A couple of weeks later, Marie was in the garden, reading poetry beneath her favorite oak tree. The Italian guards maintained their respectful distance, close enough to protect, far enough to give her privacy.
She was so absorbed in her book that she didn't notice the approach until a servant announced loudly: "Master Matthew Boleyn."
Marie's head snapped up.
Matthew stood there with a broad smile that didn't reach his eyes, bowing low with exaggerated courtesy. "Cousin Marie. How wonderful to see you looking so well."
"Matthew," Marie said coolly, closing her book with deliberate slowness.
She didn't invite him to sit.
"Marriage clearly agrees with you," Matthew said, his eyes roaming over her body in a way that made her skin crawl. He lingered on the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts beneath the Italian-style dress. "You've grown more beautiful. Toned in all the right places."His smile widened, showing too many teeth. "Italian life must be quite... vigorous."
The implication was clear. Disgusting.
The guards tensed immediately. Pierro's hand moved to his sword hilt, knuckles white. The other two soldiers stepped closer, flanking Marie protectively.
Marcello, who had been standing nearby reviewing estate documents, immediately strode across the garden and positioned himself between Matthew and Marie.
"Signor Boleyn," he said with forced pleasantness that fooled no one, "how delightful to see you. Perhaps you would like to pay your respects to Lord Thomas? I believe he is in his study discussing matters of great importance."
"I came to see my cousin," Matthew said, his smile never wavering but his eyes growing cold and hard. "Surely that's not a crime."
"And you have seen her," Marcello replied, voice like steel. "Unfortunately, Lady Marie has other appointments this afternoon. Her schedule is quite full, as befitting her station."
Matthew's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Marie, then to the guards, then back to Marcello. Calculating. Measuring.
"Of course," he said finally. "I wouldn't want to impose." He bowed again to Marie. "Cousin. I'm sure we'll have more time to... catch up... during your stay."
The way he said "catch up" made Marie's stomach turn.
After he left, Marie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Are you alright, my lady?" Pierro asked in Italian, concern evident in his voice.
Marie nodded, but her hands were shaking slightly as she gathered her book. "I'm fine. Thank you."
Marcello watched Matthew's retreating figure with narrowed eyes. "I don't like this. I'm doubling the guard on your quarters. And you're not to go anywhere without at least two guards accompanying you."
"Marcello, that's excessive—"
"It's necessary," Marcello interrupted firmly. "That man looks at you like you're prey. And I made a promise to His Highness that you would be kept safe."
Marie wanted to argue. But the memory of Matthew's eyes on her body, the possessive hunger in his gaze, made her swallow her protests.
"Very well."
---
**A FEW DAYS LATER**
Marie was in the great hall, receiving visitors as had become her routine since returning home. It was expected of her now—she was no longer just Thomas Boleyn's daughter, but the woman of an Italian prince. People wanted to see her, to assess her, to curry favor.
She sat in a high-backed chair that had been placed on a small dais—another change that marked her new status. Pierro stood directly behind her chair, hand always near his sword. Two more guards flanked the entrance.
A servant announced: "Lord William Stamford."
Marie's breath caught. Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest.
She forced her expression to remain neutral, though her hands clenched in her lap.
William entered, looking much as he had the last time she saw him, handsome in that conventional, safe way. Well-dressed in muted colors. Polite bearing. But there was something different in his eyes now. Uncertainty? Hurt? Calculation? She couldn't quite read it.
He bowed deeply. "Lady Marie. It is good to see you."
Marie remained seated, as was proper for her station now. She was above him in rank. The realization brought no satisfaction.
"Lord Stamford." Her voice came out carefully measured, controlled. "What brings you to my father's estate?"
"I was in the area. I arrived yesterday with Matthew,"William said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "He's been... well, we've been working closely together lately. Business matters." He paused. "I thought I would pay my respects. See how you are faring."
The mention of Matthew made Marie's stomach tighten with unease. But she pushed it aside.
"I am well,"Marie said.
William's gaze traveled over her—taking in the crimson Italian dress with its lower neckline, the elaborate braided hairstyle woven with gold thread, the heavy ring on her finger bearing Lorenzo's crest.
"You look... different," he said quietly. There was something in his voice—wistfulness, perhaps. "But well. Marriage seems to agree with you."
Marie felt her carefully constructed composure crack slightly. She bit her lower lip—a gesture of vulnerability she immediately regretted showing.
Because it was true. She did look different. She felt different. Lorenzo had changed her in ways that went beyond appearance.
But looking at William now, she remembered. The gentle courtship. The quiet conversations in the library. The way he'd made her laugh when Lorenzo had abandoned her. The proposal in the garden.
He'd been kind to her. Genuinely kind.
And she'd hurt him. Not intentionally, but the result was the same.
"And you?" Marie asked, voice softer now. "How are you, William? Truly?"
William's composure slipped for just a moment. Pain flashed across his face before he schooled it back to polite neutrality.
"I am... adjusting," he said carefully. "The compensation from Prince Lorenzo was generous. Very generous. I've purchased an estate in the north. Smaller than I'd hoped for, but comfortable."
