Had Anne thrown herself into his arms when he begged her pardon, the way Henry felt he deserved after abasing himself so far as to beg her pardon in public so abjectly, Henry might have forsworn Sarah's company altogether once he had been reconciled with his wife. Since that had not been the case, however, he saw no reason why he should give up his secret pleasures. After all, Anne wanted to make things right between them. She wouldn't be prying into his affairs, not now. So, he did nothing more than curtail his visits to Sarah's household at Chelsea a little to avoid suspicion. Only one piece of news could have forced him to stop them forever.

That piece of news didn't arrive until the Christmas celebrations, and even when it did, he slipped away one last time in early January to have a final night with Sarah before he bade her farewell. It was only when the sun rose that he finally broke the news to her.

"Shall I look for you soon, My Lord?" Sarah had woken as he slipped from beneath her, hoping to avoid a scene, and now lay watching him dress from between half-closed eyes. There was hope in her voice and Henry's heart wrenched as he turned to her. He did so hate making women cry.

"I'm afraid not, my rose," he said gently.

She sat up then, distress flaring, "But!"

"Anne's with child. I daren't distress her. Not now. She felt the child quicken last week, and, well, we need a daughter this time. If she finds out I'm still visiting you…," Henry trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

"Henry!"

The single word of protest was out before Sarah could stop it. He turned towards her, one hand outstretched. Anger had sparked in him at her protest – couldn't she see what a delicate game he was playing? – but one glance at her eyes melted it away. Her gaze was full of nothing but injured desire.

He climbed back on to the bed beside her, cupping her cheek in his hand.

"Sarah, darling. You knew when all this started that my first duty was to England and to the Queen. I've never hidden that. In your heart of hearts, you must have known this day would come. As long as Anne wasn't with child, it was one thing, but now that we have a chance of a Princess at last…well, you do see why my first priority has to be her, don't you?"

Sarah fixed him with an uncharacteristically suspicious look, "I suppose the Queen is with child? You're not just saying that because you're tiring of me?"

"Of course not!" Henry protested, "Would I tire of my northern rose?"

He reached out for the jewelled collar she had worn to greet him the day before and looped it over her head, "I told you the day I gave you this that our futures would be entwined forever, do you remember that? I meant it then and I mean it now. You have to trust me. I know the next few months will be hard on us both and especially you, but even if I don't visit or write, it doesn't mean I've forgotten you, I swear. Nor Matilda."

As if on cue, a sleepy wail cut through the air a couple of rooms over. Henry chuckled.

"She knows I'm talking about her."

"Ah, Constance can see to her for now," Sarah murmured, reaching up to stroke Henry's cheek as she softened, "I'm far more concerned about her father."

"I ought to go," Henry began, but Sarah cut him off with an unusually assertive kiss.

"Please, Henry," she breathed, "If I'm about to lose you for months on end, then at least grant me another couple of hours. Please."

Henry didn't have the strength to deny her. Unlacing his hose again, he pushed her down on to the bed and rolled on top of her.

"As you wish, my Lady Sarah," he growled in her ear, "Your wish is my command."

Later, as he dressed for the second time, she rolled over towards him. He could feel her eyes on him, but she said nothing until he was almost out of the door.

"Come back to me," she begged suddenly, "When this is all over and there's a Princess squalling in the cradle, come back to me."

Henry didn't reply. It was safest not to. He couldn't be held to anything that way.

"Are you warm enough, sweetheart? Shall I fetch you anything? A cup of mead, perhaps? Or something to eat?"

Henry fussed around Anne, clucking like a mother hen. Anne had to fight back a laugh. His change in attitude since the child had quickened and she'd told him she was with child was nothing short of ridiculous. He'd gone from almost brittle courtesy to fawning adoration in the blink of an eye. Well. Two could play that game. Exchanging a wry glance with Meg when he wasn't looking, she simpered up at him.

"Some marchpane would be lovely. I've no great appetite for supper, but I think something sweet would do the trick. But you needn't fetch it yourself, love. You could always send a maid."

"Oh, no, no. It's no trouble at all," Planting a smacking kiss on her cheek, Henry whirled on his heel and bounded out of the room. Anne held herself together until the doors had swung shut behind him and then collapsed with laughter.

"I can't believe how doting he's being. It's so unlike him!"

"Do you remember when he chafed so much at having to dance attendance upon you when you were pregnant with Prince George?" Meg chuckled, crossing the room to plump Anne's pillows, "I'd say you could be twice as demanding now and he wouldn't dare bat an eyelid."

