24 December 1959
"You've handled it beautifully, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick told her as he led them both in a stately waltz at the corner of the dancefloor. He was surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his bulk, and had so far been a perfectly pleasant and polite partner. "There's not many women who could do what you've done."
"I've hardy done anything," she told him breezily. As near as she could tell it was the various castle functionaries who'd done all the work, updated her rooms and sent out the official announcements and cobbled together her wardrobe. Jean had simply...carried on, had followed the schedule laid out before her and given her input when it was asked for.
"You haven't let it go to your head, and that's the main thing," Sir Patrick answered. "Sometimes when a person who is unaccustomed to power suddenly finds they've been granted rather a lot of it, they lose sight of themselves. Who they truly are, what matters most to them. I've seen families shattered by it. Don't lose your mind, Jean, and you won't lose him, either."
As they turned Jean caught sight of the dancefloor over Sir Patrick's shoulder, and as she gazed about at the glittering guests her eye landed on Lucien, dancing with Lady Ann. She was unmistakable in her lavender dress; from their previous encounters Jean recalled Lady Ann almost always wore purple. In the past she had wondered if it wasn't Lady Ann's way of announcing her intentions, her way of subtly indicating she felt herself entitled to the trappings of royalty. It was a regal color, after all, and Lady Ann wore it well. Perhaps she would have worn the title of Queen more comfortably than Jean did; was that why she was dancing with Lucien now? Reminding him of exactly what he'd given up when he'd let her go?
"I wouldn't worry about it," Sir Patrick told her softly. Jean blushed, ashamed at having been caught staring at her fiance and the woman he'd almost married, dancing so beautifully together. "And if you must worry, I'd advise you not do it where anyone can see. The walls have eyes, Mrs. Beazley, and tonight they're all trained on you."
The song drew to a close, and Lucien stepped away from Lady Ann at once, making a beeline for Jean with his gaze trained on her, his eyes a little wild.
"Thank you for the dance, Sir Patrick," Jean said as she broke away from her own partner. "And the advice. I won't forget it."
"Prime Minister," Lucien said as he reached them, his hand already extended towards Jean. "I think I'd quite like to take my fiance back now, if you don't mind."
"She's all yours," Sir Patrick said, and then he was drifting away, and Lucien and Jean were left alone together, her hand in his, where it belonged.
"I am sorry about that, my darling," Lucien said anxiously. "It was only a dance, I'm afraid I didn't think-"
"Hush now," Jean told him, giving his hand a little squeeze. "I trust you, Lucien. I love you. And I remember what you told me about her."
Yes, Jean remembered very well. I don't give a damn about Lady Ann, that's what he'd told her once, and when she looked into his eyes now she knew those words were still true. He was hers, as she was his, and whatever Lady Ann's reasons for seeking him out might have been, Jean knew Lucien would not change his mind, would not so easily reverse his affections from one woman to another.
Let them say what they will, she thought, reaching out to ruffle the line of Lucien's beard with her fingertips. Let them look, and see how much he loves me, how much I love him.
Lucien caught her hand against his cheek, held it there for a moment before turning his head to press a kiss against her palm.
"Let's get some air," he said, his voice low and gravelly. The party was in full swing around them but the hour was growing rather late; guests would begin departing soon, off to find their own beds before Christmas morning. Perhaps the courteous thing to do would be to stay, to make the rounds once again, to insure that every pompous windbag in the room got his five minutes with the king and queen-to-be. Perhaps they ought to play the benevolent hosts, and see the party through to its conclusion. Perhaps there would be whispers, if they slipped out the doors now; Jean's dress was designed to draw attention, and she knew their departure would no go unremarked. But it was late, and she'd had rather a lot of champagne, and she was tired and she loved him; if Lucien wanted to step outside, for any purpose, she would not deny him.
