Thanks so much, as always, to all who stop in to read, and especially:
To riaam because I know you love a love story.
To DowntonDreamer because who doesn't need a Genovian vacation every now and then?
To evitamockingbird because you pointed out how Joseph looked at Clarisse's mouth during the Wango, and it was a revelation to me.
To Marjorie Nescio because it's taken me a very long time to plan Clarisse's camping trip. (Not to mention, I have no idea where You-Know-Who has gone off to.)
Most parties had an annoyingly interminable quality about them, but this one…
Dear God.
Joseph paced as far out into the damp spring night as he could before collapsing onto a bench. His head dropped immediately into his hands, and he shocked the hell out of himself when he started to weep.
For several years now, he had watched the Queen. Had watched her every move, followed her everywhere, had set the rhythm of his life to her footfall. Had watched as she'd taken the King's arm, exchanged knowing looks with him, laughed at unspoken private jokes.
Joseph loved her so much. How could he begrudge her this? Who else could she deserve but this gentleman of a king? She had a husband who loved her truly. Two children growing into young men who were their pride and joy. Not just theirs, but their country's as well.
He was happy for her, but wretchedly jealous at the same time.
His own relationship with the Queen was something special, too. They exchanged their own glances. She took his arm when it was raining or sleeting or when a crowd felt too much like it was closing in on her. These were facts, events, things that had happened. He had not imagined them.
He knew when she looked away suddenly that he had nearly caught her staring at him. He knew he felt it when she squeezed his arm in gratitude. He knew…
He wept now because the jealousy had fled him in one jarring instant, and all the love he was certain they shared, even though it hadn't made sense, had rushed in and filled the dark spaces with its light.
Now he knew.
He had recognized the look on His Majesty's face as he watched Lord Bellamy disappear into the crowd. It was there for the span of mere seconds, but pain that deep and enduring leaves a mark that cannot be concealed forever.
The pain of unrequited love.
Joseph sat up, leaned back, and stared into the infinite night. Here, spring gave the impression that the world was starting over, but above him, the stars seemed fixed for eternity. There were no choices to be made, not by him. His own unrequited love had been purified by Rupert's. Clarisse would never belong to him really, but he was free to love her with everything he had, with everything he was. He would love her with every glance, with every proffered arm, with every step of his that echoed hers.
Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Simply because now, he knew.
-0-
"He knows."
Though Rupert spoke the two words quietly, they fell through the dark silence of their room like bombs. Even with no context, Clarisse understood. They exploded in her ears, making her insides tremble.
She had noticed something was bothering him most of the evening. He hadn't wanted to tell her, and she hadn't pressed him; but he hadn't been able to rationalize keeping it from her. So instead of climbing into his side of their immense bed after turning out the lights, he had perched on the edge of her side and taken her hands in his and broken the news to her that their deepest, most closely guarded secret had been discovered.
"Who?" she asked, hoping against hope it was…
"Joseph."
She let out a sigh of relief before moving on.
"But...how? What happened? What did he see?"
What did he see? Not: What did you do? Her faith in him was one more reason Rupert loved his wife more than he would ever be able to express.
"I don't know. Not really. But he saw something between us."
She was sitting up now, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and threading her arms under his. "It's Joseph, dearest. We trust him with our lives. We can trust him with this as well."
He wrapped her narrow frame in a strong embrace, and felt her settle against him. "I'm sure we can."
"Should we… I don't know. Say something to him?"
"Let's not." Rupert leaned his cheek against the top of her head as he considered how to spin the conversation.
"There's something else bothering you."
"There's something else," he confirmed, "but it's not really bothering me. I think you're missing an important point."
"What important point?"
The tone of her voice and the stiffening of her shoulders tipped him off that her eyes were likely narrowed, and that he would have to tread carefully. Because actually, he was certain she wasn't missing anything.
"He knows the truth about me. Which means he now knows the truth about us."
"Our marriage is none of his business."
