With Love, King Henry VIII

What Henry VIII wants, Henry gets. And he wants her …

Thrown back in time to 1531, mousy accountant, Beth C’ de Baca Bouvier treads a razor’s edge. King Henry VIII’s romantic advances are not welcome, but she can’t insult the king of England who is sending her love letters. Equally as deadly, the amorous advances make her a target of Anne Boleyn’s ruthless jealousy. Nor can she escape the constant presence of the Lord Rochford plotting behind her back and watching her every move.

Beth would much rather spend her days and nights in the arms of fellow reluctant time traveler, Philip Radcliffe. Her dashing companion tries to protect her, but when Lord Rochford accuses Beth of treason, both she and Philip are sent to the Tower of London to face the executioner’s chopping block. Can they find their way back to the twenty-first century? Or will their love die with them somewhere in time?

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“I’m Philip Radcliffe. And we only met briefly, Beth.”

That voice. “Now I remember! At the costume shop. I didn’t know you were going to be here. I–“

“I urgently need to talk to you, Beth. But the king has asked to meet you, so that conversation must wait. I didn’t catch your last name.”


“Ah, French descent. Good. And I don’t mean to be so personal so soon, but to introduce you properly, it would help if I knew your mother’s maiden name.”

“Yeah, right, the ‘king‘ wants to see me. I’ll admit this whole make-believe show had me freaked at first. But if I can play dress up, I guess I can play along. My mother’s name was C’ de Baca.”

Philip smiled. “Spanish. Interesting. Possibly a political advantage. But I have one request. For this ball to be a success, it’s vital you follow the manners and protocol of the court.”

“Do you mean like in Shakespeare’s time?”

“A bit earlier.”

“I get my English monarch succession mixed up. Do you mean Queen Elizabeth I?” she asked.

“Close. Trust me and follow my lead.”

She nodded. The echoes of Margaret the shop owner’s voice assured her she could rely on him. Margaret had also mentioned something about the SCA. “Ah-ha! I’m starting to understand, Philip. Society for Creative Anachronism. I just didn’t realize how many accountants were closet knights, damsels, and buxom tavern wenches. I assume there are some professional actors mixed in. You guys dot every I, and cross every T when it comes to authenticity. The clothes, the decorations, the speech, even the,” she waved her free hand in front of her nose, “smells.”

“Listen, Beth. As of this moment, you must take onthe role of a highborn lady. Don’t forget that for a single second.” Philip inclined his head as he whispered, but suddenly his attention shifted forward.

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