"All right," she answered, smiling, and at those words he grinned, and led her towards the corner of the ballroom. The periphery was lined with doors, leading to the foyer, the servant's corridor, smaller rooms, and a grand pair on the southern wall opened out onto a veranda overlooking the gardens. At first Jean thought Lucien meant to take her there, but the night was cold, and the doors were closed; to open them now would be to cause quite the commotion. She needn't have worried, however, for he led her to a discreet doorway half hidden by an ancient tapestry, and then they found themselves in a deserted corridor that led to the kitchens, and eventually ended at the far side of the castle, opening out on a path that would take them straight to Jean's glasshouse.
No doubt that was Lucien's intended destination; they had enjoyed more than their fair share of quiet moments in that place, and Jean was rather looking forward to another one. No guests dared come back here, but as they began to pass along the corridor Jean tugged on Lucien's hand, urging him to stop while holding her finger to her lips in a request for quiet. The corridor was not as deserted as it first appeared, and Jean did not want to disturb the young couple hidden in an alcove just to the left of the door she and Lucien had passed through.
She pushed Lucien back against the wall, all but holding her breath as she strained to hear the conversation playing out beside them. And she rather thought that Lucien must have felt the same, for he clutched her hand fiercely, and stood still as a statue.
"I think I would like to dance," Li was saying. She had entered the party not long after her father, but the crowds of people and their watchful eyes unsettled her, and she had excused herself rather quickly. Though Jean had hoped that perhaps with time Li might grow more comfortable in company she could hardly blame the girl; as strange as this world seemed to Jean at times she'd spent more than a decade living in the castle, learning how things worked. Li had not had nearly enough time to come to grips with her new reality, and she was isolated by the uniqueness of her features compared to the guests, by her rudimentary grasp of the language. She had chosen a somewhat plain dress in a pale shade of blue for the occasion, and though it fit her well, though she looked beautiful in it, the lack of ostentation in her appearance did not fit with the nobility's idea of what a princess ought to look like, and had not helped to endear her to them.
But despite all that Li was not alone, at the moment, and likely had not been all night, for Charlie was still with her, standing by her side, handsome and somber in his tuxedo. Perhaps the princess did not need a guard while inside her own home, but Charlie followed her everywhere she went, silent as a shadow but attentive, always, to her needs, and perhaps, Jean realized, Li preferred it that way.
"You should dance, then," Charlie told her softly. "I'm sure there's plenty of people in there who would be happy to dance with you, Your Highness."
"I don't want to dance with them," Li told him shyly.
I don't want to dance with her. I only want to dance with you.
Jean looked up at Lucien sharply, and found a strange, wistful sort of expression on his face. Was he remembering, as she was, that night in the kitchen, that night when he'd first held her, first kissed her hand, that night when something as simple as a dance had sealed their fate? Did he approve of the growing closeness between Charlie and Li, or did he fear for her? Jean had no daughters of her own, but each time she fell pregnant she and Christopher had discussed their hopes, their dreams, what it might be like, if their child were a girl. I don't think I could stand to see some pimply boy holding her hand, Christopher had told her once when she was pregnant with Jack, dragging his hand across the curve of her belly. You and I both know what boys are like. Our girl deserves better. Jean had laughed, and kissed the tip of his nose. You were never pimply, she'd told him. And you are the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Did Lucien feel as Christopher had done, that no boy would ever be good enough for his darling daughter? She was so young and had already been married once, and that had ended in disaster; perhaps he had more reason than most fathers, to want to protect his daughter from the interest of a young man. Or perhaps, she realized, he had more reason than most to hope that she would find a love to make her happy.
"Will you dance with me, then?" Charlie asked her. It was the right question, Jean thought. Li's tone had been hopeful, though her English was still halting; she was a reserved girl, and would not ask Charlie for anything out right, but perhaps he had come to understand her, in more ways than one.
Li did not answer him, and so Jean dared to peer around the corner, and when she did her heart swelled within her chest, for Charlie had taken Li into his arms, and they were dancing together, slowly, gracefully, to the soft strains of music drifting in from the ballroom. They looked lovely, and happy, and Jean wished them both the very best.
"Let's leave them to it," Jean whispered to Lucien.
