a/n Here's a historical (?!) AU. It's sort of loosely regency but not at all historically accurate. And the language is obviously thoroughly anachronistic. Please don't bother telling me that in the comments, because honestly I had a blast writing this and I think some totally silly fun is just the thing to survive Christmas 2020. This is unbetaed and all mistakes are unabashedly my own. I guess normal service will resume tomorrow with a nice angsty chapter of BF. Happy reading!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Princess who stands to inherit a great kingdom must be in want of a husband.
It seems that's the consensus, anyway. Bellamy's sick of it, honestly. He's been chaperoning his sister around London for scarcely a week and already he's had it up to here with listening to the gentlemen of high society plotting to catch Princess Clarke's notice. There's Lord Collins, who seems to think that endless gifts of art supplies are the way to her heart. There's Lord Jaha, whose tactic seems to be mooching around looking like a kicked puppy until she notices that her childhood best friend is a man now, or some such nonsense. There's Prince Roan visiting from Denmark and harping on about his precious mother's precious kingdom until he's blue in the face.
Bellamy doesn't get it. He simply does not understand. He's seen this Princess a couple of times from the far side of a crowded room. She's blonde with blue eyes and she's attractive enough, he supposes. But he's pretty certain anyone could look passingly pretty if they had every dressmaker and hairdresser in London at their beck and call. And he's not really into this fashion for going around marrying seventeen-year-olds who are fresh out of finishing school with all the conversational competence of an ageing horse. He doesn't much like that fact that his little sister is coming out so young, but her sponsor insisted.
And her sponsor, of course, is King Marcus himself – stepfather to Princess Clarke. And so that's why it is that Bellamy finds himself sitting here, drinking lukewarm brandy and listening to Lord Collins obsess over the shape of Princess Clarke's nose.
…...
It isn't until three days later that he learns her conversational competence far outstrips that of an old nag.
He's having a pleasant enough conversation with Lord Jaha. He's about the most acceptable of the gentlemen so far, in Bellamy's experience. Sure, he's a little dull and a little obsessed with Princess Clarke, but he's not been unpleasant about Octavia's poverty or Bellamy's illegitimacy. So they're talking about shooting, because honestly the chance to discuss sport with some new friends is about the only good thing in this forced visit to town. Bellamy has always loved shooting – it started out as a necessity to feed his sister, but these days it's a beloved hobby and even gives him something to make small talk about.
Bellamy is not surprised when Princess Clarke walks over and inserts herself into the conversation. She's known Lord Jaha all her life, it seems – and clearly doesn't consider him as husband material.
But Bellamy is very surprised when she starts talking about gunpowder.
"Jasper knows how to make gunpowder, you know." She laughs a little. "Sorry – Mr Jordan. He makes his own as something of a hobby. You should speak with him about it."
"Mr Jordan?" He scans the room, wondering who that might be.
"I'll introduce you, come on."
Lord Jaha starts protesting. "Clarke, I was just telling Mr Blake -"
"He doesn't want to stand around here with you all evening." She tells her old friend affectionately. "Come on. We should be helping him make friends."
With that he is towed across the room – quite literally, in fact. Clarke loops her arm around his and keeps him in rather a firm grasp as she goes. He wonders whether she thinks she can get away with ordering him around because she's a princess, or whether she thinks he's in her thrall as much as all these other foolish men.
Probably it doesn't matter, he decides. Getting to know more than three people does sound like progress.
"So this Mr Jordan is a gunpowder enthusiast?" He tries for a polite and interested tone as they walk.
Princess Clarke snorts. "You could say that. I would say he's an enthusiast about many things – enthusiasm defines him, I sometimes think. You'll like him. He is difficult to dislike. And it sounds to me like you would appreciate a friend to discuss your shooting with while you're in town."
"Yes. I'm very fond of shooting." It's an inane comment, but he supposes he had better say something. He can't quite work this woman out – he's beginning to get the impression there's more to her than blonde hair and blue eyes.
She makes a sort of humming noise, waves at some acquaintance he does not recognise as she drags him through the crowd.
And then she pulls the rug right out from under his feet.
"Would you teach me?" She asks brightly. "I've been trying to convince Wells to teach me for years. He says it's unladylike but I think he's just scared I would best him."
Bellamy coughs nervously. "Your Highness, I don't think -"
"Oh. That's really not promising." She laughs. "If you're starting out with Your Highness that's going to be a no, isn't it?"
Now it's his turn to laugh. Definitely not an ageing horse. "I didn't say that. I was going to suggest that asking a strange man for shooting lessons in your first real conversation is a brave choice."
She shrugs. That's probably unladylike as well, he suspects, but it suits her all the same. "I don't have a lot of other opportunities to be brave, do I? A Princess cannot go to fight pirates or liberate slaves in the Americas. Accosting gentlemen in drawing rooms and demanding they teach me how to wield a pistol is as brave as my life gets."
He hesitates a moment, considers her words. He's not sure whether to sympathise or whether to hush her and tell her she's not supposed to complain about her lot in life.
In the end, he goes for something altogether different.
"I think you'd get on well with my sister. She is frustrated about the expectations placed on young women, too." He swallows. "She'd definitely rather be campaigning to end the slave trade than sitting here drinking tea."
"I do get on with your sister. Why do you think I'm helping you make friends?" She asks, light and teasing. "Here we are. Mr Jordan's just over here. I'm going to introduce you and tell him you like guns, and then run back to my tea service. Good luck. Drop your handkerchief if you can't escape his latest lecture and I'll send your sister in to rescue you.
Oh. So that's it. That's his conversation with Princess Clarke drawing to a close, leaving him feeling strangely concussed.
Huh. Maybe he can see why all these gentlemen are so interested, now.
…...
He doesn't see the Princess for the next three days, and he hates himself for noticing.
He's been seeing her a lot, you see, if only from across the room at a crowded social event, because her stepfather King Marcus is Octavia's sponsor. Apparently he was friends with Octavia's father at school, once upon a time.
Bellamy rather struggles to understand how a man who would be King Consort could ever have kind memories of a man who would become a country tailor, but apparently it's true. And apparently he was very upset to learn that Mr Blake senior had died, and that Aurora was struggling to keep the tailoring business afloat, and that Octavia would not be coming out in town.
Really, Bellamy doesn't think that sponsoring Octavia's big season in London is the most useful thing King Marcus could have done. He could have started ordering clothes from the Blakes, perhaps, or sponsoring Bellamy to get some more training at a fashionable modiste in London so they could expand their business.
