Author's note: I was getting rather grim writing and editing all that angst in The Garden of Earthly Delights, despite how much I'm enjoying it. So I decided to do this and boy, was it hard. It was harder than writing that which is bizarre. One, because I don't tend to write anything near as racy as this (or what I consider racy) and two, I have pretty entrenched views of their roles and I tried to escape them in this and it was hard.
Anyway, it was fun too and here it is. Please review it since I am not so sure of the characterisation and it is, to my mind, risque.
Disclaimer: None of the characters herein belong to me and I make no money from writing about them. I simply enjoy it and recognise the rights of the owners, Disney and Meg Cabot.
"It can be good to be given what you want; it can be better, in the end, never to have it proved to you that this is what you wanted" – Mary Renault
-0-
"I should like," she said as she slid her undrunk champagne onto a passing tray, "To retire now."
He nodded and motioned to the Princess, who was dancing in a circle with her friends, in the centre of the room.
"And the princess, Your Majesty?"
Clarisse looked at her granddaughter, "Doesn't she look incredibly happy?"
He observed her then nodded his agreement, "She does indeed. I think young Mr. Moscovitz has a lot to do with that."
Clarisse fiddled restlessly with her glove and cast him a sideways look, "Did he really steal your plan?"
"You doubt my honesty?"
She shook her head, "No, your intentions though…"
"You wound me," he placed a hand over his breast and then tipped his head, "Excuse me, Your Majesty. I shall go and hand over the security and then, if it pleases you, I'll escort you to your chamber?"
She nodded and said nothing, though the music would have swallowed any response she gave anyway.
He eased his way through the crowd, brushing past nobles and staff alike. The majority of older guests had retired earlier and now it was the princess and her friends and the closer acquaintances of the family. It had turned into a real party, a proper shindig the likes he imagined Clarisse was quietly disapproving of.
"Shades," he motioned to his subordinate, who was standing at the edge of the room, "Her Majesty intends to retire. I shall escort her. See the end of the night out, will you? And see the princess to her chambers."
Shades nodded, "Yes boss."
"Good, thank you," he flicked off his ear piece with the minute switch on his lapel, "Then, I will bow out too."
Shades nodded, "Alright sir."
He made his way back to her, where she stood with Charlotte. They both look tired but Clarisse even more so. Her tiara sparkled in the lights but the jewels around her neck lay heavy and dense across her collarbones. He resisted the itching urge to reach out and touch her. Tonight she seemed ethereal, made even more beautiful by the distance between them. It had come perilously close, the thing between them, to being real.
"Are you ready, your majesty?"
"I am," she nodded, "But do not announce it. I should like to leave quietly. Let Amelia have her fun, Charlotte. And the maids, tell them I will not need them."
Her assistant nodded as he offered his arm.
"Can I escort you, then, to your apartments?"
"Of course you can," she offered her gloved hand.
And he failed to resist the temptation to lift it to his mouth and kiss it.
They journeyed through the quiet of the halls, the music receding the further they went into the private areas of the consulate. The only sound then was the rustle of her ball gown, the quiet click of their shoes on the marble.
"Come in," she said quietly, "For a drink. I think it's only right that I offer you some sort of thanks for your help this evening."
"It's my job," he stopped at the threshold, "Clarisse."
"No," she shook her head, "You go above and beyond, always. And a drink will surely begin to illustrate my thanks."
He nodded quietly but did not follow her.
She turned at the threshold, "You think this is a bad idea."
It was not a question. Words having abandoned him he said nothing and lifted his shoulders in a broad shrug. She smiled and a quiet laugh, low and unsure, escaped her. He stepped into the warm silence of the chamber and let the door fall closed behind himself. Then it was just them and a night of muted music stretching out in front of them. He watched as she peeled her gloves off and laid them beside the champagne bucket. There was dew dripping down the sides, puddling on the French polish.
He motioned to it and turned the glasses the right way up, "You planned ahead?"
She smiled, "Always. And Charlotte, as always, obliged."
He removed his jacket and set it aside, then rolled up his sleeves. He thumbed the cork and held the bottle out from his body and away from her and popped it so white froth poured from the top. He smiled at her and held it over their glasses.
