Author's Note: This was supposed to be a filler chapter -- a bit of a break before we got up to the heavy events immediately prior to PD1. But you know, sometimes the characters just drag you kicking and screaming down a path you didn't know was there. We must presume that they know best.

I'll be forever thankful . . .

1997

"Rupert, are you listening to me?" Clarisse seemed unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

"Hmm . . ." He glanced about the room as though having forgotten where she was sitting. "What was that, Clarisse?"

"That was the sound of your five-hundred year old dynasty shattering into a million pieces." She turned from the window she had just forcefully closed against the cool November air. "Philippe. Rupert, you do remember your son, the Crown Prince with no heir to follow him?"

"He's still practically a boy." Rupert knocked back the shot of whiskey he'd been holding for the better part of half an hour.

"He's thirty-three!" Clarisse marveled at her own rising anger. The last thing she wanted was to force her son into an unwanted marriage, but where was Rupert's vaunted "duty to Genovia"? Putting off an arranged marriage when Philippe had been sixteen was one thing, but now the poor man would very likely be faced with a sixteen year-old bride. The longer they put this off the murkier the succession would likely become. She wasn't aware of any grandchildren other than Amelia in America, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. Philippe was, after all, a very handsome and charismatic young man. And before much longer the cousins would be coming out of the woodwork; Rupert's three sisters and Christophe's siblings had all been amazingly fertile. And yet Christophe and Rupert in turn had always prided themselves on being part of an unbroken line from father to son stretching back five centuries. "Why are you fighting this, Rupert?"

"Why are you pushing it?" he bellowed.

Her stunned expression must have shone quite clearly because he immediately deflated.

"Clarisse, I . . ." he paused and took several deep breaths. If she hadn't known him so well for so long, she would have thought he was truly agonized. But she was helping him to fulfill the duty that had governed his life . . .

"I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I know you mean well. But dear God, Clarisse, it's almost the twenty-first century! Do we really have the right to force him the way our parents did us? I've already pushed him out of one marriage; I don't want to make the other side of that mistake."

"Are we a mistake, Rupert?" she asked quietly. She both feared and longed for his answer. Would it absolve her guilt? Or escalate it?

"That's not what I meant." He reached for her hand as if to apologize, but she held back. It occurred to her that she had never denied him in nearly forty years together. She knew she had never really given all of herself, and he had certainly asked for less as the years had gone by, but she had never consciously denied him anything – until now.

"Yet I'm still asking it," she firmly stated as she folded her hands before her.

"He truly loved that girl, Clarisse," Rupert's eyes looked vaguely panicked – not as though he had anything specific to hide, but certainly as if he would avoid that conversation with all the strength he could muster.

"Is there someone else, Rupert?" Clarisse found she had untapped strength of her own to muster. Once again, she both dreaded and longed for his answer.

He stared at her, clearly dumbfounded – and yet wary. He slumped heavily into the chair by the window. "No," he insisted softly, "there's never been anyone else."

Guilt escalated, most definitely.

"Philippe . . . he had something that I never have. As young as they were, she loved him. She knew him. And he loved her. I never even believed that all that was real until the last few years, and now . . . now that I know what I've been missing, it's too late to find it." He turned to glare moodily out the window.

"Rupert," she whispered, lightly touching his shoulder, "I love you."

"It's not the same," he murmured. "It's not youth because we've never felt the way he described. You must know it's not the same." He looked at her hopefully as if he had suddenly realized he might be hurting her terribly and desperately hoped he wasn't.

"I know," she said, patting his shoulder in the same way she had comforted the boys years before. "But I can't quite see Philippe pouring out his emotions to you," she added, hoping to lighten his mood.

"Hah!" he snorted, rising to the moment. "Enough alcohol in that boy and he'll talk about anything." He twisted in his chair and caught her eye, smiling sadly. "I'll be fine, Clarisse, and so will you. I'd just like to be able to give my son another chance."

"Then let's give him that chance," she said as brightly as she could. "Let's give him all the chances we can." She came around his chair and sat on the ottoman at his feet. "We'll throw a series of balls – one grand and glorious party after another. We'll invite every suitable woman on the continent, and give Philippe the chance to fall in love, or at least the chance to choose for himself."

"And see if Cinderella comes to the ball?" he asked wryly.

"Anything can happen, Rupert." She patted his knee affectionately. "Now go to bed, my dear and true and friend. You look as though you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't," he confessed. "You should get some sleep, too, Clarisse. Lots of party planning to do in the morning after all."