Clearly royalty do not think of things like this.
Bellamy fixates on that thought carefully, over the course of the evening. He keeps reminding himself that royalty are thoughtless as a sort of a memo to himself not to get too fond of Princess Clarke. One silly conversation about gunpowder does not constitute a binding friendship. She's not spoken to him tonight, and that's fine.
Even more than he hates himself for noticing that they haven't spoken, he hates himself for being sad about it. He hates himself for staring at her across the room – he probably looks like Lord Collins, he thinks sourly, and the way he moons after her.
He could just really use an interesting chat about gunpowder right now, you know?
He doesn't get that, of course. Bellamy has rarely got what he wants in his life, as a rule. So instead of an interesting chat about gunpowder he gets a fleeting moment of eye contact, from all the way across the room, and a half smile.
Fool that he is, it makes his evening. He hates himself most of all for that. How did she catch his interest so quickly?
He's in a particularly sour mood by the time the evening draws to a close and he's preparing to leave. He strides towards Octavia, who seems to be surrounded by a gaggle of excitable young girls in a corner behind a most ugly potted palm.
He doesn't get there. He's intercepted by a certain princess.
"Brave of her to show up tonight wearing a gown not made by a London modiste." Princess Clarke says, nodding in Octavia's direction.
"Well, you know – there aren't many opportunities to be brave afforded to young women." He says, desperately hoping she recalls their previous conversation. "I suppose this is the biggest act of rebellion she felt she could attempt."
The Princess snorts with laughter. "I won't let you have that. It's not brave to wear a dress by an unknown maker when the dress is that lovely."
He feels his cheeks grow hot at the implicit compliment. "Did she tell you who made it?"
Another snort of laughter. She really is most unladylike, he thinks – but in the best possible way. "Of course she did, Mr Blake. She couldn't stop talking about how wonderful you were with a needle. But she made me promise not to tell anyone, which seemed a shame. You should be proud."
"I am proud." He says, because actually he is, even if it might be fashionable to lie about it. "But you and I both know that admitting she is wearing homemade clothes would be so brave as to be foolhardy."
She nods. "You're right, of course. But it's not strictly homemade if you made it in the family workshop, is it?"
Now it is his turn to bark out a laugh. "I'm not going to risk it, Your Highness. I don't want to sabotage her season."
She looks thoughtful. "You seem like a very devoted brother."
"I do my best."
She nods. Silence sits, and it's rather pleasantly peaceful. Bellamy knows he ought to go get on with taking his sister home but he's pretty certain it's impolite to take his leave of a princess.
Not to mention, he doesn't really want to take his leave of this princess.
"Did you make your own coat, too?" The Princess asks him at length, eyeing him in an appraising sort of way that makes his cheeks heat.
"No. My mother made this. I prefer working on ladies' gowns. It's not fashionable to have a man making ladieswear but it's where my talents lie."
"Hmm. And what would it take to convince you to make a copy of your sister's dress for me?"
He gulps slightly, tries not to imagine Princess Clarke being fitted for a gown. It's one thing taking measurements for his sister or for the local girls he's grown up with, but that's a rather different kettle of fish.
Huh. That's him thinking inappropriately sexual thoughts about her, it seems. Well, then. So much for her being an average and not unattractive blonde.
He goes for a teasing response, in the end. That seems safest.
"You've already asked me for shooting lessons. Shooting lessons and a gown? That seems a little greedy on such short acquaintance, Your Highness." It's a risk, of course. She's the heir to the throne of England.
But she's also a rather unusual princess, in his limited experience to date.
The risk pays off. She laughs a loud laugh, even reaches towards him with her hand before she seems to remember herself and retract it sharply.
"Good move, Blake. Go on, take your sister home. Don't let me keep you."
He's beginning to suspect he wouldn't mind being kept here all night, actually. But he goes and does her bidding, because she is in fact a princess.
Blake? Did she just call him Blake? How deliciously improper.
…...
He doesn't bother hating himself, next time he sees her – and stares at her. It's some evening of music at some Duke's house and he doesn't much care for music, so he figures gazing at Clarke is fair game.
Sorry – Princess Clarke. He really has let that inappropriately casual Blake go to his head.
When there is a break in the programme, he doesn't seek her out. He doesn't want to allow himself to be one of her crowd of hopeless suitors, if only because he knows he is not a suitor. He thinks that's what allows him to be so comfortable with her, really. They both know there's no way she could ever marry a country gentleman who has to make ends meet with a needle, so it's perfectly safe for them to have a laugh together.
Instead he starts a conversation with Mr Jordan – or Jasper, because they've hit it off quickly and agreed that first names are fine, now. Jasper is planning some scheme where he will plant explosives in all the rabbit warrens on his country estate, while he hunts there this summer.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Bellamy asks mildly. "Surely you will blow up the rabbits themselves? They won't be much good for eating if you do."
"I won't use that much powder. Just enough to make the rabbits run so I can pick them off."
"Haven't you learnt by now not to interfere when Mr Jordan is excited about blowing things up?" Princess Clarke asks, popping up by his elbow as if out of nowhere.
Bellamy laughs – partly because she said something moderately amusing, but mostly at the shocked joy of seeing her. "I'm only advocating a little sense."
"Don't bother." Jasper recommends with a laugh. "Clarke tried for years and it got her nowhere."
Clarke, is it? This country gentleman who explodes rabbits is on first name terms with her? The idea makes Bellamy a little jealous.
"The Jordan and Green estates are next to our land." The Princess explains with an easy shrug, as if our land was such a trifling concept. "When I was young I wasted much of my breath on trying to convince the boys to calm down."
"Are you joining the royal family in the country this summer?" Jasper asks eagerly. "If I set the explosives you can shoot the rabbits."
Clarke laughs. "Of course that's your priority, Jasper. Mr Blake, do you know what Marcus has planned for you?" Marcus. King Marcus, Clarke's stepfather. Sometimes Bellamy can't quite believe he's talking too and about such people so casually.
"I'm not sure." He hedges. "He hasn't spoken about it."
"I'll talk to him." The Princess decides at once. "You have to spend the summer with us. You owe me a set of shooting lessons."
"Sorry – owe you?" He asks, mock affronted. "I don't remember agreeing to that, Princess. I think you might be stretching the truth there."
She blinks up at him with those wide blue eyes. "I would never be so unladylike as to lie about shooting lessons."
