Charlotte
Every time he imagined having a wife he saw a maddening creature that would be a burden to him. Something to endure for the sake of duty, for honor, for the end goal of a dowry and a sure line of succession. He imagined someone who both expected too much and lacked the awareness to make sure demands. The prospect had filled him with dread as much as he wanted what it represented socially and could gain politically. He never imagined a woman with crystal blue eyes that sparkled with mischief and a sardonic humor that matched his own. A woman who viewed everything through a veil of hilarity and possessed a cheerful sensuality that was bone deep. A woman who kept him on a near perpetual state of amusement.
In short, he'd never expected to marry his wife.
From the beginning she'd met him head on. Unafraid. Unapologetic. Unwilling to put on a pretense. There would no fake modesty, or plays for power, no confusion as to what she wanted or expected. He'd been charmed in a way that he'd never expected or experienced before. Ursula had been the hope of playing the hero, Caterina had been two wolves circling each other waiting for the kill and Lucrezia had been a communion of two dark souls. Never had he been seduced with good humored, honesty and laughing eyes.
For the pleasure of witnessing that scene alone, my answer would be… yes. Can you promise me more of them? He'd trotted her up the stairs to his bed while she giggled infectiously. Even when he was inside her the first time, that humor had never left her eyes. The feeling that she was having a ripping good time and he was part of it. He'd never been friends with a lover before. Had never known that it would bring this kind of ease. Marriage was… fun. Who knew?
He compared her to Lucrezia. It was impossible not to. Charlotte was taller, with dark features, light eyes and a fuller figure. Lucrezia was a petite confection of cream and gold, with the face of an angel. Charlotte needed virtually nothing of him but enjoyed his company and left him amused and lightened. Lucrezia required everything of him and fulfilled him while they weighed each other down.
Charlotte seemed to be the only member of the French court who didn't view him as the mongrel invited to the thoroughbred's show. He'd mentioned it during one of their trysts, while they lay exhausted and sweat sheened, dazed and still full of laughter. She'd snickered and ran a hand down his bare chest.
They have to. But don't think that any of those women wouldn't kill to have you in their bed. She'd rolled over then, raised up to straddle his hips and meet his lips with hers, even as he responded to the wet heat of her pressed against him. She pulled away with a sly smile as he shifted and slid inside her, bone hard, as if he hadn't spent himself inside her mere minutes ago. She'd bent down then to whisper in his ear. You are the stallion they can't bring themselves to buy. The Borgia bull they can't admit to wanting.
On their wedding night she is proven correct. He pulls off his shirt and the chorus of gasps and giggles that follow made him want to howl with laughter. Charlotte's sardonic eyebrow doesn't help. He know what he looks like, has worked hard to make his body the work of art that it is, but the look in those women's eyes remind him of Lucrezia faced with a second tray of desserts. Conflicted and desirous.
She lies with him under the marital sheet and asks about love. He recites scripture, all the while thinking that the idiot who'd written those words had obviously never known what it felt like to burn as he does. He lies to protect her, this woman who'd never asked for protection and she laughs again, seeing it for what it was. You lie to comfort me because you leave tomorrow. And I love you for it. There is no censure there. No expectation.
He spends most of the night taking her, making her exalt in ecstasy over and over, repositioning her, using all the knowledge he has of her and any woman he's ever been with to make her gasp and writhe and scream. To give her a child to cherish and love her as he never could when he leaves her in the morning. She takes it all, her laughter ringing in his ears, coaxing out his smiles one after the other. Sometime in the small hours of the morning she falls into a deep sleep, her dark hair spread everywhere, her olive skin stark against the white sheets. He cannot join her. He rises and walked to the window, opening it to feel the cool breeze on his bare flesh. When he gazes out the window, the Duke of Valantinois with ambition in his heart and an army at his back all he sees is her face. Pale skin, light knowing eyes and golden hair. Come back soon.
Tomorrow. He will leave for home tomorrow and be with her soon enough.
Charlotte stirs and he glances over to see her now sprawled out on the bed and smiles.
She is Hippolyta ravished and satiated and he is Herackles restless and ever striving. And he takes a single moment to mourn that all her laughter and honesty never will sink deep enough to warm the dark corners of his heart.
