PROLOGUE

The only thing that gave away her nervousness and pain was her hands. Despite her best effort to sit still and pretty for Master Holbein, her fingers would not stop fidgeting. But she couldn't help it- this rich, burgundy gown was stiff and tighter than her normal wardrobe and the thick, muslin shift was tied up to her neck for the sake of modesty, but it was wondrously hot. Heavy, golden chains dug into the back of her neck and looped over themselves, making it difficult to hold her head straight especially with the large, jeweled hood that pushed down on her. But she knew her face must not betray her discomfort for that would defeat the purpose of Master Holbein's presence at all. Her brother had vehemently fought against sending a portrait in the first place, but once it was insisted by the English envoys, he relented. If she had to be painted, she would be painted in all the finery the Duke of Cleves had at his disposal. Not that such finery was supposed to allude to vanity, of course. And not that the portrait would be exceedingly flattering. No, Holbein was to produce an accurate picture for the King of England and her brother insisted that she be the epitome of modesty, yet still showcase the wealth of Cleves.

It was a difficult tightrope to walk, but Anne was determined to do all that was asked of her. This was her one chance of escaping her overbearing brother and Cleves altogether. As such, she must outshine her younger sister, Amalia who she could see out of the corner of her eye pinching her cheeks to bring color to them. Amalia would sit in front Holbein next and Anne had to make sure that the King would not pick her instead of Anne. So she took a deep breath and willed her fingers to still. She gazed at the painter before her and wished she could read his expression. See if she could read how she compared to the other beauties that had sat before him. The English king was scouring Europe looking for a bride, and Anne knew the competition was great. She could never compare in beauty to the likes of Christina of Milan or even Amalia, but she was pretty enough by normal standards. Her eyes may be hooded, but they were a clear, warm brown and her fair hair was long and thick.

It also needed to be said that the English king was probably not looking for what he had already had. Anne was nothing like the previous queen's of England. Katherine of Aragon had been fierce and formidable- a woman who had helped a young prince form an empire. Yet when she had proved unable to provide a son for King Henry, she had been stubborn and relentless. She had absolutely refused to obey her husband and step down. Even on her deathbed she had declared herself his true wife and rightful queen. While admirable, Anne couldn't help but think that it was a foolish decision. Yes, the Spanish queen had declared such for her daughter, but where was Mary Tudor now? Still a king's bastard. Yes, King Henry had reconciled with his daughter, but it had been after years of hardship for the young girl. Katherine's stubbornness had brought her nothing but sorrow. If Anne was ever in a position where she would have to choose a title (however deserving of it she might be) or her freedom, she knew what she would choose.

And then there was the other Anne. The sultry, seductive temptress that had led the king on a merry dance for over a decade. The dark haired vixen had captivated all of Europe. Anne could remember her older sister Sybilla whispering about the captivating Boleyn who had bewitched the English court. They had all gossiped about the woman and how she must be. Anne had even admired the woman who shared her name from afar. Then more news had trickled into Cleves. Anne Boleyn had been accused of witchcraft,adultery and even incest. She had been arrested and tried and beheaded. Suddenly, the name Boleyn became a curse. The image of this passionate, witty, beautiful woman who had captured the kings heart had faded into an upjumped tart who had seduced the whole court with whore's tricks and been caught in her own lies.

Anne Boleyn's fate had led to hard earned lessons for the women of Cleves. As soon as King Henry's envoys opened negotiations with them, her brother had adamantly declared that they must never be seen as wanton. Never be seen as loose or moral-less women. How many times had she felt the rap of the switch on her knuckles whenever she so much as met his eyes in a way he felt was too forward? How he would react if he could see Amalia now, preening in front of the mirror.

No, Anne was nothing like the two women that had captivated King Henry his entire life. She knew very little of Jane Seymour who had finally given the king a son, but then she had only been in the kings favor about a year before the birthing bed claimed her life. If King Henry was going to pick her, it would not be because she was an imposing, gracious queen or a seductive dark siren. He would see this painting being crafted before him and see the gentleness in her smile. He would see her kind eyes and want that refreshing honesty at his court.

She adjusted her posture under the heavy finery and squeezed her hands. A lot was riding on this. On King Henry's choice.