Chapter 250: There’s My Queen
"No—" Her voice had dissolved into something barely held together. "God — no — please—"
Whether she was pleading with him or with her own body was difficult to determine. His thumb found her tiny nub and pressed.
Livia’s fingers dug into his arm. The orgasm broke over her without further negotiation, her whole body convulsing against him. She came apart in the arms of the King of England in the middle of the Thames, which was not something she had anticipated when she’d woken that morning.
"There you go. There’s my queen." His fingers stilled, staying gentle, staying present. "Always so beautiful when you cum."
Livia focused on breathing. Was this what they meant? She thought distantly, still catching her breath. The men at Beaumont’s — the ones who’d called the women wenches. Is this what they meant? Unable to fight the want even when fighting was the only right thing to do. Even when everything reasonable and self-preserving demanded it.
Even when she absolutely, unquestionably should.
"You have to stop doing that," Livia said.
Henry smiled against the side of her neck, his breath warm and wicked on her skin. "You will have to learn to stop me, my love."
"This is so unfair, Henry."
"Is it?" His mouth brushed her ear. "Tell me how."
She could accuse him of many things: manipulation, and a complete disregard for the reasonable distance that ought to exist between them. But unfair? She could not explain it without confessing that he made her want him even when she had armed herself with every reason not to.
"You...I cannot explain it."
"I suspected as much. How about you take some time to think about marrying me?" he asked softly. "Let us make a wager."
"I am certain I shall hate whatever you say next, but go on. Let me hear it."
Slowly, Henry withdrew his hand from beneath her gown. Livia’s breath caught at the loss. Her body had no loyalty whatsoever.
"When I return from France," he said, "if you missed me, you marry me. If you do not miss me, I will not speak of it again."
"Are you sure you want to take that wager?" she asked. "Because I assure you, Your Majesty, you are a pain. A few weeks away from you may be deeply appreciated."
Henry’s hand went dramatically to his chest. "Drive the knife further in, will you? Why not twist it while you are at it?"
She laughed then, helplessly.
Then she lifted her head. "Do you hear that?"
Henry listened. At first there was only the lap of water against the boat. Then the sound drifted over the river: fiddle, pipe, laughter, the thump of clumsy feet, and voices raised in song.
"Music," Livia whispered.
"Probably a late gathering at an alehouse."
"There is hardly any music in Whitehall. Why is that?"
"Because everyone there is sad, suspicious, and gloomy."
"Come on," she said, suddenly bright. "Row in that direction."
He sighed with great theatrical suffering. "Of course, Your Highness." Henry laughed, reached for the oars, and began guiding the little boat towards the nearest river stairs. Behind them, Lionel’s boat shifted course at once, loyal misery following in their wake.
The music grew louder as they approached the bank. Warm light spilled from a riverside alehouse, gold across the wet stones. Laughter burst through an open door, utterly unlike Whitehall’s careful murmurs.
Henry helped her rise when the boat nudged against the landing. His hand remained firm at her waist as she stepped carefully onto the slick stone, then he followed.
It was indeed a late party. The alehouse spilled light into the lane, its shutters thrown wide, fiddle music leaping into the night with the reckless joy of people.
Men and women crowded the yard before it, laughing, clapping, and turning in a lively country measure.
Livia’s face opened. Then she abandoned him. She slipped away with a laugh, drawn towards the music.
A woman near the edge of the dancers caught her hand, pulled her into the circle, and Livia joined as if she had belonged there all her life. She missed the first step, laughed at herself, caught the second, and by the third turn had found the rhythm. Her cloak loosened. Her hair shifted beneath the hood. Her cheeks flushed in the lanternlight.
Henry stood where she had left him, watching like a fool. One would have thought she had come with the party. She moved easily, laughing when an older man spun her too quickly, clapping when the others clapped, lifting her skirts enough to keep from tripping as the dancers turned and crossed and came together again.
Lionel stepped closer. "We should not be here, Your Majesty."
"Live a little, Lionel. Look at her."
Lionel’s expression remained grim, his gaze sweeping the yard. Henry watched Livia turn beneath a stranger’s raised arm, laughing brightly.
"You think this is the kind of life she wants?" Henry asked.
"Yes."
Henry’s throat tightened. Livia had told him in a dozen ways. Yet hearing Lionel say it made it sharper. "Why can I not give it to her?" He asked.
Lionel finally turned his head. "Because you are king. Ordinary men can afford carelessness. Kings cannot."
Henry folded his arms, gaze returning to Livia. "Do you know why I assigned you to her?"
"To punish me."
Henry laughed under his breath. "No."
"It feels like punishment."
Henry’s amusement softened. "I assigned you to her so you might know her. Her." Henry nodded towards the yard. "That woman."
Lionel glanced over. She looked alive in a way Whitehall never permitted.
"She may be your queen one day. I need you to see why. I know. You object."
"My oath is to the Crown. To England. To the continuance of rule, and lawful succession. Forgive me, my lord, but all I see is that Miss Valenti endangers each of those things."
"You think she will ruin me."
"I think you are willing to ruin yourself for her."
"The last man who loved her," Lionel said carefully, "you sent to France."
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