He was, I acknowledged, still the most handsome man I had ever seen. I was not too old to admire a beautiful man whom I had once known better than I had known myself. But that was many years ago. Eight years we had been adrift, unknowing of each other in any intimate manner. Such passion that we had enjoyed must surely have died. It could not be resurrected, nor would it be good for either of us if it were.

I frowned at the thought.

Which he took note of. ‘I see that I make a grievous impression,’ he remarked. ‘I must apologise.’

He bowed again with impeccable gravity and a tightening of his lips. He had changed very little in one respect at least: his arrogance was as vital as ever. I shook my head, delighted that I had given him cause to reflect. But I did not smile: all was too uncertain here.

‘You misread my expression, my lord.’ And I added with some mischief. ‘And do you look at me too?’

‘I do, my lady.’

What would he see in me? Childbearing had, I feared, taken its toll on my hips, but I could wear the soft folds and high neck of the houppelande with fashionable elegance. My hair was not untouched by the passage of time, but I was vain enough to take pride in it when well covered with a crispinette and jewelled fillet. I was no longer young, but I did not yet abjure my looking glass. Nor was I a dowdy peahen. The rich cloth of green and blue, sumptuous with stitched flowers at neck and sleeve, would defy anyone to label me widow. Yet who knew how many young Castilian women, dark haired and dark eyed with flawless skin, had taken the eye of the Duke?

‘You are still beautiful,’ he said. ‘Even when you frown.’

I had been frowning again.

‘If I pour you a cup of wine,’ he offered, ‘and lead you to sit beside me on that cushioned seat by the fire, will that perhaps enable you to smile at me at last? You have been staring at me since I first entered this room as if I had committed even more misdeeds than those that separate us. I would make amends.’

‘I don’t need wine,’ I said. ‘Nor do I need to sit. But I will judge your misdeeds, if that is what you wish. Have you accepted the loss of Castile?’ I found myself asking, as I might in the past.

And wished I hadn’t, for his expression acquired the blandness of controlled disinterest, and his reply was bleak.

‘I had no choice. It was the best solution, to disengage from an impossible situation.’ He hesitated as if he might say more and then he deftly turned the conversation. Or not deftly at all. It was brusque and deliberate. ‘You look well. As dignified as I ever recall.’

Here in his brusqueness but still clear to my eye at least was a draining sense of disappointment. All those wasted years, wasted lives, ending in failure. Yet I followed his lead, since he would not speak of it.

‘My thanks, my lord. I am in good health.’ I could adopt dignity very well after all these years of maintaining it in the face of public denigration.

‘Are the children well?’

‘Yes. When it comes to rude health, the Beauforts are touched with magic.’

‘Constanza and I mourned the death of Mistress Chaucer. As you must have done.’

‘Yes.’ I did not know what else to say about this loss that still gnawed on my heart.

‘I thought I would lose my daughter Philippa.’

‘It was tragic,’ I agreed. ‘And the loss of the child.’

‘She is recovered now.’

Was this why he had asked me to Hertford, to exchange family histories? Our conversation had become formally courteous, as flavourless as a junket, as we steered around intimate matters. Would he talk to me of Constanza, who had, on her return to England, shut herself away in her own household, as chaste as a nun?

He did not. So, with a similar bland smile, I would continue in the same vein.

‘I hear you brought home great wealth.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that the King smiles on you.’ I indicated the chain around his neck. Although the familiar Lancastrian livery collar I had known all my life, it had the addition of King Richard’s white hart to match the embroidered figures. ‘A lord of the Council, in fact.’

‘Indeed.’ He looked taken aback at my diversion into the political, but did not demur. ‘Your interest in politics is as keen as ever I see. Today the King smiles on me. He rode out two miles from Reading to show the warmth of his welcome home, and took my collar of Lancaster to wear around his own neck.’ The Duke’s expression was wry as his hand rested on the royal symbol. ‘Richard proclaims his love for me. Thus I was duty bound to follow suit and wear the white hart.’

This was better. Not personal, but with a cutting edge that I recognised.

‘So what does Richard want from you?’

‘He needs me to mend the bridges between himself and his other uncles, of course.’

‘Can it be done?’

‘It remains to be seen. We will work on it, to try to bring reconciliation.’

And that was as much as he would say. I sought for another less contentious path to go down. Unfortunately my mind was a blank.

‘Now what shall we discuss, Lady de Swynford?’ There was a glint in his eye.

Snatching at an innocuous subject: ‘Henry and Mary are content,’ I said.

‘They are as smitten as two ring doves. She is carrying another child.’

‘I know.’

There! What was left? Nothing, except appertaining to the two of us, which was apparently forbidden since we had commented on each other’s ageing grandeur. Had he not kissed me on our last meeting, as if passion was not dead between us? Entirely frustrated, I raised my brows in polite but stricken query.

The Duke gestured towards a pair of stools set in a window embrasure and, because it would give me breathing space, I sat. Once he would have taken my hand and escorted me there but now he led the way, gesturing to a distant servant for refreshment. Receiving it, I took a sip of wine that I did not want.

I turned a level glance on him. I would dance to this staid tune no longer.

‘You invited me here, John. Was there a purpose in it?’

‘Yes. I never do anything without purpose.’

Which was true enough. Was he laughing at me? But there was no laughter in his face. Frustration at last got the better of my good intentions.