"He's in love with you, Clarisse." He heard a quick intake of breath. It was apparently harder for her to hear than it was for him to say. "And you're in love with hi-"
"Stop right there. I don't know where you're going with this, but -"
"I'm simply being logical. I am grateful for his loyalty and his talent. I trust him with my life - with you and the boys, if I'm to be quite specific. But things are changed now. He will leave it up to you, but I have no doubt he is willing to be anything to you that you want him to be."
"And you're suggesting that I proposition him?" she said incredulously.
"I...well, it sounds rather crass when you put it that way -"
"It sounds rather crass no matter how I put it. Rupert, I am married to you. I will be faithful to you."
"I know, darling."
"Why does that make you sad?"
"Because you deserve more than what I can give you," Rupert said bluntly. "You deserve what he can give you."
Clarisse mulled his words even as she clung to him more tightly. "That may be," she said simply. "But I made my choice."
"You did. All those years ago. I told you this moment would come, that you would know truly what it was like to love and be loved -"
"Enough." She didn't mean to say it so sharply, but it was a wound in her heart and a guilty pall on his soul, and she didn't want to bring it up. "Enough," she said more softly, nestling her head under his neck. "I made my choice. I did not regret it. I do not regret it."
He held her and smiled, knowing she was only trying to convince herself.
-0-
Every morning, the King and Queen of Genovia took breakfast in their suite, synchronizing the start of their day before going their separate ways. Rupert always chose something from an impressive array of pastries. Clarisse usually had toast and fresh fruit.
Rupert drank coffee. Black. Clarisse drank tea. A little sugar, a little more milk.
Rupert always finished first. He was tall and graceful, his movements fluid, so he never gave the impression of being in a hurry. But a King has a busy day, after all, and he was a firm believer in things like punctuality and consistent start times.
Clarisse was also tall and graceful. (They made a beautiful couple, and their simply walking side by side was an entrancing sight.) The Queen was also a busy person. Still, she lingered an extra few minutes, savoring a second cup of tea and the quiet of the morning.
David, Head of Royal Security and Primary Bodyguard to His Majesty, accompanied Joseph to Their Majesties' suite at the beginning of each day, timing their arrival with the end of breakfast.
The parting conversation was usually a polite and amiable version of this:
Rupert, standing up from the table: Time to start the day, darling.
Clarisse, tilting her face upward to receive a peck on the cheek: Alright, dear.
Rupert: Do check in with me if you get bored or run out of things to do.
Clarisse, speaking over her teacup, her tone the verbal equivalent of an eye roll: Mm, yes. Of course, I will.
Rupert, after a nod to David: Joseph, take care of our Queen.
Joseph, with a small but solemn bow: As always, Your Majesty.
Rupert, whom no one would ever guess liked to tease the Queen just a little bit in private: It appears Her Majesty has left some food and is finishing with tea. [Insert a withering look from his wife here.] Help yourself while the pastries are warm and the coffee is hot.
Joseph: Thank you. I have eaten already.
Joseph would never dream of sitting down with the Queen and eating from the King's pastry tray. The King didn't expect him to accept. Neither did the Queen.
So when Joseph changed the script on the morning after He Knew from a polite pass to, "Thank you, I think I will," David's eyes widened, Rupert's mouth twitched to suppress a grin, and Clarisse made a delicate sputtering sound into her teacup.
With a wink and a chuckle to Clarisse, who was slightly pink-cheeked with the knowledge of what those gestures meant, Rupert bade farewell and was off.
Naturally, Joseph did not take the King's vacated seat. He walked around to a chair opposite Clarisse and sat down as if he did it every day.
Clarisse placed a teacup in front of him, then: "Or would you prefer coffee?"
"Tea is fine, thank you." He reached for the teapot and his fingers bumped into hers. Understanding that she meant to pour the tea for him, he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "You don't need to -"
"Nonsense, you are my guest." She gave him a disarming smile. "Room for milk?"
"No." He cleared his throat. "I don't drink much in the way of caffeine. But tea is nice sometimes."
"Tea is nice any time," she declared. "To what do you contribute your unflagging energy?"
