by Cynthia Hand
Jane pulled a ring from the pocket sewn into her gown—the same ring she’d put on his finger during their first wedding, stashed in a drawer since that night. Now, she slipped it onto his finger and held her hand over his. “I give myself to you.”
“I receive you,” he whispered. And then, louder: “I know I said this last time, but this time, I mean it with my whole heart. I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.” He retrieved the matching ring and pushed it onto her finger. “I give myself to you, my Lady Jane.”
“I receive you.” Jane didn’t wait for instructions to kiss. She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and kissed him as the guests clapped and clapped.
THIRTY
Gifford
What’s a wedding without the wedding night? Considering that their first wedding night ended with a heap of horse dung in the corner of their room, it wasn’t difficult to hope for something better this time.
And better it was, for G loved his lady, and his lady loved him.
And there were no secrets between them anymore, save one. G wanted to confess it to his lady before they commenced with the very special hug.
He asked Jane to sit next to him on the bed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Go on,” Jane said.
G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn’t realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart.
There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret.
Shall I compare thee to a barrel of apples?
Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside.
Rough winds couldn’t keep me from taking you to chapel,
Where finally a horse would take a bride. . . .
And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone. . . .
Shall I compare thee to a really large rat?
Thou art more longer, with less disease.
One would never mistake you for a listless cat . . .
Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas.
He could never confess his passion for poetry with those paltry examples.
And then, at the second wedding, as G basked in the glow of Jane’s radiant smile, inspiration finally hit him, and after the feast he put quill to paper and wrote and wrote until he had it right.
“Tell me, my love.”
“You remember how I had a reputation? With . . . ladies?”
“Yes,” she said, eyeing him warily.
“The truth is, there were never any ladies, nor late night romps at houses of ill repute.”
His Jane looked confused. “Then where did all the stories come from?”
“There were late nights, but those nights consisted of . . .” His voice trailed off as his heart raced.
“Of what?” Jane said, her mind racing to all sorts of unsavory conclusions.
“P—” He started to say the word, but paused.
“Perversion?” Jane said.
“No.”
“Peculiar habits?”
“No. Well, one.”
“If you don’t tell me right away what it is, I will knit all of your clothes from now on,” she said, and she fully intended to follow through on her threat.
“Poetry,” G blurted out.
“Pardon me?” Jane said.
G climbed out of bed and stood at the foot. He pulled out the paper and began his recitation.
“My Lady Jane . . .
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
With a deep breath, G tore his eyes away from the paper to assess his lady’s reaction.
“That was . . . lovely,” Jane said.
“You really think so?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m glad we will not be forced to live by your quill, because I am rather used to having food on the table. But, I appreciate the effort behind those words.”
(Now, some of you might recognize these words as belonging to a certain Mr. Shakespeare, the likes of whom hadn’t actually been born yet in the year 1553. But you should also know that there are all kinds of conspiracy theories about who actually wrote Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets, and we contend that the real writer was a very old and very happy Gifford Dudley—assisted by Jane and the immeasurable knowledge she drew from books—who went on writing not to make himself famous or rich, but to make a certain lady happy.)
G smiled and fell back onto the bed. “You have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that.”
Jane lay down next to him, on her side, her head propped up by her hand. “Do you have any other confessions, my lord?”
“Hmmm,” G said. “You heard the one about how much I love you?”
Jane put her hand on his chest, and slowly pulled on the tie that held his undershirt closed. G’s breath caught.
“Yes, I remember that one.”
The knot fell open.
“And, you know the one where I don’t know much about swordsmanship?” Gifford’s voice was low and soft.
“Yes, I remember that one as well.”
Jane tugged at the top button of his vest. G clasped her hand in his. “Kiss me, Jane.”
Lips met lips, soft and questioning at first, and then, quite suddenly, desperate and wanting. And where at their first wedding, their wedding-night chamber seemed full of the echoes of strangers eager to have their say, tonight, they were very much alone. G lost himself in Jane’s kiss. He pulled back for a moment. “I have to tell you, Jane, the way you kiss is a work of art—”
“Shut up and kiss me,” Jane said.
