7 December 1959

Dress warmly, and meet me in the foyer in ten minutes.

That was all the instruction Lucien had given her. They'd enjoyed a wonderful meal together, Lucien and Jean and Li, had laughed and fumbled their way through a conversation about Jean's first full day as queen-to-be. There was much to say on the subject for it had been an eye-opening experience; she had met first with Alice, who had walked her through the daily schedule, the list of attendants who would be assigned to her person. Some would handle her diary, some her correspondence, some would manage her wardrobe and some her rooms, some would be in charge of her various patronages - which had in itself led to a long, meandering discussion of what sort of causes she might support, once she became queen. She would have her own driver and her own guards, and if she were inclined to purchase a horse or seven to fill out the stable on the castle grounds she would also have her own grooms. It was an exhausting list, but that was only the beginning. Next came a meeting with her personal communications secretary, who was keen to prepare a statement on her behalf, perhaps arrange an interview with a journalist, organize her first public appearance. We have an opportunity here, that beetle-eyed little fellow had told her, to craft your public image from the ground up. We must be careful with how we proceed. Jean couldn't have agreed more, but she did not know the first thing about public relations or the media, and had decided to seek out Rose Anderson come the morning. She was going to need all the help she could get.

And there would be no shortage of help, it seemed, for the castle was full to bursting with people whose job was simply to serve the royal family. Every possible task had a designated officiant, and Jean counted herself lucky indeed for the years she'd spent working in the castle had familiarized her with all of those people, and the roles they filled. Without that background, she feared she would never have been able to wrap her mind around it. She was struggling enough as it was, with the knowledge that those people would now serve her. That had not ever been the way of things in Jean's world, and she feared the road ahead would be bumpy indeed. But for now, just for this moment, everything was in hand. She'd enjoyed breakfast with her family, and supper as well, and now she was going to meet Lucien. Though he'd been positively gleeful when he asked her to join him after supper he had given her no hints whatsoever about his plans, and so she had carted herself off to her rooms, to change into a pair of trousers and her warmest jumper. It was December, after all, and the air had turned chill, almost bitter when the sun fell. Whatever he had planned he clearly intended for them to venture outdoors, and though Jean was eager to spend more time in his company a part of her hoped their journey would be brief, as the thought of all that cold did not sit well with her.

The moment she descended the stairs she saw him waiting for her in the foyer, her handsome, impossible king. He wore his heavy navy peacoat and carried his hat in his hands, and when he caught sight of her he smiled at her so brilliantly she could not help but return it. They had come such a very long way, had clawed themselves back from the very brink of devastation, and to be able to luxuriate in this happiness was a precious gift she would not squander.

"Hello, my love," Lucien said as she drew near. With a winsome turn of his wrist he placed his hat on his head with one hand, and reached out to her with the other. That hand she took in her own, lacing their fingers together and smiling up at him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she answered, as if they had not seen one another for hours, rather than ten minutes. "What on earth are you up to?"

"You'll see," he told her, still grinning, and with those words he began to march with purpose towards the front door, Jean following in his wake, still bound to him by their joined hands.

Darkness had well and truly fallen, the lights of the castle glimmering like stars behind them as they meandered along the winding path that led to the gardens. Though Jean lamented for her poor cold fingers she did not begrudge Lucien this little adventure; the gardens were beautiful, and at night they would be almost magical, the bushes strewn with twinkling fairy lights to herald the oncoming Christmas season. More to the point, however, the grounds would be deserted at this hour, and there would be no one to take note of the comings and goings of their king and his lady love.

"Do you remember that night at the lake house, when I found you in the glasshouse?" Lucien asked her as they walked.

"I do," Jean answered him gently, smiling as she remembered it. "When you'd promised me we could just be friends, and kissed me anyway?"

"Was my conduct ungentlemanly, my darling?" Lucien asked her then. In the darkness she could not see his face to read his expression, and so she could not quite tell whether he was teasing her.

"You promised not to kiss me if I didn't want you to," she answered him. How foolish it seemed now, to think that he had ever promised her such a thing, ever sworn to hold himself back from her. So much had changed, and while some of those changes frightened her, she could not help but think it was all for the good, for she and Lucien were together now, and always would be, and there was nothing to stop them from being honest with one another, nothing to hold them back from the love they carried in their hearts. They had loved in silence and secret for too long, and now they had at last found the freedom to be themselves.

"I rather thought you wanted me to." Oh yes, he was teasing her now, and Jean loved it, loved their easy way with one another, loved the comfort of his big hand wrapped around her own, the warmth of his voice.

