could wait to begin the Princess’ nighttime ritual of brushing her hair, oiling her hands and devout prayer. Once they were gone, Elizabeth finally looked at him, the whites of her eyes set against the colour of her iris in terrific contrast as her throat pressed against the pearl inlay of her collar, her dress cut high upon her chest, the brocade fashioned in her trademark crimson. “You are meant to be in Dover, or did His Majesty find himself without need of your arrival?” An open taunt, her eyelids lowering to look across his surface of costume. His wife, his jointress — had she the wilds of her mother she would’ve sought her demise by then, but there were more than enough rumours that floated around Elizabeth’s inheritance that came in the form of her father’s temper, the threat of her wrath a constant plague upon her ladies who had been dealing with her violent mood since the mysterious letter had broken between her hands. “I do not blame him, what could you do for him? He has all the men one would want: Percy, Boleyn… Who is ever in need of a Dudley?”
@thunyielding
The hills of Hampton Court were blurry with rain; reduced to swaths of aqueous gray and green, wobbling over the horizon, the earth’s distant curve imperceptible from the royal stables. Dudley glides a leather-gloved hand across his horse’s chest, the Jennet's heartbeat thrumming through the spectacular knot of muscles encasing her lungs, glowering as the beast swings her long neck and hinges her doleful gaze to his. ‘What is it, girl?’ Leicester murmurs, scratching behind her ears and earning an appreciative whinny from his – notoriously volatile – Hestia. ‘Where’s the harm in a little rain?’ He asks, the pitter-patter on the roof almost too gentle to hear: a soft drum, a splash into the sopping-wet ground, hissing and gurgling as it drains into the gutters. Hestia husks out a nicker, returning Dudley’s query with marked ambivalence.
They hadn’t much time to ready. Less than an hour to primp and preen, to saddle Hestia with the bulky weight of the Earl’s armory and caparisons, for come morning, Dudley would be, with the rest of the King’s middling retinue, riding hotly out to Dover; facing at least a two-day journey (three, if the grounds remained pulpy) galloping full out across the rutted, boggy fields of England, clods of deep-chilled earth flying from the hooves of King William’s destriers; speed and glory hampered by decorum and the lay-of-the-land, all forced to tarry behind the King and his ever-growing string of paramours. What lay ahead in Dover brought yet another lour to Leicester’s lips, deepening the lines of consternation flanking his mouth. He turns his face, dark as a cloud, to the sound of nimble footfalls crunching over a smattering of hay, a halo of humidity-wizened hair fanning about Elizabeth’s oval-shaped face. Hestia swished her tail, clouting against the stable doors. But with an ease for which he was lauded to command his geldings, Dudley held Hestia at bay, the stony arrangement of his brow not yet revealing the tempest of emotions he felt at Elizabeth’s presence.
Bess … Her name ghosts across his lips long before he musters the good sense to curtail such familiarity. ‘Your Highness,’ The Earl greets, his voice gruff, as Hestia releases a disgruntled neigh, white vapour blowing from her nostrils. Dudley then lowers himself into a deep bow before the Princess, one hand at his abdomen and the other conducting a flourish. ‘I hear I am to congratulate you, lady regent. You have all that you desire now – the crown jewels, your brother's power, and a court of ready subjects.’ Decidedly grim, he punctuates, ‘you must be thrilled.’
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