#me u pip n duds all know he is more capable of throwing her over his head into the river eye ---

[philippaed]

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?’