He gave a hint of a smile. "Vegetable juice. First thing in the morning. Then…" He cleared his throat again. They had chatted before, but that was when he Hadn't Known and had certainly never accepted The Invitation To Breakfast. "Toast. Or oatmeal."
"Very admirable. Tell me, what is your weakness?"
Assuming she was still on the subject of diet and not venturing into matters of the heart, he replied, "Chocolate. Dark. With nuts."
Clarisse nodded thoughtfully. "Chocolate is a source of antioxidants. And nuts have, er…"
"Protein. Fiber. Good fats."
She sighed, glancing wistfully at the virtually untouched tray of pastries. "Are there good fats?"
He chuckled. "There are." He pointedly imitated her glance at the baked goods. "But I'm afraid you won't find them there."
She gave a small frown that dissipated quickly when she laughed.
The morning breakfast conversation was forever altered. It was over the breakfast table on another morning that the Queen asked Joseph to call her Clarisse. To reciprocate, Joseph told her she was welcome to call him Joe. (She declined.)
And every year, in addition to the Christmas bonus, Joseph received a box of the finest chocolate available. Dark chocolate. With nuts.
-0-
The ballroom was finally empty of all people other than the Queen and her bodyguard. She took one more tour around the grand room, fingering linens and checking silver and rearranging the flowers gloriously bursting in autumnal color.
Queens never fidget. They just reset tables.
Joseph moved close enough to her to call her by name. "Clarisse. Are you alright?"
She spun around quickly as though she had forgotten he was still there. "What's that? Oh. I don't know. I suppose I'm a little nervous."
"You've done this before."
"So many times before, Joseph."
"Then what could possibly make you nervous?"
"I'll be dancing. It's the first time I'll dance since my traitorous ankle sprained itself." They both looked down at her foot as she flexed it.
Joseph frowned. "I think it's a miracle it healed at all, with those shoes you wear."
She ignored his comment, which had a grumpy edge to it. She loved her high heels. He hated them, citing potential danger to the Crown. It was still a sore point with her that one time - one time! - on a rain-slicked sidewalk, he was right. Come to think of it, she had not seen that particular pair of shoes since. She wondered if they had met a violent end.
"I should try it out before tomorrow evening."
Joseph held out his hand. "May I?"
"Is there music?"
"I hear music whenever I watch you move."
"Really? My, my." She took his hand and slipped naturally into the circle of his arms. "What is the orchestra playing now?"
"Hmm. I think it's that Genovian dance - the one that's not quite a waltz, not yet a tango."
"I do love that one."
"So do I."
"I've heard dancing is the way to the Spanish heart."
He shrugged elegantly as they executed the first spin. The conversation was light and their movements smooth. No one would know they could almost hear each other's heart beat.
"Perhaps."
"Wouldn't you know?"
"My mother was Spanish. My father's family came from the Basque region."
"One more thing I've discovered about you."
They lapsed into silence, going through the motions as if they had danced together for years. As if this weren't the first time they had held each other. They were side by side now; she gazed into his eyes, he contemplated her mouth.
The nice thing about music in one's head is that it can go on for much longer than it should. But even silent music has to wend its way to a finish at some point, if there is any hope of restoring an air of respectability between a Queen and her bodyguard. Somehow, they knew when to stop. The sensation of touching lingered in their skin as they moved apart.
"I don't know if it's the Spanish part of my heart or the Basque part," he said in a low voice, "but dancing is certainly the way to it."
She couldn't resist. After years of adhering to propriety, she suddenly needed to feel a connection to him; and her hand cupped his face. "Is it?"
He swallowed hard, taking her hand in his. He kissed the back of her fingers. "It is."
-0-
They waited until the boys were fast asleep before slipping out onto the balcony.
Somehow it hadn't seemed right to leave after Rupert had shared the news. Clarisse sat next to him, holding his hand for courage. Father Pierre eventually dozed on Rupert's shoulder, and Crown Prince Philippe slept fitfully sitting upright on the floor, his head on Clarisse's lap.