Anne writhed her way into a more comfortable position and smirked up at her old friend, "Oh, I intend to. You don't think I'd let this chance slip through my fingers, do you? I'll just have to be slightly subtler about it than I was with George."

The child in her turned just then, as though they approved of her sense of mischief and her hand crept involuntarily to her belly.

She would always be grateful to this child for giving her a fresh start with Henry, or the chance of one, at least. It was almost a shame she wasn't his.

Oh, physically, there was no way of knowing who'd truly fathered her child, but Anne knew in her bones that, boy or girl, this child wasn't Henry's.

Her certainty was part of the reason she intended to be so demanding during the next few months. Henry probably thought he'd got off lightly with the way she'd handled his philandering, but she hadn't forgotten it, even if he thought she had. There was a part of her that considered it a fitting punishment, making him dance attendance upon the whims – both real and invented – of Charles Brandon's child.

Footsteps broke into her reverie and she glanced up just in time to see Henry re-enter the room bearing an entire tray full of marchpane.

She beamed at him, "Thank you. This looks perfect."

"Anything for the Queen of my heart," he whispered back. Their lips met in a chaste kiss, before she reached for the marchpane, deciding on the spur of the moment that being deliberately fickle and difficult could wait for a while. She may originally have only sent Henry for the marchpane to give him an errand so that he'd stop hovering, but now that she had it in front of her, she was actually genuinely hungry for it.

"I was wondering, would Ana like to be godmother to her English cousin? I know she's young, but it won't be long until she's a woman now and, from what you've told me, she's growing into exactly the kind of character I'd want to act as a spiritual guide to the most important child in England. Oh, brother, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how fervently I'm praying for a healthy girl. It's been four years, nearly five, since I ascended the throne, and England still doesn't have a Princess in the cradle. I haven't admitted it to anyone yet, but I'm starting to feel time creeping up on me. What will we do if I die without a daughter? I know I've invested the Succession in Richard, with remainder to Mary's daughters if need be, but I know Henry. He won't want to stand for that, not when I raised his hopes by being so generous to little Elizabeth. Not that I regret that, not for an instant. She's such a lovely child, she deserves everything I can give her…."

Sighing, George pushed aside Anne's letter. He stood up and stretched, gazing absently out of the window as he did so.

There was no point in denying it. He was worried about his little sister.

In fairness, he had good reason to be. She hadn't sounded this shaken since the very first letters she'd sent him from Ludlow, when she truly had been a little girl thrown into a woman's role by their mother's machinations. Oh, she made a brave effort to disguise her fears, at least in the official dispatches, but he knew her. He knew his Annabella. Besides, her estrangement from her Prince Consort had been long enough and public enough to be common knowledge all over Christendom. There were even rumours that His Highness had fathered a child on another woman.

George didn't fully believe those rumours – surely no Englishwoman would be so foolish, so disloyal to his sister, as to actually accept the Prince Consort's advances, even if he did make them? Surely any woman of sense would scorn Henry and remind him in no uncertain terms where his duty lay? Henry's duty to Anne was even greater than that of your ordinary Prince Consort, since he owed everything he was to Anne's love and favour.

Still, the fact that the rumours of his having had an affair existed at all was a testament to just how deep the divide between Anne and her once-beloved husband had become.

And then there was the fact that Anne had changed her mind on the Succession again, vesting it in Richard and his heirs in the absence of a daughter of her own blood, with remainder to Mary and her daughters. That didn't bode well for the state of her marriage either.

Yet, hard on the heels of the scurrilous gossip, almost in the same letter as the news of the developments on the matter of the Succession, had come this letter declaring Anne's pregnancy. The official notification had been overwhelmingly joyous – and in such marked contrast to the letter Anne had sent him privately – that George wondered whether Anne had been trying to make a point with it, to counter the rumours of her second marriage still being in difficulty, for example.

Exhaling, George left his apartments in search of Juana. They were going to have to discuss these latest developments, not least the possibility of Ana becoming godmother to her newest English cousin. This wasn't the kind of decision he could make on his own.

As he went, he offered up a fervent, silent, prayer that his little sister would be blessed with a daughter this time around. Not only because she deserved to know the sweet satisfaction of having secured the Succession, but also because he feared she had staked everything on this newest child being a girl. After everything she'd been through in the past few years, George honestly didn't know if she'd have the strength to carry on if her fourth child turned out to be a boy rather than the longed-for girl.