He snorts. "We both know that's not true."
"Are you arguing with me, Blake?"
"You bet I am, Princess."
Their discussion stumbles to a halt. They seem to standing closer together than Bellamy remembers – he's pretty sure he could kiss Clarke from here, if he wanted to. Which he doesn't, obviously, because he's a decent gentleman and also not a viable suitor for a princess.
But he could kiss her from here, if he wanted to.
He blinks, forces himself to pull away. Good god – what is he doing? Just because she's being so casual as to call him Blake doesn't mean he can go around spitting Princess at her in the midst of a good-natured argument. And Jasper seems to have disappeared, he notes – when did that happen? Was he really so oblivious to the world, there?
Clarke takes a couple of rapid breaths, then breaks into a warm smile.
"Good." She says simply.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's good that you're arguing with me. No one ever dares to do that and it's very tiresome." She grins at him. "A pleasure as always, Mr Blake."
She sinks into far too low of a curtsy, then walks away with a spring in her step. And Bellamy is left staring at her retreating back and thinking – not for the first time – that she really doesn't seem seventeen.
…...
A few more days pass by with no sign of Clarke. Bellamy and Octavia are lodging in a property owned by King Marcus, but they don't tend to see the royal party unless there's a social occasion.
Octavia sees them more often. She's sometimes invited over for tea or a walk in the park or suchlike with Clarke.
Sorry – Princess Clarke. He really must be more careful about that.
Today marks the fifth day that Bellamy has not seen the Princess, and he has to admit he's missing her. She's the most fascinating young woman he's ever encountered, and he's grown all too used to sharing entertaining conversations with her, all too quickly. He knows there's a ball next week but until then he only has the occasional ride out with Jasper or Mr Green or Lord Jaha to keep him occupied – and although they're all perfectly nice gentlemen, none of them argue quite so engagingly as Clarke.
OK. It's a lost cause. He figures she can be Clarke in his head as long as he remembers to speak of her respectfully when he opens his mouth, right?
Anyway, he's not seen her in a long time, so he's rather jealous when his sister announces that she has been invited to the palace for tea.
"Enjoy yourself." Bellamy says carefully. "Are you looking forward to having some company?" He asks, fishing for information about whether Clarke will be there with no attempt at subtlety.
"Yes. I like spending time with Clarke. She tells the funniest stories about the men who chase after her."
Aha. The perfect opening. A gift from the heavens, even.
"Tell her she can use me as cover at the Jahas' ball next week, if she wishes." He says, carefully light. "If she wants to put me down on her card for a dance so she can argue with me instead of putting up with some other simpering fool, she'd be very welcome."
Octavia laughs. "How decent of you, to condescend to dance with a Princess if she wishes."
He laughs in turn. "You know what I mean. Just tell her – tell her it's a friendly offer. If she wants to get away from all that for a dance, I'm only too happy to help her out."
"Sure. A friendly offer." Octavia echoes, teasing and bright. But she goes out the door without making too much more fuss, so that could be worse, he supposes.
Clarke does take him up on his friendly offer, in the end. But it's not exactly how he expected – she doesn't ask Octavia to report back that she's put him down for a dance.
No – she's written his name down for two.
…...
Maybe that's what gives him the confidence to try it. She must prefer his company to that of her suitors, he figures, if she's gone and put his name down for two dances. So when he sees that Lord Cillian has been at Clarke's side for a good ten minutes and she's beginning to inspect the folding mechanism of her fan just for something to do, he figures he might as well have a go at helping her out. Bellamy knows he's dancing with her next anyway, and he doesn't think it's such a gross social faux-pas to go collect his partner a little early.
At least, he hopes it's not. She really does look very bored and very much in need of a friendly argument.
He allows himself to walk up behind her slightly closer than is perhaps proper, then whispers for her ears only.
"Having fun yet, Princess?" He asks.
She jumps a little – he's not sure whether that's for show or whether she's genuinely so very shocked. And then she smiles at him, bright and true.
"Mr Blake. I should have known. Have you met Lord Cillian yet? Mr Blake is the elder brother of my particular friend." She explains cheerfully.
He likes that more than he probably ought to. He's pleased on Octavia's account – to be claimed as the particular friend of a princess on just a couple of weeks' acquaintance is no mean thing. But he's also pleased at the idea that he shares something special with her by extension – that he's part of a sort of circle of family friends who might safely be allowed to indulge in a little overfamiliar behaviour like whispering cheeky messages at a ball.
Lord Cillian does not look impressed by their particular connection, of course. He looks extremely sour and more than a little disappointed.
"A pleasure, I'm sure." He says, in a tone that makes it quite clear he feels no pleasure in the introduction at all. "Where is your estate?"
Bellamy stifles a laugh. "To call it an estate might be generous. We own a small property in Hertfordshire."
Lord Cillian does not even pretend to be interested, after that. He makes his excuses and goes on his way.
Clarke giggles, smiles up at Bellamy as if she's been waiting to see him all week. Not that he believes she has, obviously. He's not so vain. Just – she really does seem happy to see him.
"You made an error there." She chastises him affectionately. "He's not going to be interested in your sister now he knows you're not great landowners."
"If that puts him off, I wouldn't have wanted him to marry her anyway." Bellamy says easily. "I considered going the whole hog and telling him that our small property is a tailor's workshop, but I thought that might be a bit far."
"Yes. That might have damaged Octavia's prospects, and we have still had our joke."
Clarke links her arm through his, starts walking across the dancefloor. He's fairly sure that this much touching is pretty unacceptable outside of the dance itself – or a close family relationship. Either she's playing up the particular friend angle, or else she's a princess and just doesn't care.
"What about your prospects?" She asks suddenly.
It takes him a while to figure out what she's asking. It's not that it's a difficult question, just that no one has asked about his marriage prospects before now.
"I have none." He says. It's as simple as that.
"I don't believe that. Your sister is quite the success and your have Marcus as your sponsor."
"He's only sponsoring her." He clarifies, noting that Marcus must not have explained their family situation even to his stepdaughter.
Huh. Should he tell her now? Does he trust her with all this information?
Yes. Of course he does. She's his sister's particular friend. She wouldn't do anything to ruin their standing in society.
"Are you going to tell me how that works or leave me to dream up some scandal?" Clarke asks pertly.
He snorts. "It is a bit of a scandal, really. Different fathers. King Marcus was a school friend of Octavia's father. My father was nobody."