"That's true," she equivocated. "But I think I'll run down and see if Joseph will let me peruse his library for a few minutes. I need something to read to help me get to sleep." She forced herself to breathe calmly and regularly. In all the years that she and Joseph had been meeting to . . . to what, really? To talk, to hold hands? In all that time she had never excused it to Rupert in any way; neither had he ever seemed to need one from her. He trusted her, and he trusted Joseph. And they were sneaking off to wallow in the one thing Rupert wanted in his life and had decided he would never have.

Perhaps she shouldn't go to him. Perhaps she should just go to her own suite, turn off the lights, and try to forget about her love and her guilt. She sighed softly as Rupert rose to leave. Perhaps she should – but she wouldn't.

1998

Joseph braced himself rigidly, forcing himself to not draw Clarisse tightly against his body. This was the fourth royal ball in as many months and dancing with her was growing maddening. Thanks to what amounted to excuses on Rico's part he had been able to safely claim three or four dances each evening with Her Majesty. She was an exquisite dancer, light on her feet, and so fluid. She had the exasperating habit of brushing against him, however, whenever she felt she could get away with it. Admiring her from across the room was mind-numbing, even after twenty years; feeling her hands, her arms, her thighs press against his own would soon turn him into a gibbering, salivating idiot. He smiled politely, but at his most stern, and bowed to her as the song ended.

"Thank you, madam," he spoke in measured tones, "for a most touching dance. Your Majesty is, as ever, a delightful partner. He squeezed her hand a bit too tightly in gentle admonishment. "I think I'm going to get some air. If you'll excuse me?"

He made a rapid escape through the doors to the terrace and found a cool, dark corner in which to think cool, dark thoughts and adjust the fit of his clothing. Cold showers . . . no, not showers, you'll imagine her there. Snow . . . no, no, snow leads to skiing, skiing leads to curled up in a lodge with . . . ICE! Being thrust into a vat of ice, completely surrounding . . .

A gentle hand brushed his shoulder. "Oh, give it up!" he said forcefully, not realizing he'd spoken aloud.

"I beg your pardon!" Clarisse backed away, startled at his vehemence.

He quickly clutched her hand and drew her deeper into the shadows. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "I was trying to not throw you over my shoulder and carry you off into the moonlight."

"You weren't very successful, were you?" She smiled secretively. "Here we both are, and here's the moonlight." She drew her hand along his cheek, inflaming him once again.

"Wicked woman," he teased, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the inside of her wrist.

"And what of you, Sir Joseph?" she asked as she brushed her hand down his chest and lingered just above his belt line. "Wearing my favorite cologne? Dressed more crisply than any other man in Genovia?"

He looked at her askance. "Your Majesty, have you been drinking?"

"Joseph del Lago, what a scandalous thing to suggest. The Queen never gets drunk, you should know that. Everyone else is simply a trifle dull." She leered at him. Yes, that was definitely a leer. "I have been drinking, though," she went on as she wrapped her arms loosely about his neck. "And I want to keep on drinking you in."

He coughed in warning, hoping to deter, hoping she would not be deterred, and pulled back, but not out of her embrace. And then quite suddenly her lips were on his and any thought of deterrence, indeed, any thought at all, was long forgotten. She brushed across him lightly at first, hesitant yet determined, and he settled into the last first kiss of his life. He enfolded her in his arms and she grew bolder, nibbling at his bottom lip. When her tongue flicked briefly against his lips, the flames she had stirred in him flashed into a raging inferno. He eagerly grasped either side of her head and tilted her to better fit against him and plunged deeply, fiercely within, tasting what he had forbidden himself for twenty years. She jerked against him, startled by his ferocity perhaps, but soon softened under his heat, and responded with equal hunger.

Her hands played at the nape of his neck, tickling, annoying, arousing, and yet oddly soothing all at once. His found their way into her hair, and his world shrunk to the sensation that was Clarisse. He felt the silken strands of her hair, smelled the rosewater from her bath, heard her soft moans as he pulled her closer still, and tasted the devastating sweetness of her mouth laced with perhaps a trifle more wine than a queen should safely drink. Without his conscious direction, his right hand wandered – down the straight column of her neck, across the ridge and slope of her shoulder, over the curve of her arm to the soft swell of her breast. Breaking away for air, his lips followed the path of his hand and he nuzzled her neck as she stretched, giving him better access. His fingers slipped underneath her bodice and stroked sensitive flesh, answering her satisfied sigh with his own.