He took a moment to lean in himself, watching his daughter dancing with the same lad who'd once taken a bullet for him. What is he thinking? Jean wondered. A castle guard was hardly an ideal match for the Crown Princess, but then the King was set to marry his own housekeeper; the old rules seemed to matter less by the minute, and she knew they had never mattered to Lucien at all. And who was to say whether this budding romance might last, whether Li might ever be ready to marry again, whether what she felt for Charlie was love at all, or just gratitude at having found a friend in this strange place?
That's for them to sort out, she thought as she led Lucien from that place, turning to walk down the corridor in the opposite direction from the dancers. And I wish them luck.
"How about that, eh?" Lucien asked as at last they stepped out into the night. He paused for a moment at the start of the path, shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Jean's delicate shoulders. The night was cold and clear, and they would both be shivering in seconds, but the glasshouse was not far away, and it was always warm.
"I think it's nice," Jean answered, smiling up at him.
In truth, Lucien's own heart was torn on the matter. Li was his light, his very world, his precious girl returned to him after so many years of lonely desolation, after so much grief, and he could not bear to see her heart broken again. She was so young, and a mother already, had already endured trials of the sort no girl should ever have to face. Part of his heart wanted, very much, to protect her, to keep her safe within the walls of the castle, to prevent any future heartbreak for her. And yet he knew that it was not his decision to make, that if he wanted his daughter to succeed in life he would have to let her make these choices for herself. And Charlie was a fine young man, and he knew he could hardly ask for better. Even if he wanted to box the lad around the ears for daring to put his hands on Li, however she might welcome such advances.
I'll worry about this later, he thought, slinging his arm around Jean's waist and leading her towards the glasshouse. An idea had come to him as he had watched Jean twirling on the dancefloor, her beautiful crimson dress flowing around her like the sea, her eyes bright, her smile delirious with happiness, and he very much wanted to make that idea a reality.
The grounds were currently deserted; a few discrete guards had been placed around the periphery of the castle as a deterrent for any party goers who got it in their heads to take a private tour of the grounds. Not that many would, given the cold. But the fairy lights strung through the rafters of the glasshouse were twinkling merrily, and it loomed before them, an oasis of warmth and beauty, their own safe haven, there amongst the blooms. In the next moment they were inside, and Lucien released Jean's hand so that he might watch her as she drifted down the winding dirt aisle, orchids and dahlias and begonias and ferns and more plants whose names he did not know growing bright and brilliant all around her. She looked, he thought, like a fairy queen from the old stories, resplendent, ethereal in that crimson dress, her fingers trailing against the worn wood of the tables that lined the path, her expression one of delighted recognition. She looked like some ancient goddess of wisdom, ageless and timeless, wistful and all-knowing. The twinkling lights overhead, the exotic blooms she greeted as if they were old friends, the paleness of her skin against the vibrant red of her dress; he loved her with fierceness that left an ache in his chest only she could fill.
"Lucien?" she called to him, turning when she realized he was not beside her, the ghost of a frown on her face. "Is everything all right?"
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, my darling," he answered her, and with those words he began to prowl slowly towards her, trying to measure his steps, trying with all his might to contain the passion that threatened to overwhelm him. She was everything to him; Jean had saved him, revived him, brought him back from the brink of misery and given him cause to love again. She was in every song he heard, in every room he entered, her name written on every inch of the castle that was his home, tattooed on his heart. With her wisdom she had guided him through the difficult early days of his reign, with her kindness she had mended the fissures in his heart, with her level head she had shown him the way to make his family whole. And he loved her, every piece of her, with every piece of himself.
"We both know that's not true," she told him wryly, holding out her hand to him. He took that hand at once, and used it to pull her close to him, his arms sliding into place at the small of her back. "But as it's Christmas," she continued, a bit breathlessly, "I'll allow it."
