Author's note - Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the reviews on this story. I am delighted you're enjoying it and please keep on enjoying it (and telling me if you aren't). I am a firm believer that, despite what she probably wanted, Clarisse would never have an affair. More's the pity if you ask me!
The updates are coming so quickly because this story has existed - in one form or another - for nearly five years, I just wasn't happy with it until now. And I love editing and fixing much more than I enjoy initial writing.
There is some mild swearing in this chapter, and this will be the case throughout the remainder of the story, but it's hardly offensive.
The following morning was a rush of preparations; vetting, checking, recording everyone who came and went. Checking the crates of champagne for devices and ensuring that the records were clean on those who were serving stole his early morning. There was no time to think of the night before, of his conversation with the king. Running hourly perimeter checks and ensuring that the footmen were briefed took up his afternoon. Setting up the new headpieces that had arrived that morning and seemed averse to working across the sprawling grounds of the palace ate up his early evening.
By the time the first guest arrived he found himself exhausted. By the time the band struck up he wanted to sleep.
He was grateful then that he wasn't detailed to either the couple or the young princes who would, for a while, be attending. Instead he'd worked the earlier shift and Alois was taking over the actual running of the ball. He knew the plans better though and had volunteered to stick around so he did, watching from the side-lines as the queen descended the stairs in a luminous scarlet gown which was even more beautiful than he could have imagined.
She was, for the first time, in full royal jewellery and it glittered blindingly in the sparking light of the ballroom. At the top of the stairs, before she and the king were announced, she looked terrified. Her face was ashen and tight, her lips thin and frightened, her features fraught with tension from the argument still buzzing between them. Like switching on a light she suddenly transformed as they were announced. From fear to overflowing confidence, she appeared to become someone totally different in front of his eyes.
Any anger he had simply melted then. She was caged, in a gilded one nonetheless, but caged so fully. His conversation with the king had shown him that.
Here, the king had said, look at how truly sore our marriage is for her. Look at what I fail to see.
He watched her mingle with the eclectic group of genuine friends and family and then the stranger, invited guests. It was a habit he had grown into almost without realising; watching her closely. He watched how many glasses of champagne she had; two. He watched as, when one group turned away and before another approached, she slumped down only to recover as soon as someone else said hello. He watched as, in the absence of a jacket, she fiddled nervously with her long evening gloves. It was a repetitive, endless cycle of inane chatter and bland dancing and reserved laughter. Nearing midnight the butler, with whom he'd spoken rarely, approached him.
"The queen wants to speak with you," he said, dipping his head lightly.
"Oh?"
He was puzzled by this as she was no more than fifty feet away from him. She could have come to him easily.
"Yes," he answered blandly, apparently not fazed by this odd request, "She asks you speak to her now."
He nodded and headed towards her. Just as he approached a group who were previously conversing with her moved away, leaving her alone at the side of the room just as the band struck up a new waltz. He watched as her eyes alighted for a moment on the figure of the king, who was in close discussion with a number of nobles, but she pulled them away when he came to stand beside her and bowed.
"My mother taught me this trick."
"Trick, Your Majesty?"
"When you've wronged someone and they don't want to speak to you," she turned to look at him, "You trap them into it. Can you dance?"
"I see," he refused to look at her, for fear he'd show her his smile of amusement, "Am I trapped?"
"It appears so," she said quietly.
"Then I can dance," he agreed, offering his hand.
It felt strange, as it always did, to take a woman he didn't know against his body to dance. He knew how to dance politely and properly of course but he was rarely so close to a woman without any other intention than to simply dance. To do so with the queen was a different thing entirely. To do so with the woman he'd fantasised, without reservation about, was embarrassing. Dancing, for him, had always been an intimate act, a precursor to better things, so it felt bizarre to do it with her and not mean it.
Then it occurred to him that he did. He did mean it.
"I'm sorry," she said as he began to waltz her around the floor, "For what I said. I know it's taken me entirely too long to say it but I am sorry. I didn't know how else to convince you to listen to me."
He nodded, not quite ready to respond. He was lost in the sensation of dancing. He hadn't danced for so long, and so well, with someone.
"I like you Joseph," she said, voice subdued and secretive, "I do. I feel…you understand me. The problem with that, you see, is that I am not overly fond of such a prospect. You are very aware of me and how I feel. I don't like that. That is why I hate having security in general; they see you at your worst."
"I wouldn't use it against you," he answered, spinning her effortlessly, "And I get to see you at your best."
"I think I realise that," she answered, "Do you forgive me?"
"Of course Your Majesty," he smiled.
"You're a very good dancer," she said after a moment of silence.
"Quickest way to a Spanish heart," he joked, "I've always been a fool for good rhythm."