"You're wrong." She says mildly.
He frowns. He's not wrong. He knows his own family background, thank you very much. "What do you mean?"
"He was somebody. Everyone is, whether this slice of society values them or not. And I'd say he must have been somebody good if he managed to father you."
He glows. There's simply no other word for it. But even as he's soaking up her implicit compliment he tries to maintain their usual light back-and-forth. "That was all my mother." He says brightly. "Between you and me, my father was a sailor who up and left the moment my mother fell pregnant."
"That doesn't sound like a scandal." Clarke says thoughtfully. "It just sounds sad. Being without a father is hard. But you turned out rather well for it, didn't you?"
He smiles down at her, a little sad, a lot touched. "You, too. Your father would be proud I'm sure."
Clarke nods. "You know, I think he would. He was all for modernising the monarchy and building a fairer society. I hope to pick up where he left off when I'm on the throne. And in the meantime, at least I get on with Marcus."
"Yes. My stepfather – Octavia's father – was a decent man, too."
That conversation draws to a close, then. But despite their usual habit of bantering brightly about anything and everything, Bellamy does not feel awkward in the silence. Perhaps talking about their fathers has built a new level of intimacy between them, he wonders. Maybe this is what it's like to have particular friends.
But all the same, he'd like them to start laughing again sooner or later. He wants Clarke to have fun with him, wants to distract her from her suitors as he promised he would.
"So tell me, Princess. Why does Mr Green look so proud of himself?" He figures a little people-watching is a fair form of entertainment at a function like this.
"He's spiked the punch." Clarke says, totally matter of fact.
Bellamy splutters out a laugh. "He's spiked the punch at the Jaha ball?"
"Yes. Jasper blows things up, Monty distils his own spirits. They both like to experiment."
"Hardly the Royal Society, is it?" Bellamy mutters.
Clarke grins. "I know. Don't tell me – you're more excited about weather balloons? Lord Collins is very enthusiastic about his weather balloons at the moment."
Bellamy laughs – probably too loudly for a civilised ball, but it can't be helped.
"Honestly? I prefer to read about history." He admits. Knowing and discussing each other's interests is part of being particular friends, isn't it?
"Try again, Blake. I already knew that. Your sister never shuts up about you." Clarke says with a teasing grin.
He decides to tease her right back. "If you're bored of weather balloons, I'd be happy to treat you to a lecture about Roman history instead. The emperor Augustus -"
"Don't start." She warns, giggling. "I'm tired of men trying to show me how clever they are."
"Maybe you'd find them less boring if you put out a list of the qualities you're looking for. If you advised them to talk to you about art instead of weather balloons."
Clarke's looking at him thoughtfully. "You know I like art?"
He feels his face grow warm. "Octavia never shuts up about you, either."
She laughs slightly, but her heart isn't in it.
"Princess?" He prompts her gently.
"I'm only looking for one thing." She admits, words a little rushed, voice audibly distressed. "I'm not looking for art or history or weather balloons. I'm just looking for one of them to realise that I'm a person, not just a princess. That I'm more than my status and my parentage."
"I understand that." He says, hoping he sounds soothing, patting her hand where it rests on his arm in a way that is probably totally inappropriate. But she seems to need a little comfort right now, he decides.
"You do?"
"Yes. I think that's all any of us is looking for."
…...
Bellamy is minding his own business. It's a fine spring morning, and the sun is shining, and he thinks maybe he'll go for a stroll later and see if he can bump into Jasper or Monty, perhaps.
Or at least, that's what he thinks until Clarke marches straight into the drawing room of the small house he and Octavia are borrowing from King Marcus.
"We're going for a walk in Hyde Park." She announces.
"Good morning to you too, Your Highness." Bellamy says, tone mild but brow quirked. "Do I want to know how you got in?"
"My stepfather owns this place. Of course I can get in." She says, as if that explains anything. "Come on, put your coat on. Octavia and I are going for a walk and you couldn't possibly let two unarmed young women walk alone. If you'd only teach me how to shoot maybe we could go out without you but until then you're stuck with us." She informs him brightly.
He doesn't argue, of course. She's a princess – if she wants him to walk through Hyde Park with her and his sister, then that is what he must do.
There's that, and there's also the fact he quite likes the idea.
So that's how it is that he finds himself rather out of breath scarcely half an hour later, running through a stand of trees in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour and crying out to his companions to stop.
"O! Princess! Wait!" He doesn't want them to be the target of pickpockets or similar while they're running ahead of him.
They ignore him, of course. They keep running, but he's gaining on them now, moving quite a lot faster. He's going to reach them before -
Clarke stops dead, just before the edge of the trees, and Bellamy canons straight into her. On reflex, he reaches out to steady her, sets his hands at her waist in an attempt to balance both of them.
And then, to be honest, he just leaves his hands there because it's a nice place to have his hands.
"Sorry." She mutters, not sounding sorry at all. "Thought I shouldn't be seen running out in the open."
"I get that." He murmurs, because really, he can understand her frustration. And because talking any louder than a murmur would feel wrong while his fingers are sitting on her waist like this.
"I'll race you this summer." She suggests, brightening at the idea. "You're coming to the country with us. Marcus said you could. Has he invited you yet?"
"We spoke about it yesterday."
"And you're coming?" She checks, eager.
"Yes. Both of us." Octavia says neatly, stepping up to join the conversation.
Ah. Yes. Octavia's right here. Also the whole of Hyde Park, Bellamy reminds himself firmly.
He lets his hands fall and puts a polite yard between himself and Clarke once more.
…...
Bellamy is happier than he probably should be, as their time in London stretches from weeks into months.
He knows he has no good reason to be happy. His beloved little sister will leave him when she gets married – and getting her married is, after all, the point of a London season. And then he supposes he'll head back to Hertfordshire alone to help out with the business. He certainly doesn't have any marriage prospects himself – the only young lady he ever speaks to is Clarke, and she's simply not an option for him. He supposes he ought to be concentrating on some sweet lower ranked heiress. Miss Bragg and Miss Martin have both started looking interested since he and Octavia have become so close with Clarke. But he just cannot convince himself to spare them more than one dance when a certain princess is in the room.
Never mind. That's what he decides, in the end. If this is the only year of his life he will spend with this wonderful woman who makes him smile, then he's going to make the most of it. He's going to cherish her company as best as he can, curate a library of happy memories to look back on in years to come when he's a lonely old bachelor and a country tailor.