For a long time, Rupert and Clarisse watched their sons sleep, as they hadn't done in thirty years. It occurred to Rupert that he had never really had the children nestle on him beyond infancy. Clarisse had indulged them longer. Only now, feeling the weight of his first-born's head on him, the long lanky length of his body tucked into his side, Rupert discovered that he himself was the one being indulged. What a gift this was. He looked over at Clarisse, who stroked Philippe's head as she had when he was little. She knew what this was. She'd always treasured parenthood's fleeting indulgences.
Now it was just the two of them again, the night air balmy and heady with summertime. There was so much to talk about, but a sense of the sacred had settled over their suite, and neither wanted to inject sorrow into this space in time.
"What about Edouard?"
Rupert felt a new wave of despair wash over him. He cleared his throat. "He doesn't know. I couldn't. Not until I told you."
She nodded once, an apparent dismissal of that topic. "I've been thinking."
"Yes?"
"About the Genovian Cultural Restoration Committee."
"About the - what?"
"They've been wanting me to choose the next project. And I want to choose the next project. You know how they get when they have too much time on their hands."
"I do. I won't miss them."
"Well, what about Greenleaf?"
"Greenleaf."
"Yes. It's one of the loveliest estates for a hundred-mile radius. The manor has been open to the public for years, and in all that time, it hasn't had any serious renovation. It's such a gem, and deserves to have some attention lavished upon it."
"I suppose, but -"
"We'll start with the east wing."
"But that's the private wing. It's not on the tour."
"No, but it won't do to keep up the showrooms and neglect other portions. It should be restored organically, with the whole edifice in mind."
Rupert spoke slowly. "It won't be inhabitable."
"Not with all the curators and architects and craftsmen about."
"And the committee members."
"Edouard can hardly be expected to stay in a section that might have tourists wandering through." Finally, Clarisse drove it home. "He'll have to stay here."
-0-
Joseph found himself averting his eyes, like so many of the others did. At first, he loathed them for it. Still loathed some of them for it. But as time went on and the balance tipped in favor of the cancer, Rupert's suffering was harder to conceal. Some people were embarrassed by it, or for him. Others were disgusted by it. However, Rupert was a well-loved king, and most of his subjects sought to give him the one thing he'd never known: privacy.
It was harder in close quarters such as these. Joseph was alone with the King in his study. Despite the toll on his body, he managed to look regal in his white tie and black coat, if not as tall and solid. And despite the cancer, a cigarette dangled from his fingers. Joseph noticed that it shook a little.
He must have spent too much time looking at the cigarette during the King's coughing fit. Rupert noticed and gave him a wry smile.
"You won't tell her, will you?"
"I won't."
"I ask because I don't know how it is between you two. Whether you have secrets."
He wasn't prying, only making a statement, so Joseph remained silent.
"I swear I'm down to two a day. If that." Rupert regarded the cigarette thoughtfully. Then he sighed and brought it to his lips in a resigned fashion. "I'll need your help tonight."
"Of course. I am at your service as always."
"The first dance is ours." He tapped the ashes into a tray made of cut glass. It was a beautiful piece. "I don't think I'll have it in me to do more than that. And you may be aware, I promised her long ago that I would cut in whenever Viscount Mabrey managed to snag a dance with her."
"I am aware of that."
"He'll try again tonight. He has coveted her for decades."
Joseph felt the contents of his stomach curdle at the thought. He suspected Rupert was experiencing something similar.
"I won't be able to get to her fast enough, Joseph."
"Just give me the sign, and I'll have him strung up by his toes in the courtyard."
"I never knew that was an option."
"Did David never offer?"
"No. Does it have to be by his...toes?"
"I will see it done however His Majesty wishes," Joseph vowed.
"Tempting. Very tempting." Rupert shook his head as though to clear the thought from his mind. "Not tonight. Tonight, I only want to make sure that you keep an eye on her. If you see him coming, get there first and ask her to dance."
