Arthur had been curled up in bed for God knows how long. He wasn't cowering under the covers, of course he had seen far worse in far better places. He was rather staring at the ceiling.

"Oh, the nerve of that bastard..." he let slip out. He was prone to talking to himself when alone, as he only trusted himself with these thoughts. But still, he didn't word certain phrases that bounced around in his head. "Was this party not supposed to be for me?" his mind thought. Selfishly, of course. It wasn't just about his arrival. It was a celebration of the fragile partnership England and France had formed. In thinking it had anything to do with him, he was at fault.

He was still allowed feelings. And he was angry. Francis had made a mockery of him, flaunting the supposed women of France at him only to make it about him. He knew how Arthur would have reacted to his dance.

Arthur soured, much like the lemon custard turning in his stomach. Letting a man influence his feelings again. He realized it was easier for this sort of thing to happen upon him—after all, no woman could ever impart on his feelings in this manner.

Yes, the diplomat suffered from what the French dubbed 'the English vice.' He wasn't oblivious. Thirty-seven years of living had beaten the lesson into him: he found better company to be had with men.

Arthur had made a years-ago promise. To not let his affliction affect his work, not after those happenings in his court across the channel. How effective that promise was could not be debated, as Arthur committed fully to his bachelor lifestyle.

A knock sounded at his door. Before Arthur could even stand to answer, a paper was slipped inside his room.

Arthur grumbled to himself as he got out of bed. Somehow he knew exactly what would be in this note, his eyes searching through the words for the only thing he wanted to hear.

An apology. "I do feel remorse for my actions," Arthur read, making sure to check the name to make sure it was addressed to him from Francis, "I realize a note is hardly enough of an apology for the mortification I have caused you. If you are willing to put aside this incident, you are invited to my chambers for breakfast tomorrow."

"Though I am an optimist, it is now that I find out just how different our sister cultures are. Perhaps we should acquaintance ourselves better then, to avoid another disastrous misstep such as the one I have taken."

Arthur skipped the rest, including the lengthy introduction, his eyes moving down to an elegantly written: Your obedient servant, F. Bonnefoy.

Now, he didn't want to look upon a certain Frenchman's face more than he had to. That much was true. But Arthur always loved watching someone beg for his forgiveness, as sadistic as it sounded.

Arthur folded the note once more and tucked into the coat he borrowed from Francis. After breakfast, he would talk the man into buying a few more court outfits for him. As an apology, of course.

He looked at the clock. A quarter to eleven. The party must have ended quite a while ago; Arthur didn't think the note he received was rushed at all. For some reason, the paper had been almost submerged in a flowery perfume. Not the work of someone dying to get the message to him.

He would oblige Francis, deciding that as he changed into his nightshirt and climbed into his bed. Laying on his side, he began to go over his schedule. Breakfast, then he would meet with his embassy staff, and then a letter to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. His job officially was to promote British industry and good relations with the royal family. In reality, his duty was to look among the court for the radicals.

Of course, he wouldn't do anything about any revolt to depose the king. A weak France made a strong Britain. If the next map he bought didn't have that disgusting taube français plastered on it, he'd make it his bedroom's wallpaper.

He closed his eyes. A world without France was a pleasing thought, however, it could never be seen if Arthur didn't get to sleep.

Dorset, 1761.

Arthur always remembered his governess as one word: authoritarian. His father had given her the means to educate as she wished, as long as he grew into a learned young man in the end.

The paddle was often apart of this process.

It was a worn down piece of wood—worn down because he was not the most adept at geometry. Or Latin. Or Greek.

Or anything, really.

But this lesson was different.

She pointed to the decorated and heavily annotated Bible in her hands, sounding out every word as if he were a child just learning to read.

"Cum masculo non commiscearis coitu femineo, quia abominatio est," Arthur said, idly rubbing his cheek. Memories flooded back in with this action, the memory of what his governess had caught him in the act of.

"Repeat yourself. And with a more genuine tone," she chided.

So he did. Though when she said genuine, he interpreted that as a call to bark the verse back at her. He was quite aware of his wrongdoings, even slightly remorseful. But not so much that he regretted it.

Arthur glanced down and tried to look bored in response to how her hand twitched towards the paddle. "Cum masculo non commiscearis coitu femineo, quia abominatio est," he repeated once more with the same monotone style.

"Do not let me see you around my sons again, Your Grace," his governess sighed, "I care not about your house or your titles. The next time I see you in their presence, I will raise hell."

His father would agree. He knew he would suffer the full brunt of a scandal next time, even before he entered his teenage years. Of course, he was never sure of what a scandal actually was until he found himself in the middle of one years later.

In the meantime, he wondered how it was possible to birth three sons in a row, equally blessed with fair features.

Arthur had woken himself up in the morning, fading dreams of court in his mind. He found himself forced to wear Francis' coat once more. Apparently a servant had thought it was high time to wash his "travel outfit" that he had so carelessly thrown on the ground. He cringed at how he had tried to defend himself when faced with Francis' judgment. There would be no repeat of that. He was a proud gentleman, and the other man would no longer have him scrambling for words.

Three doors down the hall. Francis' room. The door was naturally closed, making Arthur wonder how early he had gotten up. He wanted to knock, but at the same time did not want to wake Francis up. He stepped closer, noting the clock behind him

"How is Ludwig?" Francis asked from inside. Arthur's eyes narrowed. Awfully early for him to talk to someone in private.

"He is doing fine, Francis," another voice said, "It's only training."

Arthur realized that was Gilbert moments later, heavy and uneven footsteps pacing the room. He sighed, "He's a capable marshal, you should not worry for him." Quieter footsteps trailed closer to the front of the room.

Francis spoke even softer than his steps, "How is the leg doing, mon cher?" Silence was exchanged between them for a few moments, hanging in the air and making Arthur think Gilbert had taken offense to the mere question. "I know of what happened at Kunersdorf. Are you afraid... that Ludwig will find himself in your place on that day?"

"No," Gilbert said, but it was clear that the other had struck a nerve, "We will continue this conversation later. I'm heading to bed." Something heavy tapped against the wooden door, warning Arthur to step off to the side before he was face-to-face with the statesman. Gilbert's eyebrows raised. His hand reached behind him to slowly shut the door. "What are you doing up at this hour, sir?" he asked, small remnants of irritation appearing in his tone.

"I made plans with Francis, the breakfast in his room," Arthur said.

Gilbert blinked at him as his first response. "Do you not have any morning duties?" he asked, "Nobody else is even awake at this hour."

"You appear to be," Arthur said.

Gilbert looked as if he would say something else, but Arthur knew that he had made a point he couldn't counter. "I will leave you to it then... but," his cane swept over to lightly hit Arthur's leg, "I would not listen in on another's private conversation. Even if you are desperate to hear more about me."