Then lightning flashed between them and she was out of his arms and gasping for breath. "Joseph, no, no, please no." She shook her head furiously, her arms wrapped around her, her eyes bored into his, pleading for understanding.

Just as breathless and furiously trying to still his racing heart, Joseph tore his gaze from hers and stared at his hands, aghast. "Dear God, Clarisse, I'm sorry . . ."

"I started it, Joseph," she whispered, her fingers flying to her lips. Did she mean to wipe his kiss away or hold it there? "I'm sorry . . ."

"I should go," they chorused. As their heavy breathing and speeding hearts came gradually under control, their gazes locked, no longer touching, yet still joined. "I should go," they said again, but she was faster, regretfully looking away and turning toward the south doors – away from the ballroom and prying eyes.

He strode heavily out onto the terrace and leaned on the balustrade overlooking her gardens. Almost nothing was yet in bloom and still he could smell roses. He buried his head in his hands and muttered to himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Morosely surveying the tableau before him, he decided that it suited the moment. Earlier in the day the gardens had shown all the varying shades of green that come with spring's new growth. A few moments ago, in the moonlight and freshly aroused from dancing, it had been a silver and ivory landscape. Now, with the moon behind high scudding clouds and his betrayal of Rico all but complete, it was just gray – variegated shades of gray, to be sure, but about as devoid of new life and hope as he might expect to find.

They had both been foolish, so very foolish, playing at being friends, only occasionally acknowledging the depths of passion roiling below the surface. And what had they done, really, during their all too scarce interludes over the years? Talk, learn each other's histories, desires, secrets? So much he had done with Rico as boys, and with as many as a dozen others at various times, friends and lovers. Hold hands? He scraped his palms along the stone, thinking to override the memory of her hands in his. He must have made love to her hands a hundred times in the last ten years. He shivered at the thought of what it would be like to truly make love to all of her. If caressing her hand was bliss and dancing with her mind blowing, taking Clarisse to his bed would surely be the death of him.

But then, her kiss had done that already – or his had, theirs had. How could he possibly look Rico in the eye now? The last twenty years had been a horror he'd grown gradually accustomed to; his initially unintentional betrayal of his dearest friend counterbalanced by the abiding joy of his dearest love. But now? Now there could be no pretending that she was just his best friend's wife. There could be no rationalizing their time spent huddled over a book in the library as two scholars engaged in literary debate. There could be no passing off his hand snugged low on her back as simply guiding her through a room. There could be no hiding it now.

"Joe?" the familiar rich voice sunk him further into panicked despair. "Are you all right?" Rico joined him, leaning against the balustrade.

"I'm fine," he choked out hoarsely.

"You don't sound fine," Rico pushed. "Anything I can do?"

"No," Joseph said. "I've just had enough of the party."

Rico leaned forward and twisted to look him in the eye. "You dog!" he chortled. "Who is she?"

Joseph pulled back, looking pointedly away. "Who is who?" he asked in badly feigned innocence.

"The woman whose lipstick is all over your face, my friend," the king chuckled. "Come on, don't hold out on me."

"Rico," he said wearily, "I'd really rather--"

"Ever the gentleman, eh?" Rico shifted against the stone, shoving Joseph lightly in the arm. "Who am I going to tell?"

"It doesn't matter any more, Rico," he said quietly, still unable to meet his sovereign's eyes. "It's over." He tried to rein it in but let out a heavy sigh. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the red evidence of his guilt – blood on his face, now on his hands. Maybe it hadn't been a physical death, but he and Clarisse had been killing his friendship with Rico in small measures for years; had tonight been the final blow?

"I'm sorry to hear that, Joe," he said as he stared out across the budding gardens. "More sorry than you know." He laid his own handkerchief across Joseph's arm. "It's more than a one hankie mess, I'm afraid."

"Are you in love with her?" Rico asked.

Joseph glanced toward him, startled and wary, but didn't quite make eye contact. "Rico, I really don't want to talk about it . . ."

"I don't mean to pry. I only ask because it's been on my mind lately. That's what all these damn parties are about, you know." He nudged Joseph again. "It's supposed to be working for Philippe, but if it ends up working for you . . . well, I guess that's something."

"I think your age is finally catching up to you, old friend," he said sourly.

"She certainly has done a number on you."

"It's been a mutual numbers game."

"So . . . are you in love with her?"