"You pour like a pro," she said, her hands reaching up as she unpinned her tiara.
"I am a pro," he slid her glass to the side, then motioned to the tiara, "Going to lock that away?"
"What fun is there in that?" She held up her glass and motioned a cheers to him.
"None whatsoever," he raised his glass with a crooked smile.
He watched her go to the seats then, her ball gown forcing her to move awkwardly and sidle past the coffee table. It was a mess; littered with papers and folders and documents she'd been looking at that day. She settled on the settee, her dress fanning around herself on the seats. He pushed the taffeta away and sat beside her.
"Cheers," he held out his glass, "To the continued Renaldi rule."
"Amen to that," she clinked her glass against his, "Now the real work begins."
"Oh, for one night you can forget that…"
"Such an optimist Colonel," she laughed.
"I'm serious," he took a sip of the champagne and, holding the bowl with one hand, began unfurling his bow tie. He stuffed it in his trouser pocket.
"I know you are," she was watching him closely, "But it is so much easier said than done."
"Then let me distract you," he said seriously.
She raised a brow and he laughed darkly.
"She was wonderful."
"She was," he agreed with a nod, "She came across incredibly well. She is going to be good."
"So I hope," she nodded, running her fingers through her hair so the perfect styling was skewed.
"You are allowed to enjoy it," his hand ghosted out to hers - his fingers grazing the tips of her own -where it sat on the couch.
"Too afraid," she muttered, mouth hidden behind her glass.
"That's silly," he said softly, with nothing close to derision or mocking in his tone, "You know."
She tipped her head to the side, "Of course I know."
"But?"
She laughed lowly, "But…how long have you known me?"
"Longer than I care to admit," he smiled, taking her glass from her and, going to the bucket, refilling them. His hands shook as he did so and made the glasses clink unsteadily.
"I can't decide if that's an insult or not," she answered dryly.
"Neither can I," he tipped his head back, letting his eyes fall closed for a second, as he sat back down and gave her the glass.
Here he was at peace, comfortable, and she was too. He was here, metaphorically and literally, all the time when he was with her.
"Are you tired?"
"Relieved I think," he answered, "Relieved for you."
"Well, I'm exhausted," she smiled, "I can't say thank you enough Jo-"
"Then don't say it," he laughed softly, "You don't need to."
"Why not?"
He was silent for a moment, "You know why."
She nodded and her eyes met his as he pulled his head forward. There was a stretch of silence in which their eyes were locked, mirroring the growing something they could not name and could not understand.
"I should go…"
He wasn't sure if he was proffering an invitation or awaiting one. Either way he knew it was a risky thing to do and so he stood and feigned his going in a desperate bid to be asked to remain.
"Or…"
She was examining her palms intently.
He smiled a little, "I'll bid you goodnight."
She shook her head, as if words had escaped her, "Goodnight."
He turned to go, grabbing his jacket as he went and willing himself to ignore his own yearning for the impossible.
"Wait."
If he hadn't been listening so intently for it, praying for it too, he would have failed to hear her whisper over the ruffle of taffeta as she stood.
"What if-"
He turned to her, covered the space between himself and where she was standing in a matter of two steps.
"A dangerous idea," he touched his hand to hers.
She was embarrassed but he could see she was forcing the words out, "I need help to get out of this dress."
He couldn't help but smile, "Always the diplomat."
He thought she was about to answer but he wouldn't let her, he was so afraid she might suddenly back-peddle on her unspoken proposition. He used to be honourable, or at least he used to pretend he was, but the moment Rupert shed his mortal coil Joseph had shed his determination to remain her friend and ally. He had not known the desire to love her, to be more than what he was to her, had been so forceful until he realised it was the only thing that kept him where he had been pinned for years. Now he was taking her face in his hands, drawing her lips towards his. He could smell her closely and there was something else there too; fear and hope mingled with cherry blossom and the sharp sweetness of vintage champagne.
"Are you sure you need help with your dress?"
She smiled against his mouth, "Yes."
"And are you sure you want me?"
Not so dishonourable after all, he thought, as he pulled back to look at her face. He would have liked to believe it would all be easy, to slip into her bed and into her life as seamlessly as that, as easily as one night of prolonged supressed attraction acted upon. But everything good and decent in him knew it would not be as simple as that.
