From the book
Whitehall Palace, December 1564
It was him.
Suddenly dizzy, Celia Sutton reached out to steady herself against the panelled wall of Queen Elizabeth's presence chamber. The thick crowd had pressed in around her again, obscuring her view with a sea of jewelled velvet and embroidered satin. The nervous laughter and high-pitched chatter as they waited anxiously to petition the Queen sounded like a flock of birds in her ears, buzzing and formless.
She rubbed her hand over her eyes and looked again, standing on tiptoe to try and peer over the crowd. She could no longer see him. Not even that tiny glimpse of his tall figure by the door. The flash of his careless grin. He was gone.
Or maybe he had never been there at all. Maybe it had just been her imagination playing tricks on her. She had not been sleeping well--had spent too many late nights here at Queen Elizabeth's Christmas revels. She had too many worries, and it was wearing on her. That was all.
And yet--he had looked so real.
"It was not him," she whispered. John Brandon was gone. She had not seen him for over three years--three very long, hard years--and she would never see him again. What was more, she did not want to see him. It would only remind her of the foolish girl she'd once been, of her old weakness for his handsome face, and right now she needed all her strength.
She pushed herself away from the wall and took a deep breath, trying to stand perfectly still, to keep herself calm. The Queen would call for her soon, and she had to have all her wits about her when they met. Her entire life depended on it. She should look only to the future now, not to the past. Not to John Brandon.
But still that fleeting image lingered in her mind, that glimpse of his lean, muscled figure through the crowd and the pounding of her heart at the sight. Despite the roaring fire in the stone grates, the close press of the crowd, and her own fur-trimmed black and purple velvet gown, she shivered.
All around her were desperate faces--people who saw their last chance in catching the Queen's attention. Did she look like them? She feared it was so. What would John say if he could see her now? Would he even recognise her?
The door to the Queen's privy chamber opened and everyone's attention turned towards it in the hope their name would now be called. Hope sank down again when they saw it was only Anton Gustavson and Lord Langley, the last parties to be called to consult with Queen Elizabeth. The nervous chatter fluttered anew.
Celia froze when her gaze met Anton's. He was her long-lost Swedish cousin, recently arrived in England to lay his claim to their grandfather's estate at Briony Manor. That estate was Celia's last hope for a comfortable, independent life in which she did not have to answer to the whims of a cruel man any longer. But as she had watched Anton charm the Queen, and every other lady at Court, her hopes had slipped away. He would have the estate, and she would be thrown back to the dubious mercy of her late husband's family.
Anton gave her a wary nod, and she curtsied in answer. He was the only family she had left, yet she did not know him and could not trust him. That was one of the hard lessons John Brandon had once taught her--never to trust in appearances or emotions. Always to be cautious.
Anton's latest flirtation, the beautiful golden-blonde Rosamund Ramsay, came to his side and gently touched his arm. He smiled down at her, and they gazed into each other's eyes as if the crowded chamber, the whole world, had vanished but for the two of them.
A cold sadness washed over...