"I think I rather did," she told him primly.

Lucien laughed and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her once as still they walked along.

"That was a beautiful night," he told her. "I was so lost. I hardly knew what to do with myself. And then there you were, beautiful and real, right in front of me. You reminded me what it is, to hope."

"Lucien-"

"And I remember," he continued, "how beautiful you looked, with the stars overhead. I remember how you said you miss the business of growing things. Do you remember what I said to you then?"

She remembered very well; every moment of that night seemed to have been etched into her memory, perfect and beautiful, a rare respite, a bit of peace. Life was different at the lake house; more relaxed, more comfortable. They were both more themselves there than they had ever been in the castle, for the rules of conduct in that place were far less restrictive. And recalling their conversation now, she realized where he must be taking her, what he must have done, and the breath caught in her throat.

"You said maybe you would build me a glasshouse, just like that one." At the time she had told him no, told him that he could not do such a thing for his housekeeper, but he had never forgotten his promise. No matter how hard she tried in the beginning, Lucien had never seen her as just the help, and oh, but she loved him for it, for the way he saw her, all of her, and loved her anyway.

"Indeed I did," she could hear the smile in his voice, and in the next breath they had rounded a tall wall of hedges, and tears gathered in the corners of Jean's eyes as she took in the sight before her.

"And I have, my darling."

They swayed to a stop together, their hands still locked with one another, as Jean and stared in silent wonder at this gift he had given her. The glasshouse here was easily twice as large as the one by the lake. The windows were frosted with condensation, but she could see a glory of green and growing things inside it, the beams of the ceiling hung with twinkling lights. How he had managed such a feat, when he had done it, she could not say, but she knew why, knew that it was love that had compelled him, and her heart sang in her chest as she breathed in the beauty of that love.

"I started work on it, just after you left," Lucien confessed into the silence. "I knew you might not ever see it, but I wanted it to be here. Waiting for you. A reminder of the woman I love."

"Oh, Lucien," Jean gasped, turning to him as the tears began to spill down her cheeks. Gently he reached for her, and brushed those tears away with the pad of his thumb. It was nearly enough to break her heart, the thought of her king, alone and lonesome, missing her, building this thing that would bring him more grief than joy, building it for her, keeping it waiting. Just in case. Just in case she ever came back to him, he had created this thing, a dream he could touch with his own two hands, a piece of hope.

"It's yours, Jean," he told her earnestly. "Everything that I have, all of me, it's yours."

She could not stop herself, and she supposed there was no reason to, anyway; she flung her arms around his neck, and clung to him, let him in envelop her in his embrace, warm and hard and real, here with her, holding her. This was not a dream, not anymore; they were here, standing together, and she held everything she'd ever wanted in her arms.

For a long moment they simply stood, wrapped up in one another, but the night was cold, and Lucien had further plans for them. Gently he bowed his head and kissed her temple, and then he pulled away.

"Come and see, my darling," he told her.

And so she did, followed him as he led her out of the cold darkness and into the heated, mystical beauty of the glasshouse. It was much warmer inside, and everywhere she looked Jean saw the bloom of life, fresh and colorful, the smell of dirt and living things wrapping itself around her like a blanket. She had told him, once, that she had been a farmer's wife, that she missed the work, the earth, the joy of growth, and he had heard her words, and remembered. For so long she had been trapped in a life so far removed from the warmth of growing things, and her heart rejoiced at the thought of returning to the simple, blissful task o gardening.

"This place is yours," Lucien told her as he led her along the dirt path inside. "You can grow whatever you like. You can tend the plants yourself, or let the gardeners do it. Whatever you want, my darling, you shall have."

Jean wanted to tell him that it was too much; too much beauty, too much love, too much freedom. Never, in all her days, had she known such plenty, her every need, every want, every desire fulfilled. It didn't seem right, somehow, that she should have so much, when all her life she had had so little. But Lucien had done this thing, this incredible, wonderful thing, because he loved her, and she was learning to accept that love, to welcome it, and not look for disappointment.

Though she wanted to stop and take stock of the contents of the glasshouse Lucien was still walking, as if they had not yet reached their destination, and once more they turned a corner, and once more Jean was confronted with an unexpected gift. There was a place where the tables had been cleared away, and a gingham blanket had been laid upon the ground. There was champagne chilling in a bucket, and a little basket full of fruit, and there was, much to her surprise, a wireless sitting on one of the nearby tables, a gentle tune wafting out of it. How Lucien had managed to arrange all this she could not say, but it was quite the sweetest, most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her, and Jean hardly knew what to say.