There was a long pause while Joseph digested the request and reined in his emotions. "With all due respect, Sir, I recommend the courtyard."
"I know it's putting you in a bit of an awkward spot. The Queen does not usually dance with…"
The help.
"...her staff. But you are her bodyguard, and I want you to protect her from Mabrey."
"By dancing with her."
"Yes."
"In front of...everyone."
"In front of God and Country."
"Does she know…? That is, if I ask Clari-...Her Majesty to dance, what will she say?"
"She will say yes. Why wouldn't she? Don't you think she wants to dance with you?"
"Your Majesty -"
"Let's not pretend, Joseph. Life is too short. I will be gone sooner rather than later. I want you to take care of her."
"Always, Your Majesty, but -"
"In every way, Joseph. She'll need her Head of Security. And she deserves Joseph Romero." His gaze was intense even as the conversation left him winded. "Dance with her tonight, and...make sure she doesn't mourn...too long."
"Please -"
Rupert held up his hand, the one with the cigarette. "Just say, 'Yes, Your Majesty.'"
Joseph opened and closed his mouth several times before he was certain the right words were on his tongue. "Yes. Yes, Your Majesty."
"Thank you. That is all." It was a simple response, softly delivered, but an inexpressible gratitude lay behind it.
Joseph pulled the heavy wooden door shut as he left. He walked down the corridor purposefully, but not hurriedly. The marble floor and airy ceiling heights always felt cool, but this winter had penetrated the palace with a particularly malevolent chill.
By the time he reached the security hub, he had a plan in his head to make sure the King and Queen's first dance happened in a timely manner; that it was imperceptibly shortened to a bearable length; that only the most loyal members of the court surrounded them when others joined in, and that his own men were stationed unobtrusively nearby, should the King need a helping hand.
-0-
Clarisse closed the door behind her with effort, weary with the weight of the world and the sadness of too many people.
"You're out awfully late."
She startled at the sight of a figure reclining on the sofa in her sitting room, then felt a rush of emotion - anger, relief, disappointment - when she recognized him.
"I've been wondering when you would show up," she said as she made her way to the bar.
"No need to detour," Edouard said, nodding toward the two tumblers on the coffee table in front of him.
Clarisse changed course abruptly and settled onto the love seat across from him. He leaned forward and offered her one of the glasses of bourbon.
"Wherever have you been these last few weeks?"
"Biding my time," he said as they held their glasses toward each other in a wordless, airy toast. "I figured you had enough to deal with."
"You're here now. And you don't have to say it. I know it all."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Is that so," he said curiously. "Do tell."
"How could I make my grandchild - Rupert's grandchild - endure the same fate he did? How can I condemn her to an arranged marriage, to a life full of inevitable regret? How can I regard my country above her heart?"
"God, you're sexy -" He raised his glass and murmured into his drink. "- when you're wrong."
"I beg your pardon."
"Oh, I suppose there was some of that rattling around in my brain. I admit, I was surprised to hear the news, but I saw the look on your face in television spots since the announcement was made, and I knew you were no more thrilled than I was."
"It was her choice, Edouard. I gave her a choice. I tried to tell her."
"I have no doubt," he said quietly.
"And I have no doubt the timing of your visit is significant in some way."
"You are right about that, my dear. I have, in fact, heard some distressing news. Possibly even more distressing than the whole arranged marriage thing."
This time, Clarisse raised her eyebrows. "Is that so?"
"It has come to my attention that you have refused the proposal of marriage made by a certain gentleman."
Clarisse's eyebrows nearly touched her hairline. "You've heard -... What?"
"Don't look so alarmed. I have my connections, and you of all people should know me capable of keeping juicy secrets."
Awareness dawned on her. "The maids...damn them."
He waited while she sifted through her thoughts. She would refer to those before she checked in with her heart.
"I made my choice and my vows years ago."
"Your vows expired when Rupert did."
"My marriage to my country did not."
"Your granddaughter will reign as Queen soon enough. Whatever will you do with all that spare time on your hands?"
"I need to be there for her. She needs me."