Joseph scanned the gardens, pointedly avoiding Rico's attempts to catch his eye. Near the south end of the palace he spotted Clarisse, dabbing at her face with a cloth and periodically checking herself in a small hand mirror. As she turned the mirror reflected the light from the palace windows and flashed brightly. He smiled in resignation – something about Clarisse always seemed to light his way.

Taking a deep breath he turned and met Rico's gaze. He held it, pouring all the intensity he had left into the stare. "Yes, Rico," he said softly, firmly, "I do love her."

The king gave him a sad smile. "Then good luck to you, Joe. All the best," he added, clapping him on the shoulder.

Joseph glanced down, unable to stomach the ramifications of his attempted confession gone misunderstood. "Rico, I . . . I need some time off."

"What?" He seemed startled at what must appear a non sequitir. "All right. I don't see why not. All we have is more of these damn parties coming up. For how long will you be gone?"

"I'm not sure."

"Joe," he warned, "you promised me. No more wandering off. You've already seen the world; what more is there?"

"I just need some time away, Rico," he explained. "I need to spend some time with my family."

"How is your mother?" Rico softened his stance. "You know you're more than welcome to bring her here. Clarisse would love to have another woman around . . ."

"No," he said quickly. "No," a bit more softly, "she's comfortable. She doesn't want to leave her home. My nephew and his wife are moving back to Pyrus. She wants to be able to spend time with them. She's either going to leave us in a year or two or still be around for the next new millennium. She's one tough old lady."

"She survived you, she'd have to be." Rico turned his gaze to the stars. "I remember her. She was always sad. Senor G was the only one who could make her laugh – except for you. I always wondered why they didn't make a go of it."

"They were the best of friends," Joseph explained, "but that's all it ever was. After my father died, Senor G took care of us, watched out for us. It might have been more on his part, but I think my mother saw him more as a brother."

"Do you think she loved your father?"

"You really are obsessed with this love thing, aren't you?"

"I've never really been in love, Joe. Can you believe it? I'm nearly sixty-five and I've never been in love." He turned, and with a strength that belied his age, hoisted himself up to sit on the stone ledge. "I always thought it was fairy tale rubbish, until Philippe started opening up over the Glenfiddich."

"I've never asked, but . . ." Joseph swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "All these years, you've never, umm . . . you've always been . . ."

"Have I always been faithful to my wife?" Rico asked him with a chuckle. "Hell, Joe, you've been arranging my security for twenty years; don't you think you'd know?"

"Frankly, Rico," he said, hesitant and uncertain as to just what was going to come pouring out of his mouth, "if you weren't, I don't think I'd want to know. Clarisse is a good woman, a great woman. She deserves better than . . ."

"Than me?" Rico pointed to his chest, his eyes flashing through anger and indignance to settle at amusement. "It had to happen eventually," he said, now shaking his finger at Joseph. "It took her a while, but eventually she wraps everyone around her finger. I thought maybe you'd be immune, but even the mighty do fall." He laughed easily and chucked Joseph on the shoulder again. "You're right though. She does deserve better than me. She deserves . . . she deserves someone who truly loves her, Joe, and I don't know if she's ever had that either."

Joseph looked down again, not trusting himself to speak. Just do it. Tell him.

"Joe," Rico began after a laden pause, "if anything should ever happen to me, you'd still look after them wouldn't you? Philippe, of course, would still need a Head of Security. But Clarisse will need . . . somebody, a friend. We're certainly not like Senor G and his wife, but she is going to need a real friend. Pierre has God; he doesn't need anyone." He paused again, gathering his breath, and jumped from the ledge, taking Joseph by the shoulders. "She's going to need someone. She loves you as much as I do – like a brother. Promise me you'll look after her as well as you have me? Promise me you'll be Senor G for Clarisse as well as for Pierre."

Damn you, Rico. Why can't you just open your eyes and SEE? She definitely loves me, but not anything like a brother.

"I won't let you down, Rico," he vowed. But for the time being, del Lago, you will stay away from her. No hiding anything because there won't be anything more to hide. Stop being stupid! "You aren't trying to tell me something, are you?"

"What? You mean, am I dying? No, I'm planning on making your life difficult for a while yet." He laughed ruefully. "I just want her to be happy. I want her to be safe."

"I don't know about making her happy, Rico, but I'll always protect her."

1991

". . . and Comte de Vries will be in the blue room. His wife, however, will be in the Lace Suite down the hall."