He needed to joke to pull away from the agony, the blistering realisation that was nameless and shapeless, growing within him.
"I think you should dance with more women," she said, "God knows the women in here would welcome the opportunity not to have their toes crushed by feckless nobles."
"I don't just dance with anyone Your Majesty," he said, bowing as the music slowed to a stop.
"How disappointing," she bowed her head gracefully, "I am sorry I was rude to you."
"I thought I'd said I forgave you," he asked as he escorted her to the edge of the dancefloor, "And I think if apologies are to be exchanged then I have one to offer you. I took offense at a time when I shouldn't have. I've said I forgive you, have I not?"
"You did, yes," she nodded.
He smiled at her and in his bravery, lifted her hand and kissed it. For a moment he could tell she was startled but then she smiled back, "Well trust me then, Your Majesty. I would have waited forever."
With a curt little nod and smile she turned, scooping up her skirts as she went. He watched her go and for a mad, wild moment he wanted to go after her, to follow her out on the terrace and tell her he'd take her away. Or take here there. Either way.
Then he laughed to himself and for the first time, felt how it was to be bitter.
The party went onto into the small hours, meaning he found himself picking up empty champagne flutes and glasses just before sunset and crawling into bed when it was fully in the sky. She had told him to take the day to himself, despite the fact that no one had informed Alois, and he did as she asked. He couldn't sleep though and he tossed and turned for hours.
The feeling hadn't been tangible in the moment but after she had left his arms he felt a solid, bleak awareness of his growing feelings for her. Growing feelings even he had to laugh at.
It petrified him. Fantasies aside, he was petrified.
Sitting up in bed he dialled Andre's number.
"I want to come home," he said, even before his friend could greet him.
"What?"
"I need to come home."
Andre was silent on the other end for a moment, "Everything okay?"
"Yeah I just need –"
"Joe, is everything okay? Listen, don't make any rash decisions. I'm supposed to be visiting next week anyway. Let me come and we'll talk, huh?"
He knew he sounded frantic. In front of him he pictured a line, the line over which he couldn't step. His toes, already aching from restraint, were pressed against it. He knew now that if he turned around it would be okay. He knew that if he didn't, he'd be trapped here forever.
"I-"
"Just come on," his friend promised, "It'll be okay."
He knew that couldn't possibly be true.
That evening he met the young princes in the ballroom for basketball. The entire place had been cleared and no traces of the party, or their dance, was left behind. Phillippe had set the hoop up already and he was showing Pierre, who looked as if he were merely putting up with his tutorial, how to pass.
"Look excited Pierre," her voice, from the top of the stairs, said with a laugh.
He looked up, allowing himself to fall victim to Phillippe as he stole the ball. She was wearing jeans and a shirt – something he'd never witnessed – and she wore no make-up. In the exact same position she had stood in the night before, she looked even more beautiful for being at ease.
"Hello Joseph," she smiled down, pressing her hands out against the marble banister as she looked on.
"Hello, Your Majesty," he bowed, frightened that, if he looked just once more he'd cross the line he'd set himself.
When he did look up though the king was beside her, casually dressed too. In an unusual show of affection the monarch had wrapped his arm around her shoulders and, dipping his head, said something at which she laughed.
So all was perfect.
He was reminded then of how much of a fool he was. A fool to think her glinting, half-embarrassed smiles suggested even a glimmer of a chance for him. He cast his eyes away and, excusing himself, headed out.
He wanted desperately to get brutally drunk. Tequila and bourbon were the first things he ordered when he reached the sports bar. Louise just raised a brow and slid the glasses towards him.
"You look miserable Mr Yeah," she said, leaning toward him.
"Yeah," he laughed darkly, "Got myself in a stupid situation."
He laughed at his own underestimation.
"Want to talk?"
"Nope," he downed the shot and threw his head back, "No. When do you get off?"
"In an hour," she answered, sliding another shot towards him.
He downed that too.
"Want to go dancing?"
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, "Sure."
"Thanks," he sipped the bourbon, "You look so good in those jeans."
Right back, he thought, to what it was before.
By the time she finished up he was already drunk; his eyes blurred and his body light and fluid and ready. He stumbled, she walked, to the club a few doors down. It was wall to wall with sweating, dancing people. Friday night in the cheaper, dirtier part of town. The part of town where young people forgot the horrors of the working week; the type of place where Joseph was at home. Maybe not as young, but as gritty and real. The kind of place he'd been made for. In the heat and thrum of the club she got drunk too, quickly, and by midnight she was pressed up against him.
It wasn't long until they were kissing and it took only one more suggestive dance for her to yield to his proposition of going somewhere quieter.
