But his black eyes were quick and sparkling. Some women around Amy swooned, but she just stared, willing the king to look at her.
When he did, she flashed him a radiant smile. “No, Auntie, he’s looking at me.”
Before her family even stopped laughing, the king was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived. But the spectacle wasn’t over. Behind him came a camel with brocaded panniers and an East Indian boy flinging pearls and spices into the crowd. And then more lords and ladies, more glittering costumes, more decorated stallions, more men-at-arms, all bedecked in gold and silver and the costliest of gems.
Yet none of it mattered to Amy, for there was a young nobleman riding her way.
He looked to be maybe sixteen, a bit older than Robert—but she thought he looked much more mature. It wasn’t the richness of his clothing that caught Amy’s eye, for in truth his garb was rather plain. His black velvet suit was trimmed with naught but gold braid; his wide-brimmed hat boasted only a single white plume. He wore no fancy crimped periwig; instead his own raven-black hair fell in gleaming waves past his chin.
Eyes the color of emeralds bore into Amy’s as he set his horse in her direction. His glossy black gelding breathed close, but she felt no fear, for the young man held her safe with his piercing green gaze. It seemed as though he could see through her eyes right into her soul. Her cheeks flamed; never in her life had a boy looked at her like that.
He tipped his plumed hat. Flustered, she turned and glanced about, certain he must be saluting someone else. But everyone was laughing and talking or watching the procession; no one focused their attention his way. She looked back, and he grinned as he passed, a beautiful flash of white that made Amy melt inside.
Long after he rode out of sight around the bend, she stared to where he had disappeared.
“Amy?” Robert tugged on her hand.
She turned and gazed into his eyes: pale blue, not green. They didn’t see into her soul, didn’t make her feel anything.
Robert smiled, revealing teeth that overlapped a bit. She hadn’t really noticed that before. “It’s over,” he said.
“Oh.”
The sun set as they walked home to Cheapside, skirting merrymakers in the streets. Her father paused to unlock their door. Overhead, a wooden sign swung gently in the breeze. A nearby bonfire illuminated the image of a falcon and the gilt letters that proclaimed their shop GOLDSMITH & SONS, JEWELLERS.
There came a sudden brilliant flash and a stunned “Ooooh” from the crowd, as fireworks lit the sky. Amy dashed through the shop and up the stairs to their balcony.
Gazing toward the River Thames, she watched the great fiery streaks of light, heard the soaring rockets, smelled the sulfur in the air. It was the most spectacular display England had ever seen, and the sights and sounds filled her with a wondrous feeling.
If only life could be as exhilarating as a fireworks show.
When the last glittering tendril faded away, she listened to the fragments of song and rowdy laughter that filled the night air. Couples strolled by, arm in arm. Robert stepped onto the balcony and moved close.
His voice was quiet beside her. “This is a day I’ll never forget.”
“I’ll never forget it, either,” she said, thinking of the boy on the black steed, the young nobleman with the emerald eyes.
Robert reached out to tilt her face up. Was he going to kiss her? She’d never been kissed—what a day this was turning out to be! Her heart pounded as he bent his head and brushed his lips softly, chastely against hers.
Her heart stopped pounding.
It was her first kiss; she was supposed to feel fireworks.
But she felt nothing.
ONE
Five years later
August 24, 1666
“ARE YOU TELLING me you made this bracelet? A girl? This shop is Goldsmith and Sons, is it not?” Robert puckered his freckled face and made his voice high and wavering. “Where are the sons?”
From where she stood by the stone oven, Amy’s laughter rang through the workshop. “Lady Smythe! A perfect imitation.”
“Well done, Robert.” Her father smiled as he brushed past them both and through the archway into the shop’s showroom.
Robert’s pale blue eyes twinkled, but he stayed in character, cupping a hand to his ear. “Imitation? Imitation, did you say? I was led to believe this was a quality jewelry shop, madame. I expect genuine—”
“Stop!” Amy fought to control her giggles. “You’ll make me slip and scald myself.”
Robert’s gaze fell to Amy’s hands. As he watched her pour a thin stream of molten gold into a plaster mold, his expression sobered. “I like Lady Smythe,” he muttered. “At least she buys the things I make.”
“Oh, Robert.” She sighed. “Why should it matter who made something, as long as we’re selling a piece?”
“I’m a good goldsmith.”
“You’re an excellent goldsmith,” Amy agreed. Although she also thought he was a bit unimaginative, she kept that to herself. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re a girl.”
She clenched her jaw and tapped the mold on her workbench, imagining the gold flowing to fill every crevice of her design. “I’m also a jeweler,” she said under her breath.
“Never mind.” He walked to his own workbench and plopped onto his stool, lifting the pewter tankard of ale that sat ever-present amongst his tools.
Ignoring him, Amy picked up a knife and a chunk of wax, intending to whittle a new design while the gold hardened. The windowless workroom seemed stifling today—hot, close, and dark. She dragged a lantern nearer, but the weak, yellowish glow did little to lift her mood.
Five years she’d lived and worked with Robert Stanley, and he still didn’t understand her. She couldn’t believe it. She was marrying him in two weeks, and she couldn’t believe that, either.
Once it had seemed like a lifetime stretched ahead of her before she