"As do we all, I promise. But there may be one person who needs you more than Amelia does."
"I don't think so." Clarisse put down her drink and reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a small square of paper, folded many times over; held it almost lovingly before tossing it onto the coffee table. "His letter of resignation."
Edouard ignored the sinking feeling in his soul and waved his hand as nonchalantly as she had dropped the letter. "It's a mood. It will pass."
"I don't think so."
He dropped the cavalier attitude in response to the somber tone of her voice. "And if it doesn't? What then, Clarisse?"
"I...I don't know, Edouard. I don't know. Duty to country, I suppose. I'll keep busy. Amelia needs me." She rattled the small sentences off like a robot, and without an ounce of conviction.
He waited again, this time as she wrestled with her emotions.
"Oh, Edouard. What have I done?"
"You sent Joseph away."
"I didn't! I didn't send him away! He left!"
"Clarisse. It's not duty. It's not even Amelia, although you're right. She's going to need your help, bless her." He watched her carefully. "Clarisse?"
She was blinking quickly now. In the space of one of those blinks, he was next to her, his arms around her. For the second time in all the years they'd known each other, he held her as she cried. The first time, it should have been the father of her child, her baby. But Rupert wasn't there any longer. Edouard had held her as she was enveloped in a grief he could not touch.
She had held him once, six years ago. When he had been the one crying.
"Why should I have happiness? Why should I have what you and Rupert never could?"
"Ah, I see," he said soothingly. "Survivor's guilt."
"Yes," she replied bitterly. "Something like that."
They sat quietly for a long time, wrapped in an embrace that would never be mentioned again. She quaked silently in his arms until the tears stopped. Until matters of the heart and mind merged and tempered one another, in a way that they did only with Edouard.
"I despised you at first," he said, almost affectionately.
"I know."
"You were so young and sweet and innocent. And in love."
She tried to laugh it off. "Could you blame me?"
He shook his head. "No. I mean, yes, he was charming and handsome - like a prince out of a fucking fairy tale. All the women swooned over him."
"Poor things," Clarisse said sympathetically.
"Weren't they? But you weren't like those groupies. You...loved him."
"He warned me not to," she whispered.
"It wouldn't have been so bad, seeing him with you. But love seeped out of every one of your maddeningly microscopic pores. And you made it so easy for him to act like he loved you back. Because he did."
"Not like he loved you. Never like that."
"I thought I was sophisticated and worldly. Not to mention, completely justified in my anger. I wish I hadn't been such an idiot all those years. Tell me, did it matter to him? All the…" He trailed off, the past suddenly unbearable.
Clarisse spoke honestly, and he was glad for it. "I think it hurt him, every time the gossip columnist linked you with some socialite or starlet. But then, he was with me. He could hardly expect you to sit at home and twiddle your thumbs for the rest of your life."
"Except I didn't love them. Not a one of them."
"He knew that, Edouard. He knew you loved him, that you'd never stopped loving him."
"I wish I'd had a less despicable way of showing it." He wallowed, but just a little. As his youthful sense of injustice had waned, eventually he had learned to let go of the wallowing. "Besides, if I'd grown up a little earlier, you and I would have been great friends that much sooner."
Clarisse laughed. "Yes, I'm sure."
"You are irresistible," he sighed.
"Not completely," she reminded him.
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Joseph."
"The only way any of us were ever going to have a chance at what we wanted was if one of us died. He died, Edouard. He died, and he left you behind, and he left Joseph and me, and all we can do is respect the fact that he never -...that he was never going to be allowed to…"
"It was different with Rupert and me," he said, his words muffled against the top of her head. "We never would have had a chance. Nothing would have changed our circumstances. But you and Joseph -"
"A Queen and her bodyguard?"
"A dowager queen and the man who would die for her. Clarisse, you cannot tell me that Rupert would want you to continue to deny yourself this happiness. You cannot convince me that he would have wanted you to endure avoidable heartbreak. Take your chance, darling."
"It's too late."