It's with that resolution in mind that he stops using Octavia as an excuse and starts openly calling on Clarke himself. The King and Queen don't seem to mind – they seem to think he's like family or else such a close family friend as to be in the same bracket as Wells, perhaps.
It's both a blessing and a curse, Bellamy thinks. On the one hand he can call on Clarke several times a week and take her walking all the damn time and her parents don't bat an eyelid. But on the other hand, every time Abby welcomes him, relieved, into the drawing room at the palace and says Clarke's bored of waiting on suitors, he is reminded all over again that he is clearly unthinkable or even laughable as a suitor.
Of course he is. He's a tailor – or even a dressmaker – and the illegitimate child of some sailor. Of course he's a joke as a prospect for the heiress to England.
And yet when he's with Clarke, and she's teasing him about his love of history, or else fishing for tips on how to shoot, or discussing the political issues of the day, nothing else seems to matter.
…...
The season is starting to draw to a close, now. Just a few more musical soirees, one more extravagant ball, and they will all start to make their way to the countryside.
Octavia isn't engaged yet. She's not even close to it – she hasn't found anyone she's particularly interested in, although plenty of suitors seem to be interested in her. Bellamy worries sometimes that this is an issue, but the King has promised that he's more than happy to sponsor Octavia for a season or two more while she finds someone more to her liking.
Well, then. Maybe Bellamy can spend a couple more years following Clarke hopelessly around. He seems to remember he didn't want to be one of her pathetic suitors, a few months ago.
How times change.
"You're awfully quiet." Clarke speaks up, squeezing his arm a little as they walk.
Right. Yes. He forces himself to refocus on his surroundings. He's wandering through Hyde Park with Clarke, and he really ought to make the most of the time they can spend together.
"Sorry. Just lost in thought." He tries to laugh at himself, but it doesn't quite work out for him.
"Thinking about what?" She prompts gently.
"Thinking that I've enjoyed this season more than I expected to and wondering what the future holds." He admits honestly.
"That's because you've had the pleasure of my company." She says, tone bright as if teasing.
"Yes. It is." He says, and it's the honest truth. "I don't suppose we'll see each other much once O finds someone to marry."
"Don't be foolish, Bellamy. We'll still see each other." Clarke chastises him urgently, as if it's just obvious. "She'll marry one of the gentlemen I know and then we'll all continue to see each other at events. And there's nothing to stop you walking with me in the meantime whenever you are in town."
He ought to respond to that, he supposes. He might say it's sweet that she wants him to keep calling on her in this friendly way, or else point out that he doesn't expect to be in town very often once King Marcus has no reason to sponsor him by association.
He doesn't say any of those things, though. He's too stuck on the fact she just called him Bellamy, on the way his name somehow sounds different when she says it from any time he's ever heard it said before.
"What did you just call me?" He asks, shock making him less than eloquent.
"You know exactly what I just called you. It is your name." Clarke points out robustly.
"That's true." He swallows heavily, gathers his courage. "Clarke."
It feels good to say it – too good, even, the taste of her name tantalising on his tongue. It's intimate in a way that stretches far beyond their shared looks and stock of in-jokes, somehow. It makes him feel like they're very particular friends.
That's why he's disappointed to see Clarke frowning up at him.
"Don't call me that." She mutters.
He feels his heart drop to his heels. "Sorry, Your Highness. I was only joking around. It was foolish of me. I'm -"
"I didn't mean it like that." She rushes to assure him. "It's just – I like Princess better. People who don't know me use my title. And all my family and close friends call me Clarke. But you're the only person who calls me Princess, and I like that."
"Your wish is my command." He says, partly because he's literally her subject, but also because he thinks he'd probably do anything she wanted even if she wasn't a princess, really.
She smiles up at him, squeezes his arm a little tighter. "Thanks, Bellamy."
Oh god. He's in serious trouble, here. It's a good job he can't marry her, otherwise he thinks he'd have spent all his meagre savings on a ring by now – and then he really would be a penniless nobody.
…...
His favourite thing about Clarke is not her kindness and compassion, nor her no-nonsense bravery. They're both admirable qualities, sure, but he's mostly just besotted with the way she never fails to make him smile.
OK. Maybe it's more the combination of all those aspects of her personality and more.
But the point is, they have a lot of fun together. They share silly little jokes at public events, tease and bicker with each other whenever the moment allows. They've adopted a sort of sign-language of facial expressions and signals across a crowded room – she really does send his sister to rescue him, or come herself, whenever he drops his handkerchief.
So it is that when she starts playing with her fan, he presumes she's messing around. Obviously he does. Having a laugh together is what they do.
He's in the middle of a conversation with Lord Sinclair at the time. He's a friend of the Jahas and of King Marcus, so Bellamy has vaguely got to know him by association. It's not a very thrilling conversation – it seems to centre around the idea that Lord Collins is currently the most popular bet for Clarke's future husband. Prince Roan is not a popular prospect, because England would be implicitly subservient to Denmark if that went ahead. And the Princess just doesn't seem interested in Wells.
It's the kind of inane gossip Bellamy would hate even if it were about someone else. But seeing as it's about the marriage prospects of a woman he has no hope of marrying but is very much in love with, he's finding it particularly irritating.
Then he catches Clarke's eye across the room, notices her flaunting her fan at him. He wouldn't claim to be a particular expert in reading the language of a fan, but he has a passing acquaintance with the most commonly used messages from this time spent in town.
I want to talk to you, she signs, looking right at him.
He gives her the slightest shake of his head. He can't talk to her now, can he? He's in the middle of a conversation. He might be bored witless, but he's polite if nothing else. And anyway, however much people tolerate his behaving slightly improperly around Clarke because of their family connection, he doesn't think striding over to her in the middle of a ball because she's summoned him with her fan is a very subtle or appropriate course of action.
I want to talk to you, she repeats.
This time, he frowns at her slightly, throws a meaningful glance in Lord Sinclair's direction. Obviously he cannot talk now.
I want to be engaged, she signs next – or at least, he thinks she does. He simply cannot make sense of that one. Has he misunderstood? As far as he's aware, that's a sign that ladies use when they are desperately trying to solicit an offer of marriage.
What in the name of high heaven is going on?
Surely this is one of her jokes - albeit a very tasteless one. Surely this is -
Follow me, she signs, getting up and starting to walk out of the room.
