His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"Richard," she said slowly, "this is treason. You are speaking of exposing the King of England, accusing him of fratricide and conspiracy. That could put you on the block before morning."

"When the country knows the truth, they will call for Henry and Theodora’s heads. Help me find that letter," Richard said.

"I will do no such thing."

His expression hardened. "Are you already so enticed by the title of queen that you would turn a blind eye to such callousness?"

Livia’s eyes stung. "I will not help you kill yourself,"

"Let me worry about my life."

"You clearly cannot be trusted with it."

"Then worry about doing the right thing."

"I am."

"No," he said. "You are protecting him."

"And you are trying to destroy him."

The tears bright in her eyes now. "Do not pretend this is only about justice. Do not stand here and tell me your heart has no place in this."

"I know you are not wicked, Livia. But I hope Whitehall has not taken your innocence completely."

"I cannot help you, Richard. Find someone else to help you with your madness. For all we know, the letter may have been destroyed." She pulled herself free of the alcove before he could stop her, gathered herself at the mouth of the corridor, lifted her chin, and stepped back towards the music.

This time, when Livia returned to the ballroom, her composure did not return with her.

It tried.

It made a respectable attempt, truly. It straightened her spine, lifted her chin. But beneath the silk, and dignity, her nerves were frayed to threads.

Her heart beat too fast. Her palms felt cold. The ballroom lights seemed sharper than before, the candles too bright, the music too loud, the laughter too careless. Every face looked turned towards her. Every whisper sounded like it carried the word murderer. Every smile looked as though it hid a blade.

She needed Henry. That was the only clear thought left in her. She needed to find him. She needed to look into his eyes and ask him again. She just needed Henry. She just needed to—

Livia looked up and stopped. He was there standing before her. Henry had come to the ball. For one breath, she could only stare. "Henry," she whispered.

The name came out before she remembered where they were, before she remembered that half the nobility in England had gathered under Geoffrey Langford’s roof and that one did not simply breathe a king’s name.

Unfortunately, she had already done it. Henry’s gaze sharpened the moment he saw her face.

"You look as though you have seen a ghost."

Only then did Livia realise the entire atmosphere had changed. The ballroom no longer moved around her. It moved around him.

The King of England had become the centre of attention. Every conversation had bent. Men who had been laughing a moment before now stood straighter. Even the musicians seemed to play with better posture.

"You came," Livia said. "You said..."

The rest of the sentence died in her throat.

You said you hated balls.

Had he lied about that too? she hated herself for it. But Richard’s words had crawled beneath her skin.

"I changed my mind. My voice of wisdom said tonight was the worst night to abandon you."

"Stephen?" she asked, because even through panic, she knew exactly which long-suffering servant would dare advise the king.

"Yes, he is correct too. Very troubling."

tears pressed hotly behind her eyes.

"Livia?" he said softly. "Love?" Henry bent slightly, lowering his voice as he tried to see her properly. "What is it?"

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to seize his arm and drag him into some private room. She wanted to demand truth. To ask about his brothers. About his mother. About the letter.

But not here.

"I am just glad you are here," she said.

Before he could press, a nobleman approached. "Your Majesty."

Henry’s attention shifted only enough to acknowledge him. "Lord Wexford."

The man began speaking. Livia looked behind her. Her gaze went to the corridor doors. Richard had just stepped back into the ballroom.

Her heart gave a wild, painful leap. He stood beneath the doorway, eyes fixed on her. Her mind began replaying everything she knew about Henry.

His cruelty. His coldness. The way his mind worked ten steps ahead. Henry was calculating.

Strategic.

Dangerous in a deeply quiet way. He was not a man who needed to shout his intentions. He did not have to draw a sword to make someone bleed. Henry could smile across a meal, listen to a man speak, and still find the cleanest place to put a knife if he chose to.

He was capable of terrible things. Livia knew that. She loved him and knew that. But surely not this.

Surely not his brothers. Blood of his blood. Surely not for a throne.

Henry, please don’t be that man.

Please, tell me it is not true.

Please, love.

Henry, meanwhile, attended gently to the swarm of people gathering before him. He accepted bows, and declarations of loyalty from men who had suddenly remembered they were devoted servants of the Crown. He endured women curtsying with daughters arranged beside them. Henry answered them with courtesy, but his attention kept returning to Livia.

She had not moved. Something had gone wrong. He could feel it. He turned back to the sea of people before him.

"Please," he said, raising his voice just enough for the surrounding guests to hear. "Tonight is for my intended."

Those who had sat on council already knew. But hearing the king say it openly was another matter.

A great many faces froze.

"Your intended, Your Majesty?"

"Yes," Henry said. "I came here to be with her."

Another woman asked, rather too eagerly, "Is she an Italian princess?"

Was Livia royal? Was she equal to him? Was she truly worthy of this attention? That was the true question being asked.

Henry’s gaze returned to Livia. "Yes...Yes, she is."

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