Chapter 194: Whichever Ones You Want
She was afraid to want anything from him. Afraid that accepting even one kindness might weaken the wall she had built between them.
He approached slowly, careful not to crowd her. "Whichever ones you want, place them on that table. I will have the librarian make copies and send them to Covent Garden."
Livia nodded but said nothing. Left to herself, she would have chosen half the room. He could see it in the way her eyes moved hungrily over the shelves, pausing on titles, bindings, languages she recognised and others she wished to learn. There was an ache in her restraint.
"I found the Petrarch volume here," Henry said.
Livia glanced at him. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was leading her carefully back through memory, offering small pieces of what they had once shared and praying she would touch one without flinching. "I lost that one at Beaumont’s...I did not have time to pack."
"Speaking of Beaumont’s..." he said, taking one careful step closer.
The question had been burning in him since the garden, since he had heard the way she spoke of the name bitterly.
"What did Jane have to do with your fall?" he asked quietly.
Livia looked up at him. The candlelight made his face difficult to read. Shadows sat beneath his cheekbones, deepened the lines around his mouth. "If we are looking for someone to blame...we should begin with you."
Henry absorbed the words. He deserved them. They both knew it. Every path since Beaumont’s, every ruin, seemed to lead, somehow, to the choices he had made. He stepped closer. "Tell me, Livia...Please."
Livia drew the robe tighter around herself. "The girls thought I was taking all the attention....After the old man came to Beaumont’s and asked for my hand. I did not know you had sent him. I thought he had come of his own accord, and Beaumont was ready to give me away to him because well, he carried the royal seal." She looked past him, to the rows of books she no longer truly saw. "I went up to the roof and prayed you would come before it was too late."
The confession left her with a strange, hollow shame. She had been so young in that moment. So foolishly certain that if Henry came, everything would change.
"Jane came after me," Livia continued. "Jane and the others. They were angry. Jealous. Afraid, perhaps. I do not know anymore. They said I thought myself better than them. They shoved me...I fell. I caught Bess by accident as I went over. I did not mean to. I only reached for anything, anyone." Her voice thinned. "That was when the Duke found me."
For several breaths, he said nothing. His eyes moved away from her. He exhaled sharply.
"To think," he said, almost to himself, "that I saved them all from Beaumont. I had those girls provided for." His mouth twisted. "And they were the ones who had you taken from me."
"Henry..." she began.
The name slipped out before she could stop it. She froze.
"Your Majesty," she corrected quickly, but it was already too late.
His gaze snapped back to her. Livia’s breath caught. The error shocked even her. Henry smiled in triumph. "You remember,"
Livia stiffened. "No, I—"
"You will always remember."
The smugness in his voice nearly made her forget every rule of self-preservation she had ever learned. She imagined lifting her foot and planting it directly in his beautiful royal face. Unfortunately, he was the King of England, and she was far too short to execute the fantasy with any grace.
Henry must have seen something of her irritation, because his smile deepened. He turned away and began moving through the shelves, trailing his fingers over the spines. He had won something. A door had opened. He carried the sound of his name in her voice like a private victory. She had remembered him. Maybe she would not forgive him today. Maybe not tomorrow. But somewhere inside her, some part of Livia still knew Henry.
That was enough to keep him breathing.
Livia refused to look at him again. Instead, she chose a book at random, more out of pride than intention, and lowered herself to the floor between two shelves. The robe pooled around her like a dark blanket, swallowing the indecent gown beneath it. She opened the volume and forced her eyes to the first page.
Then the room disappeared. It happened slowly at first, then all at once. The words gathered her in, line by line, until she faded into the hush of paper and ink.
For a while, she was free. The candles burned lower. The silence deepened. Nearly an hour passed before Livia remembered that the King of England was supposed to be somewhere nearby.
She blinked, lifted her head, and listened.
Nothing.
Frowning, she closed the book and rose to her feet. His robe dragged around her ankles as she moved carefully through the rows, peering behind shelves and around tables lit by dying candlelight.
"Your Majesty?" she called softly.
No answer.
At last, she found him in the far aisle. Livia stood there for a moment, looking down at him. The sight unsettled her more than it should have.
Henry, King of England, lay asleep on the cold floor of his own library. His dark hair had fallen over his brow, one arm bent beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his bare stomach. With only his breeches on and a stack of books for a pillow, he looked like a foolish, tired man.
Livia looked away quickly. She pulled the robe from her own body and draped it over him. It was foolish to cover him when he had chosen to give her the robe in the first place, but leaving him bare on the floor seemed unnecessarily cruel.
Once he was covered, she turned back to the shelves. Outside the tall windows, Whitehall lay hushed beneath the night, its corridors finally emptied of servants and courtiers.