Needless to say, he does follow her. He waits what he thinks is a safe few minutes, then excuses himself from his conversation and heads down the hallways in search of her.
He finds her in what looks like a library. He's not sure about being alone in here with her – he figures her being a princess and them being family friends will only help them out so far if she gets caught with a man. He knows how cruel society can be to young women. But she did insist that she needed to speak to him, so he follows her right into the dimly lit room.
"Princess?" He whispers into the shadows.
She steps out from behind a bookcase. "Bellamy. Thank god. Marry me."
What? She can't just – what? Is he hearing things? There's no way she just said that.
"I beg your pardon?" He asks, very carefully.
"Marry me. Please. Lord Collins is insistent and Prince Roan keeps following me and Wells looks so sad all the time and I can't take it."
Right. So she wants to be married to her particular friend's big brother to get out of marrying someone she dislikes. But he's a bit puzzled, really, because usually she's very good at thinking things through and he doesn't think this is her most logical suggestion of all time.
"We can't, and you know it." He says quietly. She's still standing a very long way away from him, tucked half behind this bookcase, and he can't help but feel that this is a conversation that would be better had with their arms linked, at least. Or maybe even with his hand over hers.
"You don't want to?" She asks, voice shaking.
"What I want has nothing to do with it." He says, dismissive, because it's the truth. "Look, if you want someone who will be kind to you, pick Wells."
"You really think that's why I'm asking you?" She asks, a little too loudly, he thinks. "You think I just want anyone as long as they're kind?"
"No. You want someone who sees you as a person." He reminds her, although it hurts to recall that conversation, somehow, in this moment. "And Wells will do that. He'll respect you as an individual."
She shakes her head. "Bellamy. No. Why are you being like this?"
He laughs, a hollow sound. He's not being like anything. He's just being realistic.
"Are you laughing at me?" She asks, affronted.
"I'm laughing because it seems a better idea than crying." He bites out firmly. "I know this is probably some great scheme to you, Clarke. Get your friend's big brother to pretend to be engaged you so you don't have to marry a stranger. But I can't do it. I can't get engaged to someone I really love for her convenience. And I certainly can't get engaged to someone I love and watch her suffer society's derision for it."
With that, he turns on his heel and flees.
…...
He leaves the ball early, doesn't go out for the next couple of days. Usually he'd see Clarke at least every other day but he just cannot bring himself to face her. He cannot stand there and joke with her as normal and pretend that he wasn't hurt by her foolish suggestion.
He just doesn't see why she would even suggest it. She knows it's not realistic as a plan – even a pretend engagement to him would ruin her reputation. And she must have realised that he's thoroughly in love with her and would be hurt by her suggesting an engagement of convenience.
Octavia still comes and goes from the house a couple of times, while he's sulking in his room or the drawing room. So it is that, four days after the disastrous ball, she walks straight into his room as if she owns the place and makes an announcement.
"You need to get up and go to the palace, big brother."
"No I don't." Does the fact that he's slumped in bed and reading in the middle of the day not suggest that the palace is not on the cards, any time soon?
"You do. You have to go see Clarke. You've upset her."
She's upset me, he thinks petulantly. But when all's said and done, he really does care about her, so he finds himself asking after her all the same.
"She's upset?"
"Yes. Devastated. She said she'd had an argument with you. A misunderstanding, she told me."
"Did she say what this – ah – misunderstanding was about?" He asks, his curiosity and concern for Clarke getting the better of him.
Octavia rolls her eyes. "She didn't say anything about that. But she gave me a not at all cryptic message which spills more of your secrets than she probably should. She said to tell you it wasn't a scheme, and to remind you that she said marry, not engagement."
He frowns, considers those words. Marry? That's true, now he comes to think about it. She did say marry – he was the one who presumed she must mean some kind of fake engagement. After all, it is totally unthinkable that he should actually marry the heiress to England.
But then again, it's pretty unthinkable that he should even pose as being engaged to her.
This changes nothing, he decides. Even though Octavia's message seems to imply that Clarke was serious, that she really was asking him to marry her. But he still cannot go through with that, because he'd ruin her. She could never marry him. It's just not an option.
He gulps. Was she maybe suggesting this because she actually likes him? Because she'd rather choose him than anyone else? Because she loves him even half as much as he loves her?
It changes nothing. It's simply not an option. He'll send her a bouquet of flowers – hyacinths to say sorry, he supposes, and whatever the hell kind of bloom stands for the only choice.
It's not every day one rejects a marriage proposal from a Princess, but he knows it's what he has to do.
…...
They leave for the King and Queen's country estate three days later. And Bellamy's luck being what it is, of course, the royal couple have decided that the three young people shall share a carriage for the journey.
So once again, it seems, he's judged to be such a good platonic friend of the Princess that no harm can come from them sharing transport.
He can't decide whether he's looking forward to the journey or not. A fortnight ago, he'd have rejoiced at the news he was to spend a day-long journey sharing a carriage with Clarke and Octavia and no one else. But now he's worried it might be a recipe for awkwardness.
The day arrives. One of the royal carriages draws up at their door, Clarke already seated within, and their luggage is loaded. At last it can be put off no longer, and he gets in and takes a seat.
"If you two are going to be difficult, I shall take a nap." Octavia announces, almost before the carriage has started rolling. She's not subtle, his baby sister.
"I don't intend to be difficult." Clarke says, voice too quiet, eyes too sad.
Bellamy gathers his courage and takes a risk. "She's lying to you. Her Highness does intend to be difficult – she loves a good argument."
It pays off. Clarke rewards him with the slightest hint of a smile. "I don't intend to be unpleasant." She amends.
Octavia sighs loudly and fidgets in her sleep. "I think I'll take that nap all the same."
"Subtle, O." Bellamy murmurs under his breath.
That has them all laughing – even Clarke. Her laugh sounds more brittle than he's used to, but it's a laugh all the same.
Octavia is as good as her word. She closes her eyes as if resting, and Bellamy glances furtively across at Clarke to see what she makes of this development – only to catch her pulling her gaze away from him, in turn. He hates all this cold silence between them. The ability to have a boisterous conversation about anything was what brought them together in the first place, as far as he remembers.
His sister falls asleep quickly. It's a gift she's always had – he used to find her napping in closets in the workshop, when she was younger. So it is that, now, as he hears her breathing lengthen out into gentle snores, he risks whispering to Clarke.
"She's asleep. If you want to tell me you'll never forgive me, this would be the time to do it."
