She had spent nine years at court at the center of the English universe. At age eighteen she had married Edward, not an exciting man, not a marriage conceived in heaven, but she had been content. Edward hadn't given her children or a stable home, but he hadn't beaten her either, nor had he flaunted his mistress. They had enjoyed two years of marriage pleasantly founded on mutual indifference.
"My only regret," she said in conclusion, "lies in not knowing my mother. I've missed her so." Now she raised her eyes to Will. "I envy you your lady mother. There are no gaps in your history, no blank spaces. You know who you are and from whence you sprang."
Sudden embarrassment flooded her cheeks with high color. Had she taken leave of her senses? What was she thinking of? She'd laid herself bare before a man who would one day run her through. She wished she could recall her words and restore her privacy.
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