"I thought we'd take our dessert in private," Lucien told her, grinning as he gestured for her to sit down upon the blanket.

"You spoil me, Lucien," she told him, but she settled down on the ground just the same, tucking her legs up underneath her while Lucien hitched up his trouser legs and plopped down beside her. They slid into place by unspoken agreement, his arm wrapping around her back while she rested her head against his shoulder. The flowers rose tall and magnificent around them, the twinkling lights overhead adding a certain romance to the general scene, and while the champagne and the delectable items in the basket were tempting, all Jean wanted in that moment was to rest in the arms of the man she loved, surrounded by that love, and by joy.

"You deserve to be spoiled," Lucien told her. His voice was warm and soft, and coupled with the scent of his cologne and the flowers it sent a flood of heat washing over her. There was always someone watching them in the castle, a servant or a secretary or even Li, their every movement tracked. There would be few chances like this one, Jean knew, to enjoy her husband-to-be without a care for appearances. In the castle they had to be careful to toe the line of propriety, for nothing that happened there stayed secret for very long, and to be caught in a compromising position now would be risky for both their reputations. Here, though, they were completely, utterly alone, shielded from the world beyond by a wall of greenery, with no one but the flowers to bear witness. And so she lifted her chin, and gazed up at him, knowing what he would do when she looked at him this way, and wanting it with every piece of herself. She could not take him to her bed again, not until they were married, could not afford such a risk, but she could have a taste of him here, and she wanted it, desperately.

"I love you," she told him.

Lucien recognized his cue at once; she had only a moment to bask in the warmth of his smile before he ducked his head, and pressed his lips to hers.

The moment he touched her she was lost; she opened her mouth to him at once, a soft, happy sigh escaping her as his tongue chased after her own, his lips soft and sweet as she remembered, his beard scratching gently against her cheek. As he kissed her she shifted, eager to be closer to him, propping herself up with one hand pressed hard to the blanket while with the other she cradled his cheek, held him in place so she could return his kiss more fiercely than before. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her in, their bodies surging together, and still he kissed her, drank greedily from her lips while she gave him all of herself in turn. She wanted more, wanted the heat of his hands on her thighs, wanted to feel him press against her in the place where she had begun to ache for him, wanted her chest pressed flush to his, their bodies rising and falling as they began to breathe in sync with one another. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and she arched towards him, hunger building in her now; she knew the freedom, the joy he could make her feel, and she wanted it, wanted him, so badly -

In the next breath Lucien reached for her, caught her hips in his hands, and she moved with him; she gave thanks in that moment for her decision to wear trousers, for it made it so much easier for her to straddle his lap, to settle down with her knees on either side of his hips. Their faces were on the same level now, and so she caught his head in her hands, brushed her thumbs along the rise of his cheeks while she stared into his eyes, those bright blue eyes that had ensnared her the moment she first took note of them. Her beautiful man, so strong, so brave, so utterly devoted to her; he could be reckless, could be selfish, could be arrogant, but his good qualities so far outweighed the bad that she loved him for his flaws as much as for his virtues. He was hers, unequivocally, hers to touch, to love, and as she looked at him she could hardly breathe for wanting him.

Their hips had settled together and she could feel his interest beginning to make itself known, and so with a sly grin she rocked down against him, watched as the tendons in his neck tightened, as his whole body went taut with longing, his chest pressed flush to hers, now, his eyelashes fluttering as passion began to build inside him. A gasp escaped her as she felt him straining for her, felt the answering call of her desperate desire. There was a simple, easy pleasure in this, grinding together like teenagers, her fingertips feathering along his throat while the friction built and burst between them, their desire growing hot and wet and fierce. He watched her, and she knew that he could see it, the way longing played out along her face, the way her own passion sent a crimson blush flowing from her neck up to her cheeks. They were so close, his hands wrapping around her thighs, fingers pressing, kneading, teasing out her yearning. Her breasts brushed against his chest with every ragged breath she took, and still she moved, could almost feel his hardness catching against the seam of her trousers, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing in just the right spot, and stars began to sparkle behind her eyelids. All thought had left her; there was only this, this closeness, this intimacy, the heat of him, the push and pull between them, but even this bright joy could not satisfy them, not for long.

"Come here," he growled, and in the next second she was kissing him again, while his hands trailed paths of fire along her thighs and her own threaded through his hair, holding him close. There was no one there to see, and so Jean did not stop; she gave herself over to her love of him, and reveled in the joy of the moment for as long as she could.