She frowns sadly. "I can't tell you that. I do forgive you. You were right to say no." She concedes, eyes downcast. "I know it was a senseless thing to ask in the first place. But I seem to lose all sense when you're around."
"That can't be true. I consider you the most sensible woman of my acquaintance." He teases lightly. Or rather – he takes a teasing tone, but it's the honest truth.
She smiles weakly. He leans forward in his seat, eager to explain a thing or two to her.
"I had to say no. I'd never forgive myself if you lost the respect of the nobles you must work with when you take the throne. But please understand that it wasn't – it wasn't personal."
No. That's not enough. That's weak and pathetic and he can do better than that.
"What I mean is – is that I'd have asked you months ago if I could. That if we lived a different life nothing would make me happier than to call you my wife."
Her smile is a little stronger, now, but still somewhat sad. "I know. You talked about love a lot when you were ranting at me at the Cartwig ball."
He gives a slightly hollow laugh, leans forward even further. He's sort of wondering about asking her whether they can still be friends, perhaps, but that makes him feel foolish and sort of squirmish.
"I love you, too." Clarke whispers across the space that divides them. "I wasn't just looking for a convenient way out. I was worried I would be obliged to accept Lord Collins before the end of the season and all I could think was that I wanted you instead. Like I said – sense flees when you're involved."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He swallows, reaches a hand out in her direction. She can take it or not as she wishes, he figures. "But you haven't accepted Lord Collins?"
She takes his hand and holds on tight. "No. I told him I was still too young and wanted another season to consider my path in life."
He nods, tries to look encouraging. He's never known a seventeen-year-old more confident of her path in life, as it happens, but he senses that it wouldn't be helpful to mention that now.
"Do you think you could make up a convincing rumour that you're secretly a Duke by the end of next season?" Clarke asks him, apparently trying for a teasing tone.
"No. Do you think you could discover you're actually the child of a washerwoman by the end of next season?" He jokes feebly in turn.
"No."
Well, then. Silence sits, heavy with sadness. But at least there's forgiveness here, too, and at least they're still holding onto each other – even if they've no hope to hold onto, any more.
"If I can't have your hand in marriage can I at least have a hug?" Clarke asks softly.
Bellamy considers it for scarcely a second. They have the shades drawn down over the windows. The only company is his sister and a coach driver who is a long-standing servant of Clarke's family.
What's the worst that can happen? His heart's already broken.
"Come here."
He tugs her gently towards him, sits her at his side with his arm wrapped snugly round her. She only asked for a hug, he seems to remember, but he damn well intends to sit here and hold her for the rest of the journey, propriety be damned.
She's fine with that, of course. She's a brave princess. She wraps her arms around him, sinks into his side and makes a contented sort of humming noise that he knows he'll be hearing in his dreams tonight – and probably for the rest of his life.
She feels too good in his arms. She fits just perfectly against his chest, and when he ducks his head he can press the softest kiss to the top of her hair.
At least she knows she's loved. At least there's that.
…...
It's a good summer – the best of his life, Bellamy supposes. Sure, there's the all-pervading sadness of knowing Clarke will be married to someone else, this time next year. But at least when he's an old man he'll be able to look back on this and know that he was happy, once upon a time.
He teaches Clarke to shoot. Obviously he teaches her how to shoot. Partly because he thinks she has as much right to wield a gun as any man, but largely because it's an excuse to go on long adventures with her into the countryside.
The first time she hits a grouse, they celebrate with a kiss. A kiss that's longer and more intense than is probably wise, and leaves both of them flushing and blissfully happy.
"You see? I knew you'd enjoy teaching me to shoot." She says lightly, when they stop kissing and start heading for home.
"If you'd mentioned kissing I would have been far more enthusiastic from the beginning." He jokes.
"No you wouldn't. You didn't like me at first. That's why I noticed you to begin with – you were the only man in London not chasing after me. Or so it seemed."
"I was a fool."
"No. It's a good thing. That's how I know you love me not my crown." She says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.
Yes. She always did want someone who cared about her as a person, not a princess.
…...
It's not all long shooting expeditions on their own, unfortunately. Sometimes there are family dinners, or picnics in company, or long rides around the estate. Octavia in particular seems to have become very keen on riding, this summer.
Clarke flourishes. There's simply no other word for it, and Bellamy feels honoured to witness it. She's laughing and carefree, and although she's still her sensible self, she's not quite so neurotically obsessed with planning and details as he has sometimes known her to be while she's more anxious in town.
Queen Abby even comments on it at dinner one evening.
"You're glowing, Clarke. You're a different person out here in the country."
Bellamy wants to tell her she's wrong. He wants to tell her that her daughter has always had this side to her personality, but that usually it is hidden beneath duty and worry and the question of what it is to be ladylike. He wants to tell her that this is the Clarke he has been honoured to know almost from the very beginning, and that in the country she just feels comfortable giving free rein to that side of herself more often.
But he doesn't say any of that, of course. It's not his place. He simply flashes Clarke a quick smile across the table, sees the light of laughter in her eyes.
"What can I say, mother? Perhaps it's the air."
…...
He'll never forget the day she tells him she's made her mind up. They're hiking across the heath, intending to shoot a few rabbits if any should run across their path. And yes, they're taking advantage of the isolation to hold hands. Apparently he's so much a part of the family these days that no one ever thinks to suggest they take a chaperone. Or maybe the King and Queen see him as so far beneath them – as if her were a stable lad or a servant, but just one who happens to eat dinner at their table.
So, yes, he's happy. He's got sun on his cheeks and Clarke at his side and in moments like this he can almost pretend the summer will last forever.
Then she shatters that fantasy, once and for all.
"I'm going to marry Wells." She says quietly. "You were right – his heart's in the right place and he does respect me. I don't love him as a husband, but I love him as a friend. It will have to be enough."
"I think that's the right choice." Only choice, he muses, in fact.
"Yes. My mind's made up."
He nods. He's not sure what else she wants from him – she's presumably not expecting him to jump for joy at the news she has finally resolved to marry another man.
"I'm tempted to ask you whether we can still be friends. But we both know what the answer to that would be." Clarke points out, pragmatic as ever.
"Yes. That wouldn't be fair on anyone." Bellamy agrees.
They walk a little further. He squeezes her hand, and hopes it comes across as more comforting than clingy. He doesn't want her think he's trying to hold onto her – he has no right to do that, and he's perfectly aware of it.