They kissed again, lips exploring and asking and answering, and then eager fingers fumbled at buttons and untied ribbons and never did their lips part except for a moment here and there to say it again.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
They collapsed into each other, and although it would be indelicate to detail what happened next, these narrators will tell you that a “very special hug” does not begin to describe it.
P.S. They totally consummated.
And now, dear reader, there isn’t much more to say on the matter except this: Gifford and Jane lived happily ever after, their destinies colliding quite often. Which pleaseth them both.
Acknowledgments
Hi! Lady Janies here. This is the part where we’re supposed to tip our hats to all the wonderful people who helped make this book into what it is, but there are three of us and we each have an extensive support team, so we’ll try to be brief (ha-ha). After all, you just read a five-hundred-page book. You’re tired. So are we.
Here’s a (totally incomplete) list of people we think are pretty awesome:
First off, our readers, both old and new. Every time we mentioned writing a book about Lady Jane Grey (a comedy
?!), you always responded with such enthusiasm. It made the idea seem a little less crazy and a little more doable. Thanks for that. You rock.
Our agents, of course: Katherine Fausset, Lauren MacLeod, and Michael Bourret. “The three of us want to write a book together” was probably the most logistically nightmarish thing you’ve ever heard us say, but you ran with it. Thank you for your unwavering belief in us and our funny little story.
Our fantastic editors, Erica Sussman and Stephanie Stein, who just got this book from the very beginning—the humor, the characters, the playfulness in the telling. One of the best parts of writing MLJ was getting to make you laugh. Also, thanks to Kristin Rens and Laurel Symonds for not minding when Brodi and Jodi ran off to play with a different book for a little while.
Our publicist, Rosanne Romanello, who read this book so quickly we got whiplash. Pterodactyl E∂ians are totally a thing.
Our jacket designer, Jenna Stempel, for not killing us for how picky we were this time around, and for giving us a jacket with pearls and lace and Jane looking mischievous.
Our families, for their patience and support while we ran off for weeks at a time to write and play in England. (That’s Jeff for Jodi; John, Will, and Maddie for Cynthia; and Carter and Beckham for Brodi.)
Our pets: Todd and Katniss and Kippy and Walter Fishop III and Stella and Frank and Pidge and Jewels and Fred the Pigeon we found on our balcony in London, who may or may not be a girl. You’re our E∂ian inspiration.
And the yeoman at the Tower of London who talked to us about Jane and ran up Beauchamp Tower to make sure we saw both places where Guildford had carved Jane’s name.
And that’s it. We’ll stop now. Bye.
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About the Authors
Courtesy of the authors
THE LADY JANIES are made up of BRODI ASHTON, author of the Everneath series and Diplomatic Immunity; CYNTHIA HAND, New York Times bestselling author of the Unearthly series and The Last Time We Say Goodbye; and JODI MEADOWS, author of the Incarnate and Orphan Queen series. They first met in 2012, when their publishers sent them on a book tour together. Between the three of them they’ve written thirteen published novels, a bunch of novellas, a handful of short stories, and a couple of really bad poems, but this is the first time they’ve taken a stab at writing a book together. They’re friends. They’re writers. They’re fixing history by rewriting one sad story at a time. Learn more at www.ladyjanies.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by the Authors
Also by Cynthia Hand
The Last Time We Say Goodbye
Unearthly
Hallowed
Boundless
Radiant: An Unearthly Novella (available as an ebook only)
Also by Brodi Ashton
Everneath
Everbound
Evertrue
Neverfall: An Everneath Novella (available as an ebook only)
Also by Jodi Meadows
The Orphan Queen
The Mirror King
The Orphan Queen Novellas
(available as ebooks only)
The Hidden Prince
The Glowing Knight
The Burning Hand
The Black Knife
Incarnate
Asunder
Infinite
Phoenix Overture: An Incarnate Novella (available as an ebook only)
Credits
Cover photograph © 2016 by Yuri Arcurs Productions
Cover design by Jenna Stempel
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
MY LADY JANE. Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948301
ISBN 978-0-06-239174-2 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062391797
16 17 18 19 20 PC/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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