"For years," she said simply.
He grinned then, unabashedly, and saw his own pleasure reflected on her mouth and in her eyes.
"I can't believe I have just told you that."
"It's taken you long enough," he whispered, face inches from hers.
He kissed her then, properly. It was a rush of colour, of measured little violations of each other's propriety, of shared breath and thumping pulses. He dragged his thumb over her patrician jaw line, down into the curve of her neck, lazily over the heavy jewels over her collarbones. He was overcome suddenly by a mad urge to remove them from her and chuck them, carelessly, beside her tiara.
"Trust me?"
He kissed the side of her mouth, held her close against him lest she decide she'd suddenly made a terrible mistake.
"With my life," she answered, eyes closed.
"Turn around."
It was testament to their incredibly close friendship, and whatever this was now, that there wasn't a question on her mouth or in her eyes. She simply did as she was asked and turned to face the draped windows.
His fingers hesitated, hovering over the heavy platinum clip of the piece. It was estimated at three quarters of a million Euros and had belonged to her mother in law and was a gift on her 21st birthday. He pushed the sides of the clip together and let the piece fall open. He leaned forward and kissed the newly revealed skin while he pulled the jewels from her collarbone and dropped them carelessly on the couch. The tang of metal on his mouth, he trailed lazy, curious lips along her neck and shoulder until they met the edge of the dress on her shoulder. Braver now, he slid his fingers up to the nape of her neck and through her hair and was pleased when it elicited a moan.
"Are you sure?"
He whispered it, his mouth beside her ear.
"The zip," her voice was low and tremulous, "Is just below your fingers."
He kissed her earlobe, teeth grazing the soft skin there and tasting perfume.
"Here?"
His fingers alighted on the top of it. He flicked the small pull.
"Yes," she answered, twisting her head so he was tempted by the gentle skin of her neck again.
He was at liberty then to do as he wished with her, with her unconditional trust held in his hands.
"Just here."
The noise was louder, ripping through their breathing, than they had expected. He had imagined he'd slide the zip down slowly, torturously, when he had first spied it tonight as she turned full circle for him to let him see her dress, yet here he was with fingers more nervous than he had imagined them.
The dress, now loose, dripped onto her upper arms from her shoulders. She turned to face him slowly.
"I love this dress on you," he ran his hand over the loosened material pooled in the crook of her elbow.
"You do?"
"I do," he nodded.
He watched as her hand crossed over her body and slid the arm of her dress down. Eyes on her face all the time, he enjoyed the shyness quite like he'd never enjoyed anything before. The dress had stopped at her hips and he finally allowed himself to look down.
"Lace?"
He couldn't keep the surprise form his voice.
"Lace," she nodded quietly.
He pulled her to him again then, his mouth seeking out hers. From her mouth – champagne – ,to her neck – cherry blossom and platinum, – to her chest – rose water and lace.
"Beautiful."
"Flatterer," her hand reached out to touch his shirt.
"There seems," he finally allowed his fingers to ghost along the ivory lace, "To be a distinct inequality here. That is what you are thinking, right?"
"Right," she nodded, trying to keep her voice light, "That's exactly what I think."
"Exactly?"
He caught up her hand and rested it on the buttons of his shirt.
"Mmmmhmm," she nodded, fingers deft on the rich cotton as she pulled it loose.
"Are you sure?"
"If you keep asking," she looked him straight in the eye, "You will make me think you are unsure."
He felt embarrassed for a moment, "No. I am…" he shook his head, "I am very sure. It's just…"
She had unbuttoned his entire shirt while he'd been flustering, "It's just that I am fragile. Isn't it?"
He caught her hand in his as she slid the shirt from his shoulder, "Don't."
"I know that's what you think," she said simply, hands running deliberately down his arms as she slid the sleeves away again. He enjoyed the feel of her skin against his, "And you are right. But not right now, not when I'm more sure of this decision than I've ever been."
"What happens after, what happens in the morning?"
