His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Chapter 129: You Seem Lost

Lady Bella. What was the king’s new obsession with this woman? Did she bring some kind of witchcraft with her from wherever she had gone to grieve, some country spell tucked beneath her décolletage to turn the king’s attention back to her?

Madeleine’s eyes flashed with anger. It came quickly but she buried it just as fast. She placed a palm lightly on the king’s arm. "Your Highness."

Henry finally turned to her. His face was unguarded. He had been standing there with his body in Whitehall and his heart somewhere entirely unreachable. He straightened. "Princess."

Madeleine smiled anyway. "You seem lost."

"Just thinking..."

About Lady Bella? she almost asked.

Jealousy was a vulgar thing.

"I see," she said instead. "I wanted to say my greetings for the day." She gave him a small smile.

Henry looked at her but not the way he had been looking down into the garden. "Sure...I will see you later."

That was all. Madeleine felt her inside go very still. She bowed.

"Of course, Your Majesty." She turned and walked away, every step graceful. A future queen did not beg for attention when she could remove the thing stealing it.

Élodie followed silently behind her. They walked until they were safely out of earshot. Only then did Madeleine’s face change. The smile vanished. Her mouth tightened, and the anger she had buried rose again.

Madeleine turned slightly to Élodie and spoke in French. "Lady Bella has to go before the Queen Mother returns."

Élodie did nothing but nod. Meanwhile, Henry remained by the window. He told himself he would only look for a moment more.

One moment. Enough to satisfy the gnawing beast in his chest that had not stopped clawing since the night before.

But the moment stretched. Then stretched again. Livia sat below in the garden beneath the small canopy with Lady Bella, the morning light scattered gently across the grass around them. Henry could not see her face clearly; the damned veil hid too much of it. It shadowed her features, softened the line of her cheek, kept her from him.

Still, he knew. He knew from the tilt of her head when she listened. The movement of her hands when she explained something. The straightness in her back.

It was her. His Livia. Henry’s hand tightened on the window frame. He could not take his eyes off her.

Was this what he had become? A king hiding behind glass in his own palace, stealing looks from afar. The great King of England, ruler of men, commander of armies, reduced to lurking because one woman had undone his sense.

Soon, both women began packing up. Bella’s maid stepped forward, gathering the papers and inkpot. The lesson was over.

Henry blinked. Just how long had he been standing there?

"Your Highness." Lionel’s voice came from behind him. "My lord," Lionel continued carefully, "the Archbishop is waiting in the throne room."

Right.

The Archbishop.

Marriage matters, no doubt. The very life Henry was supposed to walk toward while his heart stood outside in the garden.

"Right..." Henry straightened and finally stepped away from the window. "Of course."

****

Livia finished with Lady Bella just as the sun was high in the sky. By the end of the lesson, Bella could manage greetings, basic responses, and one perfectly pronounced sentence about wishing to take tea in the garden.

Bella’s maid packed up their materials and quickly headed away.

"I expect you to keep practising, Bella," Livia said, gathering the last of the loose papers from the garden table.

Bella gave a dramatic sigh. "Yes, yes. Bonjour, bonsoir, and all the other pretty little sentences that will not help me survive the French princess."

Livia shook her head. The lesson had gone better than expected.

The gardens had helped too. The open air made the palace feel less suffocating. Livia had almost forgotten she was inside Whitehall.

"Would you at least tell me what ’go to hell’ is in French?" Bella pushed.

"I am not teaching you how to curse at the princess." Livia lowered her voice slightly. "Guess whose head they will have before yours?"

"You are no fun at all." Bella rose, smoothing the front of her gown. "You go get ready to leave. I will make sure they have your carriage prepared."

"Thank you, Bella," Livia said. "For this opportunity."

Bella’s playful expression gentled. "And thank you too."

Livia smiled warmly, then gathered her gloves. "Please inform the carriage that I will stop at the Cresswells," she said. "But they can take my maid to Kingsmere. The duke will send transport to me."

"Of course," Bella said and pulled her into a hug. "Say hello to my nieces for me, will you?"

"Surely." Livia smiled. "I’ll meet you in the main courtyard in a bit."

Bella nodded and turned. Livia started back toward her loaned quarters to pack up. Her veil was firmly attached to her hair as she walked through the corridors of Whitehall, her maid following a few respectful steps behind.

Servants moved quickly. Gentlemen passed in pairs, speaking low. Ladies glided like swans. Every person seemed to know exactly where to stand, when to bow, how to look.

Livia kept her chin steady.

I am Diana Bellamy, she reminded herself.

Future Duchess of Kingsmere.

That last thought still startled her. She smiled to herself, thinking of Richard’s face when she had agreed to marry him. The memory warmed her, she missed him and couldn’t wait to see him.

She turned a corner. Everyone ahead of her stepped abruptly to the side. Heads bowed. Bodies lowered.

A man turned the corner from the opposite direction, dressed with magnificence. Dark velvet, gold embroidery, a heavy chain at his shoulders, and the unmistakable weight of command in the way every soul around him seemed to shrink and arrange themselves.

The king.

Livia moved quickly to the side with her maid and bowed her head, her veil falling forward. Henry was surprised to find her walking the corridors toward the main passage near the throne room. She had just been outside in the courtyard.

His mind failed to understand what his eyes had found. Then the world narrowed so violently that every sound around him dulled.

It took all of his will to keep walking. He could not stop. He could not reach for her. Could not say her name. Could not tilt her chin up and see whether those eyes still held any part of him.

So he walked. But his eyes stayed trapped on her features, on what little the veil allowed him to see. The line of her cheek. The curve of her mouth.

She really did look different now. Her hair was shorter. Her skin looked healthier, warmer, touched by country air and rest. Her head remained bowed as he passed. She did not know. God, she did not know.

His feet carried him past her. A few feet away, he stopped. He could not take it. He could not simply walk past her and say nothing. He wanted that moment so badly it almost made him sick. He began to turn.

Before he could complete the movement, Lionel stepped in behind him. A hand settled firmly on Henry’s shoulder.

"Your Highness," Lionel said quietly.

The corridor held its breath. Behind him, Livia remained bowed with the others, unaware of the war that had almost broken loose a few feet away.

Henry’s jaw clenched hard. Lionel’s hand remained steady. Henry swallowed whatever sound had gathered in his throat. He squared his shoulders and resumed walking without looking back.

Every step felt mechanical after that. By the time he reached the throne room, his face had become cold.

The Archbishop was waiting there, along with the Lord Chancellor. Both men turned as he entered.

"Your Majesty," they said in unison.

Henry moved to his throne and sat. "Archbishop," Henry said, going straight to the point. "What can I do for you?" He did not have the time or the patience to beat around the bush.

"Your Majesty," the Archbishop began carefully, "I merely wished to discuss the matter of preparing the French princess for marriage according to the rites of Holy Church, and to settle upon a suitable date for the ceremony."

Henry stared at him. The Archbishop was an old man with a solemn face. He stood with both hands folded before him, his robes falling in heavy, respectable lines, as if God Himself had pressed them that morning. Beside him stood Geoffrey, the Lord Chancellor. "What does that have to do with me?" Henry asked.

The Archbishop blinked. Geoffrey’s eyes shifted briefly.

"My lord," Geoffrey said, stepping in smoothly, "we were informed the Queen Mother was sent to the Tower in seclusion, and that you ordered she not receive visitors."

"Yes," Henry said. "I did. For a month."

The Archbishop lowered his gaze.

"Well then," Geoffrey continued, "the responsibility falls to you to make these decisions."

Henry smiled a little.