But damn it, there's something he wants to say. Something he's implied or explained more than once, but has never just said outright in straightforward words.
"I love you." He tells her softly. "That can be your wedding gift. Heaven knows I've nothing else to give you."
"Make my gown?"
He swallows. Does he have the self-control for that? Probably not, but he can't bear to disappoint Clarke.
He nods once. That's about all he's good for, right now.
"Thanks, Bellamy." She brings his hand to her lips, kisses his knuckles. "I love you, too. I suppose it's time for both of us to be brave."
Yes. That sounds about right. That's his brave Princess.
…...
He makes the dress in about three days flat, working like a man possessed. It's certainly not because he's excited about Clarke getting married – although the King and Queen choose to take it that way.
He thinks maybe it's more a burning desire to get this hellish task over and done with so he can go home to Hertfordshire and try to forget all about her.
Hah. That's never going to happen.
…...
Bellamy knows he should be asleep. But he's struggling to find peace, just now. The summer is nearly over. Clarke's wedding gown has been hanging in her dressing room for over a week. And in just three days, they'll all head back to London, and then presumably Clarke will tell Lord Jaha the good news and Bellamy will spend the season following his sister around and trying not to look too morose.
So that's why he's lying wide awake and fully clothed on his bed and reading a book. It's a decent book, all things considered. He will miss the late King Jake's extensive library.
He starts, shocked, when he hears a knock at the door.
"Come in." He calls cautiously. He sits up on the edge of the bed, wonders who on Earth this could be.
It's Clarke. She's peering round the door, fully dressed thank goodness, but nonetheless the whole scene feels like it's been ripped straight from one of his less acceptable fantasies.
"Bellamy?"
"Evening. I'm sure you're going to tell me why you're here." He prompts her lightly.
She laughs a little, but it's a nervous sound.
"What if I told you we could get married?" She asks, excitement bubbling in her voice. "If I told you we could elope right now and no one could stop us?"
He gasps. He thinks she's serious. She wouldn't mess around with a question like that, he's pretty certain.
"I'd ask you whether you're sure. But then I'd say yes, of course." He answers quickly.
"I am sure. I've thought it all through. If we elope then no one can stop us during the engagement period. And if we present it as a done deal – well, it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And if you can get me pregnant while we're gone..." She trails off, brows raised in challenge.
"I see you really have thought of everything. You're certain you want this? You're not going to resent it if it means the kingdom of Denmark is forever affronted you didn't choose Prince Roan?"
"The Kingdom of Denmark will see sense when they realise how perfect we are together." She tells him robustly. "And my mother and Marcus will be fine, too. They like you. They know I like you – they've just been oddly oblivious to how much I like you." She jokes.
He smiles widely. And then he does the only thing he can do, in the circumstances. He strides across the room, takes her hand and kneels at her feet.
"Clarke Griffin – will you marry me?"
"Yes. Yes. Come on – get off the floor. We need to get going." She tells him, laughing merrily.
He does as she asks. He stands, starts shoving undergarments into a small case for their trip.
"Why now?" He thinks to ask, wondering how many pairs of smalls one needs to elope.
"You have to promise not to get angry about this." She warns him, tone deadly serious.
He turns to look her right in the eyes, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Don't lose your temper when I explain it. Focus on the good part – we can get married."
He nods. He can focus on that. He's really rather happy about it, in case that wasn't clear.
Clarke takes a deep breath, gets on with her explanation. "It's your sister. She – she's eloping, too. She was already eloping. I caught her about to leave and asked her to wait five minutes for us."
"My sister's eloping." He repeats back, tone level. He can't get his head around this bundle of emotions – joy and confusion and anger, all tangled together.
"Yes. But don't focus on that part, Blake. We're getting married." She reminds him fiercely.
Blake. That's what snaps him out of it – that and her decisive tone. That's what takes him straight back to those heady days in London when he first started falling in love with this remarkable woman.
"OK. Yes. We're getting married, and I'm overjoyed." He admits, bringing her in for a quick kiss while he grabs his shaving tools. "I take it she's eloping with someone I'll find acceptable, given the way you're acting?"
"Mr Lincoln."
Huh. Mr Lincoln, the stable hand. That does explain the sudden obsession with riding, Bellamy realises. And really, all things considered, his little sister could do worse. Sure, Mr Lincoln has no prospects and no fortune. But he's got a good heart and is a rather respectable, sensible sort of a man.
If she's going to elope with anyone, Bellamy supposes Mr Lincoln isn't a bad choice.
"So here we are. A double elopement." He hefts his luggage. "Have you packed your dress?"
She frowns at him, the most adorable crinkling of her nose and creasing of her lips. "Of course I have packed my dress."
"Just checking, Princess. Lead the way."
…...
It's an odd business, eloping with the love of his life, and his little sister, and the love of her life. He doesn't see much of Octavia or Mr Lincoln, because Mr Lincoln is driving and Octavia chooses to sit outside with him.
Well. That's love for you – worth getting a little chilled for, apparently.
He sits inside the carriage with Clarke and a great deal of hastily packed luggage. Octavia seems to have packed everything she owns, he notes – in case the King and Queen won't take her back to collect the rest of her possessions, perhaps.
Frankly, Bellamy doesn't care if the royal family keep his spare cravats. He has the most important thing with him, and that's Clarke herself. And anyway, he figures they won't be able to shun him too badly once he's actually married into the family.
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, as Clarke said.
He's not sure whether that's actually correct as a general rule. He's not aware that it's some universally acknowledged truth. And he certainly doesn't think that it's Clarke's approach to life for the most part – she's far too sensible and forward-planning for that. But it's like she has often said before – she's less sensible by far when he is involved, and that suits him just fine.
Clarke nods off shortly into the journey, falling asleep in his arms as they sit side-by-side in the carriage. He supposes she'll fall asleep in his arms every night for the rest of her life, now. That does sound like a pleasant idea.
He takes stock, as he peeps out past the edges of the window shades at the moonlit world beyond. He never expected to end up here – to say the least. He didn't expect to marry the woman of his dreams on five minutes' notice. He didn't expect to marry a princess, either, come to that.
In fact, he's not sure he expected to marry at all. Once he'd met Clarke and decided he couldn't have her, he suspected he'd become a bachelor.
More than anything else, he never had Clarke down as the eloping type. But when he presses a kiss to her forehead, feels her tighten her arms around him even in sleep, he knows with utter certainty that this was their only choice.
a/n Thanks for reading!