Though he desperately wanted to say something clever and charming the truth was Lucien had nearly reached the end of his patience, and so he did not speak at all, simply bowed his head, and claimed her lips in a fiery kiss. She surged up towards him, beautiful and bold, knowing as he did that they were hidden away in this place, that they could do whatever they liked and no one else would ever know. It had become their habit, to take such solace here, here where they could hide, but they had so far managed to keep themselves on just the right side of the line of propriety. He had not been granted another chance to run his hands along the pale softness of her bare skin, to touch her as he dearly longed to do, to see her shudder in ecstasy, to hear her call out his name in bliss. But nor had he looked for such an opportunity, for he knew that his Jean was a good Catholic woman, and despite her previous moment of madness he did not expect to be granted a second showing.
But it was Christmas, and while their engagement was official it would be at least a year before they could wed. There was too much to do, too many protocols to be observed, for them to marry in haste. Patience had never been his strong suit, and he was not sure he would survive such a very long time in close proximity to Jean, and yet denied the bliss he knew they could find together. And so as he kissed her all restraint deserted him; his hands traveled the elegant slope of her back, her dress soft and warm beneath his palms, and she arched hungrily towards him, her kisses messy and eager, and with each passing second his want of her only grew.
Love was its own sort of madness, and it took hold of him then. He tried to pull her closer, but the bulk of that beautiful dress kept her hips too far from his own. Undaunted he bowed his head, let his lips trail against her neck, and as he did she sighed, and threaded her fingers through his hair.
"Jean," he growled her name, his hands clutching at her hips, fingers digging through acres of fabric in search of the shape of her, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin. He wanted to beg for her, wanted to strip them both bare and take her hard and fast on the dirt path beneath their feet, but he knew they both deserved better than that and he tried, for her sake, to find some decency within himself.
But Jean would not let him; her grip on his hair tightened, and in the next breath she spoke the words that would shatter his resolve.
"I want you," she whispered.
It was not the first time she'd spoken those words to him, and they hit their mark at once, bringing to his mind the memory of the beautiful night they'd shared, when he came home from China, came home to her, came crashing into her room, into her heart. Every moment of that night had been etched in his memory, never to be erased, and there was something in her tone that made him think she rather felt the same.
"What the lady wants, the lady shall have," Lucien told her, kissing her neck one last time before dropping carefully to his knees.
This was the idea that had come to him, while he'd watched her in the ballroom. That dress was beautiful, but the skirt was wide and full, and kept her from him. He could hardly gather all that material up to her hips, hold it in place while they wound their bodies together; there was simply too much of it. The problem of mechanics, as it were, had plagued him until inspiration struck him as if it were a bolt of lightning sent from the heavens, and he set about enacting his plan now.
Jean did not need him to explain his purpose; she leaned back and cast her hands behind her, propping herself up on the nearest table, watching him through hooded eyes as he knelt at her feet. And as he looked up her, this beautiful woman who had so completely ensnared him, it occurred to him that she was not a goddess at all, but a queen.
Silently, reverently, he reached for her, hands drifting under her dress until he caught hold of her calf. Carefully he urged her to lift her leg, to fling it over his broad shoulder, and the dress spilled away from her then, revealed the long, lean lines of her legs, bare despite the chill. Perhaps the length of the dress had encouraged her to go without stockings, or perhaps she had done it for just this purpose, or perhaps there had been no reason to her choice at all; he did not know, and it did not matter. All that mattered to him in that moment was Jean, above him, around him, her perfume billowing like the skirt of her dress, rich and fragrant. He could hear her shallow breaths, the little gasp that escaped her when he leaned in to press his lips against the softness of her thigh. Her skin was warm and smooth as silk, and soft, so soft beneath his lips, the salty taste of her exploding against his searching mouth. She shifted restlessly, canted her hips towards him as still he lingered there in the sanctuary between her her legs, nipping softly at her skin. Lucien had a plan, and he intended to take his time about it, to shower her with every ounce of the love he felt for her. The party, the guests, the castle, it all faded into nothingness until all that remained was Jean. She was beautiful, and his, and there was nowhere else Lucien wanted to be more than here, with her.