That somewhere was her flat above the bar. She fumbled with the locks as he fumbled with her, then they fell clumsily into the messy little apartment. They laughed and giggled and clashed mouths, then fell onto the divan in the centre of the room. There he forget himself and the promises he'd made. There he wanted to ask her to be someone else completed. Sweaty and sated they tumbled, then slept, and during the night woke to do it all again.
In the morning, his head throbbing, he dressed quietly. She groaned when he climbed out of bed but turning round, fell back asleep. He found his jeans at the door and his jacket on the couch. He hoped he'd been sober enough to use protection, though he couldn't remember. He checked his wallet and was relieved.
Taking a guilty glance back at her, he unlatched the door.
Outside the sun burned his eyes and, without sunglasses, his head throbbed. Hailing a cab, he paid him double to get back to the palace in time for his shift. He crept in through the kitchens, making it to his room without anyone noticing. Enough showering would never be enough to make him feel better, but hair still wet and already late he changed his clothes, slipped on his riding boots, and made for the queen's chamber.
"You're late," she said, meeting him as he came to her doors.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
She looked him over, "Rough night Joseph?"
He was shocked by the bluntness of her question.
"Yes," he nodded, motioning to the gardens to encourage her to move.
"I can only imagine."
He cast a look her way, swallowing his irritation. They walked silently for a while toward the stables when she asked;
"Is it wonderful?"
He was surprised at the turn in conversation and he stopped in his tracks a few steps behind her.
"Ma'am?"
"It must be wonderful," she repeated, "To go out. To get drunk. To dance…of course, you don't dance."
He softened his view on her conversation then. It was genuine and curious, not a row or an inquisition. He attempted to smile, stopping as the stable boy brought their horses to them.
"Oh Joseph," she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
He turned to her, "Your Majesty, I am not angry. I…don't know that you'd like my life."
He watched as she climbed onto her horse, realising how terribly voyeuristic it felt to watch her every move. She watched as he jumped onto his mount and then she smiled.
"Oh I don't know," she moved the horse to a trot, "Would you like mine?"
"No, Your Majesty," he answered honestly.
"Who would?"
Silence fell again as they rode out and for a while that was how it was between them. Obviously intent on a long ride she didn't stop for almost an hour. She rarely did this but when she did ride out this far he was aware she wanted to be on her own. Stopping by a stream, she jumped off to let the horse drink. He did this too, allowing his own mount to rest.
He watched as she sat on the little dusty bank, her hands idly toying with the wild flowers.
"Imagine if Alois saw what you allowed me to do," she lay back, "Imagine if Rupert knew."
He knew she wouldn't mind if he asked, "Would he be angry?"
She considered his question, ghosting her palm over the grass by her side, "Rupert likes everything to be contained. Including me."
He nodded, standing absently by his horse as he scratched the animal's neck.
"Sit down with me Joseph," she commanded quietly, "The horses need a rest."
He did as he was asked, grateful to sit down. He still felt rough and uneven.
She looked towards the bank then towards him, "Is there someone…in your life?"
It took him a moment to understand her tentative question. From her it seemed like an odd one but he'd come to discover her curiosity about his life ran far deeper than he imagined.
"No, no one special," he answered, cringing, "No one worth mentioning."
"That surprises me," she said quietly.
"It surprises everyone ma'am. My sisters, my mother…they all await a wife."
She laughed a little, "I see. And there isn't one?"
"No one would want me," he laughed, though he meant it.
"I'm positive that's a lie," she stood back up, her face glancing away as he tried to look at her, brushing the dusty earth from her jodhpurs, "You know I don't mean to pry."
"No, of course not," he offered her a hand up onto the horse, which she took.
"Are you looking forward to our week on the yacht? It's very restful and the boys love it."
He couldn't help but feel she'd deliberately veered from their previous conversation.
He nodded and smiled, "On that note, ma'am, I was going to ask if it was alright for my business partner, Andre, to visit us before we go. He wants to see-"
"You have my permission," she kicked her mount to life, "And the king's. And Alois'."
"You can do that?"
"My God Joseph, I have much more power than you think," she laughed.
He suppressed his retort.
Later that evening, guilt eating him up entirely, he went to the bar. Louise looked up when he came in but she continued wiping down the glasses she was stacking on the surface.
"Hey," she eventually said, "Usual?"
"Nah," he muttered, "Louise I'm sorry."
She looked up, genuinely surprised, "I'm not. It was great."
He shook his head, "You deserve better than me."
"Oh I know," she smiled, "But it was fun Mr. Yeah. Whatever is killing you though, you have to get it first or it will be the end of you."
"My ceaseless desire for sex?"
"No, that's not what's killing you."
"You're clever," he answered, turning at the door.
"See you for the football?"
He smiled, "Yeah."
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