His question seemed undermined by his hands, sliding the dress over her hips to fall down her legs and pool in an expensive mass around her feet. He stole a look at her legs. Stockings. He'd known, of course, that she wore stockings every day. Not tights, not socks. There were things you could not avoid knowing when you worked with someone, as closely as he worked with her, twenty-four hours a day. To see the knowledge made a reality was completely different though. And breath-taking. His fingers itched to run over the lace at the top, the lace stuck luckily against perfect thighs.
"What happens, happens," she was, with a confidence he hadn't expected of her, undoing the buckle of his belt.
"And what if we can't do this?"
He watched, with the self-abuse that had to come with his honour frustrating him, as her hands stalled. She pulled them away and placed them both on the sides of his face.
"You're doubting us already," she said quietly, "Give us a chance. God knows, I am."
He smiled then, his confidence returning. He took her hand in his and helped her step out of the ball-gown. She started towards the bedroom and he stood watching her, lecherous and admiring, as she sullied away.
"You're beautiful."
She looked over her shoulder as her hand rested on the handle of the bedroom door.
"You've seen me in a swimsuit before."
"Not lace though," he laughed, "And never have I been able to say to you."
"Are you coming Joseph?"
He cocked an eyebrow and she blushed.
"Into the bedroom…" she rolled her eyes.
"If I'm invited."
He was teasing her because he was nervous. She was teasing because…he didn't know why. He didn't quite feel this was the way it was supposed to have been but it was, if nothing else, exciting.
"You are," she smiled.
He strode towards her then, surer than even a moment ago, and backed her against the door gently. He didn't want to hurt her, push her, and expect something of her he'd expected of women in the past. But he couldn't resist this new strength he'd failed to see before. He'd always imagined her as coy, naïve. But that was his own fear, his own reservation colouring his fantasies.
"Clarisse," he dipped his mouth to trail a line along the lace at her chest, "Clarisse, you can't know how much I might lose control. You need to…talk to me. Tell me…"
"That sounds threatening and…just very promising," she tipped her head back, allowing him better access there as his hands alighted on her lean hips and pulled at the skin there, "But I'm made of more than glass."
"That's true," he pulled her thigh around his hip, so she was jammed and trapped between his body and the door.
She was smiling though, a smile he'd only ever seen when she thought no one else was looking. It had something else in it too. It had seduction and confidence and a love of self so present that is was almost crippling in its attractiveness.
"The maids…" she watched as he slid the strap of her bra down, "The maids are right."
He reached behind her and pushed down on the handle, controlling the door as it fell open so they didn't stumble into the room.
"And what do the maids say?"
She pulled away from him and, kicking off her shoes so she lost a few inches, crawled onto the huge bed.
"That you're very good with your hands."
"History," he grumbled, sliding his trousers down and booting them carelessly away, "Me thirty years ago. Old, old history."
"Oh you definitely have a history," she smiled and he shook his head.
"I didn't think you'd be a tease."
He crawled towards her on the bed, words of admission pouring form his mouth.
"I know you didn't," she laughed, "This is why this is such fun. At any rate, you always underestimate me Joseph."
He laughed then, because what she was saying was partly true. He couldn't deny he'd thought she'd be timid and submissive. Then, of course, he had to consider her marriage and what she'd been married into. Rupert wasn't the type who liked coy and gentle. She'd learned this, he imaged, out of necessity.
He pushed the thought away.
"I love you," he stopped her, pulling at a fine ankle so she couldn't edge away.
He had to bring some reality back.
"I know you do," she smiled gently, finger tracing over his goatee, "So show me what love feels like. I've never felt it before."
He felt humbled then by her honesty.
"I want you to enjoy this."
She smiled, "I will. I know I will."
He pulled her up onto her knees so there was hardly any space between their bodies. Only breathing and expectations and the hum of something realised that had been caged before.
"I want to make you scream," he whispered, "Do I have your permission?"
"Granted," she moaned as he reached around and undid her bra, "Stop asking."
"Right," he kissed her fully on the mouth, pulling the garment away from her body, "Right."
"I have wanted this since the moment you walked into my life," she admitted against his mouth as her hands raked over the planes of his chest.
"I believe you," he groaned as her hands grew infinitely braver.
"I see that," she smiled, "No matter what comes in the morning…"
He grinned and laughed at her implication, "Right, I agree."
"Good."
So what did you think? Please take a moment to say.