Page 34 of The Forgotten Boy

“Has your father spoken to you yet?” Ismay asked.

Edmund didn’t need to ask about what. There was only one topic that obsessed everyone these days: how many marriage alliances needed to be made to create peace.

“Not formally. No one’s talking formally right now. We’re all just nibbling at the edges, trying to figure out how much we have to give to get what we want, and where we cannot afford to give any longer.”

If Edward was a natural soldier and leader and, in his instinctive way, a politician, it was Edmund who had the real gift for politics—the ability to hold the big picture in his head at all times and see how each individual act fitted into the puzzle that was currently English government.

But Ismay had the directness of a girl who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. “And will your proposed marriage to Margaret Percy soon be moved from the edges of discussion to the center? Or is that something your father is not prepared to give?”

What she meant was, Is it something you’re prepared to give? Are you ready to sacrifice what you might want today for the needs of your family?

Maybe it was because she was an orphan and an only child, but Ismay couldn’t see how one family member’s wishes could command everyone else. Even if that family member was hovering closer to England’s throne than was comfortable.

Then again, she had already watched Elizabeth—one year younger than herself—marry with no qualms except the quality of her gowns and the public esteem in which her bridegroom was held.

“Ismay.” Edmund shifted so that her head came away from his shoulder, and he dipped his own head to meet her eyes. “I’m not worried about my father’s position on the matter of my marriage. Not yet. Why worry about what he thinks when I don’t know … when I’m unsure …”

Sometimes she marveled that two brothers so wildly different could be the best of friends. Had Edward of York ever once considered that a girl—any girl, any woman—might not be head-over-heels in love with him?

“Edmund, do you think I’m in the habit of casually kissing any man of my acquaintance?” Ismay asked, a little asperity in her voice.

He, so much fairer of skin and hair than she was, blushed. “No, of course not. But we are apart so often. Indeed, we have spent many more days separate than together. I would never hold you to a kindness that might change over time.”

“My love is not a kindness. And I suppose,” she said, with growing confidence, “I shall simply have to keep reminding you of that every chance I get.”

With that, she went on tiptoe—Edmund was nowhere near as tall as Edward but still a good five inches taller than Ismay—and kissed him. Softly, at first, but not at all timidly. She would never be afraid of Edmund, or afraid of herself with him.

Ever the gentleman, Edmund responded gently at first. But they were both fifteen, old enough that a rush of desire could spark a raging response. His hands went from her shoulders to her waist, and he pulled her against him. The sensible (Scottish) part of her warned that they were in a public garden—all too easily stumbled upon—and that this was hardly the way to introduce the subject to the Duke of York. But that sensible voice sounded as distant as though it were coming from Scotland. In the end it was Edmund whose common sense prevailed, and the kissing stopped. But they clung together for a few moments, breathless and trembling, and Ismay wondered if one could die from sheer delight.

“Well, well, well.”

The shock of another voice spiked through Ismay like lightning, and she jolted away from Edmund. But even in that movement, she’d recognized the voice and knew they’d been discovered by perhaps the only person in the world who wouldn’t immediately ruin things.

She squared her shoulders and turned fiercely to Edward. “You of all people should know better than to sneak up on a clearly private moment.”

“Not that private,” he said, and in his amusement ran a thread of warning. “I may have the gift of defying father, but how would he like it if he knew his favorite son and his wealthy ward were embracing in the very heart of Greenwich Palace, where any Lancastrian could see and take advantage of such knowledge?”

“There is no advantage to be taken,” Ismay shot back, “because there is nothing to know. Everyone knows how close I am to your family.”

“And yet I’ve never been the recipient of such kisses. More’s the pity.”

Edmund might have been quieter and calmer by nature than either Ismay or his brother, but he could not be bullied. “You know I would never compromise Ismay’s honor or that of our family,” he said steadily. “Our feelings are private, but my intentions are not. I intend to marry her, if she’ll have me.”

“Really?” Edward asked extravagantly. “Will you have him, little Ismay?”

“I’m not going to propose to her in front of you,” Edmund said, as rudely as he ever got. “And do you really want to play the game of who knows the most devastating secrets about the other? I can’t even count the number of women I’ve found you kissing. And a great deal more.”

Edward laughed, all warning gone in apparent delight at his brother’s show of spirit. “You think any of that would be a surprise to Father?”

“Mother wouldn’t like it.”

Ah, thought Ismay as Edward’s eyes briefly darkened. A hit. Because if Edmund was the Duke of York’s favorite, Edward was patently his mother’s.

“Really, Edmund, you don’t know me at all if you think me likely to carry tales to anyone. The only secrets the York family cares about are political ones. And unless Ismay has the means to undo the current government, she’s harmless. Love where you will, little brother. But take the advice of your elder—kissing in gardens is one thing; if you intend to take it further, find someplace more comfortable.”

He strolled away whistling, leaving Edmund flushed and Ismay wondering if there was anything that could truly touch Edward of York’s heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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