"I'm glad," Marie said, and meant it. "You deserve to be happy."
"Do I?" William's voice carried a hint of bitterness he quickly suppressed. "Forgive me. That was inappropriate."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
Marie wanted to apologize. To explain. To tell him that she'd cared for him, truly cared, even if she hadn't loved him the way she loved Lorenzo. That he'd been a bright spot in a dark time. That she wished things had been different.
But what good would it do? The past was past. She was married now utterly bound to Lorenzo.
"I should go,"William said abruptly, as if reading her thoughts. "I don't wish to impose on your time."
"William, wait—"
But he was already bowing, already turning away.
"It was good to see you, Lady Marie. I wish you... I wish you happiness."
Then he was gone, footsteps echoing in the hall.
Marie sat frozen in her chair, a strange ache in her chest. Guilt, perhaps. Regret for what could have been—not because she wanted him instead of Lorenzo, but because she'd genuinely cared for William. He'd been her friend when she needed one most.
And now he was just another casualty of Lorenzo's claim on her.
The moment William left, Marcello, who had been watching from the side of the hall, approached Marie with swift strides.
"That was strange," he said quietly, keeping his voice low so only she could hear.
Marie blinked, pulled from her melancholy thoughts. "What do you mean?"
"His arrival here. The timing. Arriving with Matthew Boleyn of all people." Marcello's eyes were sharp, calculating. "Something feels wrong."
"Perhaps he was simply being courteous," Marie suggested, though she didn't sound convinced even to herself. "He was meant to be my husband once. Perhaps he just wanted... closure."
"Perhaps,"Marcello said, clearly unconvinced. "Or perhaps someone is using his lingering feelings for you as a tool."
Marie's head snapped up. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that Matthew Boleyn is not a man who does anything without purpose. And William showing up here, working closely with Matthew, just weeks after your return?" Marcello shook his head. "It's too convenient."
"William wouldn't—" Marie started.
"William was humiliated publicly,"Marcello interrupted gently. "His bride stolen literally days before the wedding. His manhood questioned. His reputation damaged. The compensation helped, yes, but money doesn't heal wounded pride."
Marie felt cold dread settling in her stomach. "You think he wants revenge?"
"I think he's hurt. And hurt people are easily manipulated by those with darker intentions." Marcello's expression softened slightly. "I don't believe William is malicious by nature. But I do believe Matthew Boleyn is. And I believe William might be convinced to... help... with something he wouldn't normally consider."
"Like what?"
Marcello hesitated. "I don't know yet. But I intend to find out."
He turned to the guards at the door and switched to rapid Italian: "*Fate sorvegliare William Stamford ogni volta che è nella tenuta. Voglio sapere dove va, con chi parla, cosa fa. E se incontra Matthew Boleyn privatamente, voglio saperlo immediatamente.*" ("Have William Stamford watched whenever he's on the estate. I want to know where he goes, who he speaks to, what he does. And if he meets with Matthew Boleyn privately, I want to know immediately."
The guards saluted and departed to carry out his orders.
Marie stood, feeling suddenly exhausted. "This is madness. William wouldn't hurt me."
"No," Marcello agreed. "But he might hurt Lorenzo. And that would hurt you just as surely."
Marie's hand went to the ring on her finger, turning it absently.
"I need to write to him,"she said suddenly. "Lorenzo needs to know—"
"We cannot! The master asked that no correspondence should be. It is too dangerous, if intercepted." Marcello said. "we are on our own."
Marie nodded slowly, then looked at Marcello with something like desperation in her eyes. "William was good to me, Marcello. When Lorenzo left, when I was alone and heartbroken, William was kind. He helped me remember how to be happy. I still do not believe he may have malicious intention"
"I know," Marcello said gently.
"I don't love him. But I cared for him. Deeply. As a friend, if nothing else." Marie's voice cracked slightly. "No harm is to befall him"
Marcello put a hand on her shoulder—a fatherly gesture. "The world is rarely fair, especially to good people. But William made his choices too. He accepted the betrothal knowing you'd been courted by another. He accepted the compensation knowing what it meant. He has made his bed"
"I won't forgive you and your master if something happens to him."
"Heard, My lady" Marcello agreed.
Marie took a shaky breath, straightening her spine. "What do we do now?"
"Now? We watch. We wait. We protect you." Marcello's voice hardened. "And if Matthew Boleyn or anyone else tries to harm you or use you against Lorenzo, we respond with extreme prejudice."
Marie nodded. She thought of Lorenzo far away in Italy, unaware of the gathering storm. She thought of William, kind gentle William, possibly being manipulated into something terrible. She thought of Matthew with his predatory eyes and possessive smile.
And she realized that the peace she'd found in these weeks at home was an illusion.
Marie looked down at her book of poetry, still lying on the chair where she'd left it. The words that had seemed so beautiful an hour ago now felt hollow.
She'd thought coming home would be simple. A visit with family. A chance to rest.
She'd been wrong.
Nothing was simple anymore.
Marie gathered her skirts and stood. "I'm going to my chambers. Cancel all the other visits."
"Pierro will accompany you," Marcello said. It wasn't a question.
"I know."