His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"And preparations for an heir should begin immediately." Geoffrey added.

"Oh well," Henry said slowly, "when you put it like that. Would you like to watch also while I pump my wife full of my seed, or shall I send reports after each attempt? Perhaps you might nurture the child into growth yourself. Stand beside the bed with a ledger. Place a crown upon his head the moment he cries."

"I do not need to be present," Geoffrey said. "But yes."

Henry stared at him in horror. The entire future of England stood balanced between royal outrage and Geoffrey Langford’s complete inability to understand when a joke should be allowed to die peacefully. "Geoffrey...I was joking."

"If Your Majesty could please stop doing that right this moment, I would be grateful. You may be calm about this, sire, or pretending to be calm, which is more likely. But this is trouble for your people. Without an heir, the responsibility of the throne turns towards my family. Other nobles, near and far, will discover some grandmother, or forgotten drop of royal blood and decide God Himself has always intended them for a crown. The kingdom fractures, economy collapses."

"Geoffrey," Henry said, "surely I will be married and with children before my mind fails me completely. We do not need to begin panicking immediately."

Geoffrey rested both hands on the back of a chair. "I would still keep this from council until the moment an heir is born."

"That long?"

"If it can be safely managed, yes."

"Well," Henry said, "I shall follow your lead on that."

Geoffrey bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Majesty. In the meantime...I shall have the wedding plans moved forward. Is Lady Livia to retain Mrs Crowe after the marriage?"

"Yes. I believe Livia will keep her. Why?"

"Because," Geoffrey said, "once married, Lady Livia’s health becomes matter of state. The promptness of an heir will depend on Mrs Crowe."

"Oh, why did you not say so?" Henry said. "Of course. My intended and I need do nothing. You and Mrs Crowe may go ahead and produce an heir for the realm." Henry knew he should stop. Truly, he did. The morning had been grave enough. He could not help himself.

It was a character flaw.

"Your Majesty," Geoffrey said, very carefully. "Jokes."

"Lighten up, Geoffrey, or your mind may crack too."

"At this point, Your Majesty, I am begging for it."

*****

Stephen entered Henry’s chamber to find the king sitting at his writing table.

"Where is she?" Henry asked simply, without looking up.

Stephen bowed. "My lord, Mrs Crowe says Lady Livia is waiting for you in the great withdrawing chamber."

Henry lifted his head. "Waiting?"

"Yes, sire."

"I do not remember being informed."

"She gave no notice."

"That damned woman." Henry rose from his chair and crossed into the bedchamber. Stephen followed, already reaching for the robe laid near the screen. "It is hard to keep up with her," Henry muttered.

Stephen helped him into the robe, arranging the fabric. "I am certain my lord only pretends to be irritated."

Henry turned his head slowly. "Stephen?"

"Sire?"

"Shut up."

"Immediately, my lord."

Henry gave him a look, then left his apartments. The corridors outside were dim, lit by torches and the occasional candle left in a wall sconce. He had sent for her earlier because he had not seen her properly for the past couple of days. Not alone.

The Langford ball had swallowed her. He had told her to enjoy herself, to go into society without him, and return home to tell him everything. He had meant it. Mostly.

He had not expected to miss her like a man denied air. She had been busy helping Geoffrey’s household plan the ball. He had assumed she would be exhausted by the time she returned to Whitehall each evening.

That was what he told himself, at least. Livia had spent the past days moving between Whitehall, the Langford household, and the endless machinery of preparation for the ball. Geoffrey’s people had swallowed her whole.

Henry had stayed away. The less flattering truth was that he had not yet summoned the courage to tell her that she would be marrying a broken man.

The words had lived in his mouth for days and refused to come out. Every time he imagined saying them, he saw her face change. He feared pity.

Pathetic, really.

The guards opened the doors of the great withdrawing chamber as he approached. Henry stepped inside.

Then he stopped. The chamber had been transformed. The usual arrangement of chairs and tables had been moved back, opening the centre of the room into a small space fit for dancing. Candles burned everywhere, set high and low, their flames reflected in silver bowls. Garlands of greenery softened the stone and carved panels. A few musicians stood in the corner with viols and a lute, and the moment Henry entered, they began to play.

The music rose gently, filling the chamber with warmth. And in the middle of it all stood Livia. She wore a stunning gown.

The bodice sat perfectly, the sleeves shaped with care, the skirts falling in graceful folds around her.

Henry’s mouth curved in surprise. "What is this?"

Livia’s hands clasped briefly before her, then released. He saw the flicker of nerves beneath her smile. "The ball is tomorrow night...and I wanted you to be the first to sign my dance list."

He looked down. In her hand was a small folded parchment, with lines ruled across it. "You could have given me warning...I would have dressed properly for the event."

She glanced at his robe, then back to his face. "I thought you might like a surprise."

"I do." Henry crossed the chamber towards her. With each step, the musicians played on.

Livia held out the little parchment. A quill and inkpot had been placed on a nearby table. Henry took the quill, dipped it, and bent over the list.

The first line was empty. He wrote his name there.

Henry.

Just Henry.

He handed the list back to her. "You look stunning."

"Thank you." She slipped the parchment string through her wrist. "It is my gown for tomorrow."

"I see that."

"Do you approve?"

"I am trying to decide whether I should approve or have every man at the ball blindfolded. You did not have to go to all this trouble, Liv."

"I wanted to." She had simply wanted to give him this. A ball without courtiers. Music without pretence. A first dance without watching eyes. "I think it is sad...that you do not want to attend balls because of how people may behave around you. But you can have one dance where no one is pretending."

"Thank you," he said.

Livia lowered her eyes, smiling. "You are welcome."

Henry extended his hand. "May I have this dance, my queen?"

Livia placed her hand in his. "It will be my pleasure, sire."

Henry took her into his arms and together they began to move across the cleared floor of the great withdrawing chamber. He held her gaze and did not let go.

Livia moved beautifully. Her steps were sure, her posture graceful, her turns light and controlled. But there was feeling in the way she danced. She did not perform at him. She danced with him.

This woman in front of him, in his arms, had somehow found a way to become his air. He could not imagine breathing without her now. It was as if love had set a hand against his chest and said, Here. This is where I live.

The music rose. Henry drew her closer as the melody swelled, bringing her against his chest. His hand slipped lower to her waist. He felt her breath, the warmth of her body.

Would she stay? Would she stay when he told her? Would she decide that the crown was too heavy, the family too dangerous, the future too uncertain?

Even with a fractured mind, he could still love her properly, could he not? He could give her tenderness. A name no one could take from her. He could give her himself, imperfect as that offering was. Surely a damaged man could still love with whole devotion.

Surely love did not require an unbroken mind. Only an honest heart.

"How did you learn to dance so well?" he asked.

Livia smiled. "I learned in Florence. Lord Langford did help me brush up these past couple of days," she added.

"Geoffrey dances?"

"Not often, I think."

"Good. The thought unsettled me."

"He mostly corrected me."

"That sounds more like him." He turned her again. "Your mother...did a great job. You are an exceptional woman."

Her mother was a tender wound, one that could not be touched without memory rising around it. Henry knew only pieces. Livia’s mother had left a daughter who still carried grace after the world had tried to strip it from her.

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