Sorry for the long wait! I've just found out that I'm definitely accepted into a year-long exchange programme in France starting in September (YAY) so I've been spending ungodly amounts of time learning French. That, and I had a moment of insecurity about this story and started rearranging all the chapters. But it's all good now. (O.O FRANCE YOU GUYS).

Rain pelted the windows of Elizabeth's office as she and Arthur sat by her mahogany desk, her halfway through an explanation of her plans for foreign trade and him deep in thought about matters entirely unrelated to the topic of their rather one-sided conversation. It was only just past dinnertime, but dark stormclouds had covered the sun and forced them to light several candles, which flickered and cast odd shadows across the room. There was something fascinating about the way the light and shadow played with the curls of Elizabeth's red hair and the creases between her brows as she concentrated, consulting ledgers and maps as she spoke.

Marrying her off should be his primary concern. It was necessary to avoid a succession crisis, even civil war. And Robert Dudley was perfect. He and Elizabeth had been close friends for years. Looking past the many ways in which he found the man insufferable, Arthur had to grudgingly admit that he would make a good husband for her. At the very least, he wasn't Spanish like Mary's husband. By marrying him, Elizabeth would keep the royal bloodline in England and avoid having her power seized by a foreign king, a mistake her late sister had been to emotional to see. Clearly this marriage was the best thing to do. But marrying Dudley... Dudley, of all people...

Elizabeth stabbed at the map with her index finger, punctuating an argument she did not seem to notice he had not heard, and turned to him questioningly. "How would you suggest we deal with the trade situation with Russia? Do you think this is the best way forward?"

Arthur blinked. She was waiting for an answer. He had been somewhat prone to distractions while she spoke to him of late, and admitting that it had happened again would only vex her further. The thought was not unpleasant. He took guilty pleasure from watching her shout, rant and argue, from seeing the fire ignite in her brown eyes, hearing the passion in her voice.

But perhaps now was not the time. There were more important issues to discuss. He opened his mouth to assure her that he probably agreed with whatever she'd just said, but, to his surprise, the words that tumbled out were, "Do you really plan to marry Dudley?"

She gave him a confused look. "We were discussing Russia."

"I know. I just... do you?" This seemed very important all of a sudden. Russia could wait. Dudley was in the same building as them, probably only rooms away, and what she intended for him was as urgent to Arthur as if the wedding was planned for that evening.

"Yes," she said haughtily. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"But why? What do you see in him?"

"What don't you see in him?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You really do seem to dislike him. What has he done to wrong you?"

"He..." Arthur tried to find words, failed and tried again. "He's just..." The truth was, he didn't know what it was about Dudley that he hated so. "I just have a bad feeling about him. A gut instinct, if you will. You shouldn't allow him to get too close to you."

"He has been close to me since my childhood, Arthur. He is a good friend. Are you sure that your instincts are not steering you wrong?"

"I am sure," he said, a little too quickly. Elizabeth gave him a strange look, and he added, "I am far more experienced than you in these matters, you said it yourself. You wanted my advice, here it is. Don't trust him."

She regarded him through those deep, dark eyes - they really were dizzyingly brown - and pursed her lips as though he was a particularly difficult piece of arithmetic that she was trying to solve. He felt his legs weaken under her gaze and tried to nonchalantly place a hand on the desk to steady himself. "And what reasoning do you have for that?"

"What do you-"

She rose to her feet, took a step towards him and slowly, hesitantly, placed a hand on his chest, right above his heart. He willed it to stop beating so fast, but her sheer closeness threatened to disrupt his concentration. She was so close he could smell her perfume, so close he could just bend down and kiss her. The image swum to the forefront of his mind and stayed there for only a few seconds before he shook it away in horror. For God's sake, Arthur, she's the bloody Queen! Get ahold of yourself!

But he did not have time to get ahold of himself. Elizabeth slowly, hesitantly, as though testing a theory, leant closer to him, standing on her tiptoes. Arthur tried and failed to control his breathing. She was waiting for him to draw away, he was sure of it, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. She was so beautiful from up close, and her eyes - God, those eyes - were nothing short of hypnotic. He stood frozen as Elizabeth closed the distance between them and gently pressed her lips to his.