Joseph shot the Queen's private secretary a confused look as he quietly entered the royal suite of the Winter Palace. Most of the Genovian nobility were arriving over the course of the next few days either to celebrate the Christmas holidays with the royal family, renew their New Year's oaths to King Rupert, or both. Seldom had there been security issues beyond drunken vandalism and small scale pilfering – what was so appealing about a towel or an ashtray from the palace, Joseph would never fathom – but it was his job to be informed and aware.

"Don't ask," Jeanine whispered as she returned her attention to the Queen. "Prince Pierre has requested a smaller room more befitting his station, but I told him you wouldn't hear of it. And Lord and Lady Fricker will be in the Veridian Suite, your Majesty."

"Ah, Lord Fricker," Clarisse interrupted. "Oh, hello, Joseph," she added brightly, glancing toward the door. "Come to confirm the arrangements for Lord Fricker, have you?"

He dipped his head in respectful acknowledgement. "Prince Philippe and I have discussed the situation, madam, and we have everything under control."

"As much as we have always relied upon your expertise, Joseph, I would like a little more elaboration." She closed the folder her secretary had given her listing room assignments for the coming weeks. "If that's all, Jeanine?" Her tone made it clear that even if it wasn't, it was.

"Certainly, your Majesty." She left the room with a graceful half bow and a quick, sympathetic glance to Joseph.

For several heartbeats they remained still, he standing ramrod straight near the now closed door, she sitting precisely at the edge of her chair, hands folded loosely on her knee.

"Do you really want to know about security arrangements?" he asked huskily once he no longer heard the echo of footsteps in the hall.

"I want to know about security in San Francisco," she insisted pointedly. "I don't think Lord Fricker is a very good choice for a consul, but I don't have any say on that note."

"I've reviewed his staff choices, if it makes you feel any better, and I've assigned security for the new consulate myself." He edged closer behind her chair and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders.

"And my granddaughter?" There was a catch in her voice; Joseph doubted that many would have caught it, but he knew every lilt and timbre of her voice. He knew she longed for some contact with the child, and yet she had honored the agreement with the girl's mother and never reached out. If only Philippe would stop dallying around and get her some grandchildren she could dote on, he would worry less about her thoughts straying halfway around the world. He brushed his hands across her shoulders, not quite an intimate caress.

"I have a man in place, Clarisse," he assured her quietly. "She may never know it, but your granddaughter is as much under my protection as you are."

"Thank you, Joseph," she whispered.

"I am at your service, madam," he said cheekily, squeezing her shoulders and running his thumbs up the back of her neck.

She tilted her head back, smiling up at him, and said almost dreamily, "I love it when you do that."

"What? Rub your neck?" His fingers stilled, but he did not remove his hands. "I probably shouldn't."

"You definitely shouldn't, but that's not what I meant." She took his hands in her own and pulled him around to face her.

As he sat on the low table before her, he marveled at her fingers gently stroking his. It was wrong, these times they stole for each other right under the noses of King and country. It was even more wrong that they had been able to hide it for so long. And yet it felt so right to hold her hand in his, so right to take her in his arms, so right to share the large and small burdens of their separate duties.

"No, it's . . . oh, it's going to sound silly." Did she actually blush? Joseph couldn't be sure. Even in their times alone it had happened seldom.

"You could never be silly, Clarisse," he reassured her.

She sighed. "Sometimes I wish I could be," she said wistfully.

"Then tell me," he prodded as he traced the lines of her palm.

"I love it when you call me 'madam.' I know it sounds ridiculous, but no one else calls me that." She took a deep breath and rushed on. "Rupert only ever calls me by name; the boys call me 'mother,' and to everyone else I'm 'your Majesty.' You call me 'darling' and 'dear' sometimes when we're alone, but I . . ." She ran out of breath, her eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Joseph smiled, suddenly aware of just how much he gave her, of how much she had come to need him.

"And what do you hear, madam," he emphasized the courtesy, "when I address you so?" He squeezed her hand lightly, encouraging her to meet his eyes.

Slowly, she did. "I hear 'my darling,' 'my dear' . . ."

"My precious?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"I'll remember that," he promised. He quickly brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, and then abruptly stood. "I should go; Rupert's waiting for me."

"Tell him I said hello," she said wryly. He leant forward and cupped her cheek, running his thumb over her smooth skin. He turned to leave and she caught his hand around the back of the chair.

"Joseph," she murmured, "thank you."

He squeezed her hand again and let go. "My pleasure, madam, my pleasure."