"He's not a fool. A little time and space, and he'll figure it out."
"Time and space. I'm afraid we're all running out of both of those things," she said rather cheekily.
A silent laugh rumbled through him and around her. "I wasn't going to mention it. After all, you and I both look damn good for all the time we've seen."
"I'm sure I look quite attractive at the moment."
"Let me see." He held her at arm's length. "Your mascara is in dire need of retouching, and your hair is a rumpled mess. But those are just surface issues. You're as gorgeous as ever."
"You know, I don't recall seeing your RSVP for Mia's wedding."
"I was allowing myself a little time to rebel. I'll be there."
"What should I do?"
Time and space were working on Clarisse and Edouard now, the intimacy shared between them quickly claiming a spot on the shelf next to the other memories that would be stored, unlabeled and unopened. He retrieved his usual barbed sense of humor that had long been a source of irritated amusement to Clarisse and a shield for his heart.
"I suggest waiting until after you've sold your granddaughter into marriage for political gain. Then be sure to have someone catch the bouquet for you. You'll have to marry someone if you have the bouquet."
"Aren't you a riot," she intoned, leaving his gravitational pull and taking her drink again. "I suppose I could always ask him."
"Wouldn't I love to see that."
"Wouldn't you just."
He reclaimed his seat across from her and lifted his drink once more. "To Rupert."
"And to Mia. May she and Andrew know love and fondness and respect."
"And may they never find anyone they actually want to marry."
"You are the only person I know on whom cynicism looks rather attractive."
"I can wear anything well. Clarisse?"
"Edouard?"
"Maybe you should ask."
"Don't be absurd."
"I mean it. Just promise me this. No, promise yourself. If the opportunity presents itself. Do it, Clarisse. Do what I never could have done. Make Joseph happy. Be happy, Clarisse."
She nodded, the lump in her throat too painful to allow her to say much. "I promise."
"Then it's official. You've promised." He leaned forward and clinked his glass against hers.
-0-
It took awhile before Edouard had a chance to dance with the woman who hadn't planned on being married that morning.
When he cut in on Lord Palimore, she looked at him with gratitude for many things, not the least of which was saving her from Lord Palimore.
"You're glowing," he said. "And for that, I will forgive you."
She laughed, surprised. "Whatever for?"
"Just because you have my blessing doesn't mean I wanted to actually witness the nuptials. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound."
"You caught on to me. I purposely arranged everything so you would have to attend my wedding."
"I know that is a lie. If you had intended to marry, you would have chosen different attire. God, who dressed you this morning?"
"I like that suit."
"What on earth compels you to like it?"
"It was too expensive not to."
"How tacky," he teased her, his eyes twinkling. "Are you happy?"
"I am. I think Joseph is, too."
"I don't recall ever seeing the man smile once over the years, but he hasn't stopped for hours. I look at him and my cheeks hurt."
"Are you happy, Edouard?"
The question caught him off guard. He thought for a long moment before answering honestly. "Yes. Yes, I am. In a strange way, your moving on means that Rupert is mine. So I suppose it's a selfish kind of happiness."
"That's alright. I think we're entitled." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you for this."
"Thank you, Clarisse."
"May I cut in?"
They looked up to see Joseph. Sure enough, he was as Edouard described him: all smiles.
"Only if you promise to keep her," Edouard said. "I've recently saved her from Lord Palimore."
"I promise."
"At least, we don't have to worry about the viscount anymore."
"No," Clarisse said with feeling as Edouard released her. "We do not."
The new pairing took one spin before Joseph called Edouard back. "I promise."
It was a vow Edouard felt in his bones, more than the ones he'd heard exchanged at the cathedral. This vow meant something to the three of them that no one else would ever understand. It reverberated through him; and though he wasn't much for spiritual nonsense, he sent it along with a hopefulness uncharacteristic of him that it would end up wherever Rupert was.
If he was lucky, it would leave a groove in the Universe, a trail of stars scattered like cosmic breadcrumbs for Edouard to follow when it was finally his turn.
The End