It lasted only a second; she withdrew and looked at him quizzically, as though waiting to judge his reaction. He exhaled - he had not even realised he was holding his breath - and tried to organise the thoughts racing through his head, running in circles and bumping into each other in a chaotic mass that simply refused to resolve itself into something that made sense. Half-formed sentences tangled around insubstantial notions, each vague whim blurred beyond comprehension. Finding a sensible response to the situation was downright impossible.

So he gave up and simply kissed her again.

When they broke apart, all Arthur could manage was a breathless, "What?"

"I believe I may have solved the mystery of your hatred for Robert," she said, the tiniest hint of smugness playing about her lips.

Whether it was that smugness, his shock at what had just occurred, the sheer absurdity of the situation or somewhere in between he did not know, but something caused a sudden flare of defensive, angry panic to rise up inside him. "You Boleyn girls!" he shouted, jerking backwards as though he'd only just realised how close she was. "How do you do it?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in question, seemingly unperturbed by his outburst. "I am not a Boleyn."

"You may carry your father's name - and his stubbornness to boot, may I add - but your mother's blood runs thickly within you whether you choose to deny it or not!" He paced the room in frustration, searching angrily for words, but managed only another growl of, "You Boleyn girls…"

She leant back against her desk, watching him with infuriating amusement. "What of us?"

"I don't know!" he shouted. "I don't know what it is, but there's something about you! Every time you want something, the entire country bends over backwards to give it to you. The world turns itself inside out to cater to your every whim!"

"You have never resisted me," she said mildly. "I have forced you into nothing."

"Not consciously! Your mother-"

"Was executed by my father when I was but a child."

"Before that! I was in court when she arrived from France, you know. She was presented to the King in her silks and her jewels and I saw her eyes lock on him, and from that moment on I knew of her ambitions. Burn Katherine and her wedding vows, burn the religion and culture of an entire country, for another Boleyn girl has decided she wants what she can't have! Within years, the King had created an entirely new religion, made an enemy of the Pope, branded me a heretic in the eyes of Europe, got himself excommunicated, divorced Katherine and made your mother his Queen. And another Boleyn girl got her way. I pray you, Elizabeth, try to tell me that I am wrong to view your whims with some trepidation!"

"I assure you, I have no intention of-"

"Oh, do you now? You have plenty of intentions and you know it." He sighed, rubbing his forehead and trying to think of the right words with which to phrase his point. "You don't know what you do to this country, Elizabeth. You don't know what you do to me. All I ask is that you recognise that and not treat it lightly."

She observed him almost curiously for a moment, then sat back down at her desk in a swish of silk skirts, picked up her quill and dipped it idly into the inkwell. "I don't know what you're talking about, Arthur."

He banged his fists down on her desk and leant across as though to shout something else, but found no words and leant back with a shake of his head and an, "Oh, you're awful."

The quill paused, dripping ink onto the parchment on her deks. "Then why did you kiss me?"

He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, and said with the utmost sincerity, "Because I love you so much it hurts. I don't know whether it's just the fact that you're so popular with the public, perhaps that's influencing... I've never dealt with anything like this before. I don't know how it works. All I can say is that when the King changed the world for your mother I thought him a childish fool, letting her twist him around her little finger like she did. I couldn't understand how he could love someone so passionately, so completely, that the world seemed less important than the chance to be with her. But now… I don't know how you managed it, but you have twisted me around your finger so tightly I am fairly in knots. If you want something, I will bend over backwards to give it to you. I will turn the world inside out to cater to your every whim. If you asked it of me, I would do everything Henry did for Anne and more to please you."

A slight smile tweaked at her lips. She put down the quill and pushed back her chair, coming around her desk to stand in front of him and play idly with his collar. "I don't believe that will be necessary."

He reached out to cup her jaw, bringing her face up to his. "That's a relief. Because if it ever was, I don't believe I would ever have the willpower to refuse you."

"I shall have to keep that in mind," she said. Then she smiled sweetly, turned away from him and picked up her quill again, pointing it at him like a rapier. "How about you fail to refuse me in helping to organise these trade policies with Russia? We still have a country to run, Arthur."

And, as he allowed himself to be dragged, still a little dizzy, into a discussion about how best to negotiate with Tsar Ivan IV, he could not help but feel an odd sense of exhilaration. He had never done anything like this before, never dreamt of it. But now, though he knew it to be stupid and reckless and utterly insane, he had to admit to himself that he had not felt this giddily, undeniably happy in a very, very long time.