‘Have we anything else to talk about? Your horses? The health of your hawks and hounds? I could fill in half an hour on the new building at Kettlethorpe if it pleases you.’

I half rose, but his hand on my arm stilled me. A fleeting moment only, but it touched my heart, and I wanted more, except that every vestige of common sense told me that I could not have it.

‘I have lost the knack of reading your mind, Katherine.’

‘I have been unable to read yours for years.’ My reply was sharper than I intended. ‘Perhaps it is more comfortable for you without knowing what I think.’

There was no change in his expression. ‘I expect it is. When your thoughts are ill-disposed towards me.’

‘But I am not ill-disposed.’

‘Then what are you, Katherine?’

His eyes held mine. All my possible answers raced through my mind like clouds scudding before a storm-wind.

I am afraid. All you have to do is touch my arm and I am tumbled back into the past when my whole life was governed by my love for you. You are not my friend. You are embedded in my mind, my heart, my soul. You never will be my friend, and I am afraid of new rejections. I am afraid of renewed pain. I don’t know what is expected of me. To be close to you is sometimes too much to bear. I cannot see my future in your orbit, even though I am flooded with desire.

I love you so very much…

I said nothing of this, of course.

‘What are you to me, Katherine, if not ill-disposed?’ he repeated gently.

I wished I had not come. I wished I had not embarked on this conversation. And I stood deliberately, to escape his gaze that saw too much of the turmoil within me, and this time he allowed it, standing with me, taking the barely tasted wine and placing the cups side by side on the stone window ledge. From the breast of his tunic he produced a slim document, and handed it to me.

‘What is it?’

‘A part repayment of the loan you gave me for my campaign in Castile.’

My fingers closed round it. ‘So now all your debts to me are paid.’

‘No. Not all my debts. Only one hundred marks, so you cannot close the door against me. Besides, some debts can never be repaid.’

I would not be seduced by soft words. I hardened my heart and my reply. ‘So this is why you invited me here. You could have sent it by courier.’

‘No, that is not why I invited you. I invited you to ask you…’

My gaze lifted from the repaid debt to his face.

‘I invited you here to request, in all humility, knowing how you have suffered at my hands, that you return to my side as my loving companion.’

‘Humility?’ I queried, barely able to breathe.

The Duke smiled but if he considered rising to the bait, he rejected it. Instead:

‘I want you to return to me, Katherine. I want you to live with me again as mistress of my heart.’

I simply stood and stared.

‘I love you. I want you.’ And then in the interests of the humility he had claimed: ‘Will you consider my request, Katherine?’

I marched off in the direction of the private accommodations, my thoughts as unstable as the current in a whirlpool. Desire had exploded through me with his simple invitation, but cold reason held me with a grip of iron.

He did not follow me.

The Duke was never humble.

Did he know what he was asking of me?

New Year at Hertford came and went, with all the pleasure of the annual gift giving. Soon, after Twelfth Night, I would be free to make my farewells. I sat in the nursery for a little while with Countess Joan. I thought she had deliberately sought me out there, perhaps for a final exchange of opinion before our parting. Lady Mary was busy organising the final festivities for her demanding guests. I sat with the newest baby, another Thomas, on my lap as he slept.

‘Will you go to Kettlethorpe?’ Countess Joan asked.

‘No, to Lincoln for a few weeks.’

‘You are welcome to remain here with Mary,’ she replied comfortably. Then added after a pause. ‘But perhaps you do not wish to. I think you have not been happy.’

Had I not hidden the growing turbulence in my mind? I thought I had, and now I did not know what to say. I would not wish to appear ungrateful. I valued her friendship far too much.

‘Perhaps it is that you miss your sister,’ she suggested helpfully.

‘Yes.’

For I did. Sometimes her absence had the sting of a new-grown nettle, making me catch my breath.

‘The children enjoyed themselves,’ she observed. ‘I see Joan preening in the gown the Duke gave her.’

‘Yes. She is quite the great lady.’

‘And the sword for Thomas.’

‘An excellent gift,’ I observed drily. ‘I shall confiscate it when we go home.’ Thomas Beaufort was nine years old and lacked discretion.

The Countess folded her arms across her silk-clad bosom, much as Agnes did when about to take me to task, and stared at me. I would have escaped if I had not had a sleeping infant on my knee.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘Not a thing.’

‘Katherine!’

I shook my head.

She leaned a little towards me. ‘Anything you tell me will be in utmost confidence. We have known each other a long time. We’ve lived through difficult times and supported each other. If it’s about John, tell me. You know I’ll be sympathetic and you can weep on my shoulder if you have to.’ She stared at me as I remained obdurately silent. ‘Do you not love him any more?’

‘I don’t think my feelings towards him have any importance.’

‘Then is it that you think that he does not love you?’

Which effectively breached the dam that kept my thoughts under control. For that was the crux of the matter, was it not? He had invited me to return to his bed, and since that request—nothing.

Had I expect a wooing? Yes I had, and was thoroughly ruffled when I did not get one.

Perhaps he had changed his mind after all. Perhaps my sour lack of response had made him reconsider. Perhaps the dark clouds looming over royal government had given him more important things to think about, or warned him that to dally in my company might bring the return of Walsingham’s disfavour in another terrible dissection of his character and ambitions. Yes, that was it. The Duke was a man of political acumen who would not act foolishly. If he wanted a mistress there were younger, fairer girls to invite to his bed. A girl without past scandal attached to her name.