His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

She took both from him, glanced over the note, then opened the bag. The coins shifted with a soft, heavy clink. Her breath caught. "Wow..."

Richard watched her fingers dip into the purse, touching the coins.

"I earned this..." she whispered.

Richard hummed softly. She looked up at him then, and the disbelief in her eyes nearly gutted him.

"Not with my body?" she asked.

His face changed at once. "Definitely not."

She looked back down at the coins. "Wow..."

Richard felt his throat tighten. Damn Beaumont. Damn every man who had taught her that coin in her hand must mean some part of her had been taken in return. Damn her father. Damn the world for making a woman astonished that work could be paid without shame attached to it.

"Hey..." Richard called gently. "Diana."

Finally, her eyes met his.

"You need to let go of that memory, okay?"

Her fingers closed around the coins. Her eyes glistened. Richard reached for her hand.

"This is yours," he said, closing her fingers over the purse. "You earned it with your mind. You are Diana Bellamy now. And one day, when you believe it as much as I do, God help everyone who ever made you feel small."

"Marry me," she blurted out.

There was no use waiting. No use thinking herself into madness. Richard had proved, time and time again, that he was a good man. A very good man, despite his filthy mouth, his impossible arrogance.

He had given her shelter, given her a name, given her work, laughter, safety. He had seen the worst of where she came from and had not looked at her as though she was dirty.

If he wanted her in his life, then maybe that was what she wanted too.

"I believe I already told you that."

"And now I am telling you." Her chin lifted. "Marry me."

Hope and fear moved across his face then. He smiled, forcing it to reach his eyes. He feared that if he looked too happy, God would notice and take the moment away.

Richard was determined not to hope too much. Not yet. Not until she returned from Whitehall. Not until she saw Henry again. The man she still held somewhere inside her heart, whether she understood it or not.

Only then would Richard believe this. Only then would he know she truly wanted him. Still, he bowed his head slightly, as if receiving a sacred honour rather.

"Yes, Duchess of Kingsmere," he said softly. "I would be honoured to be your husband."

Duchess of Kingsmere.

It sounded absurd. It sounded impossible. It sounded like a life so far from Beaumont’s that her old self would never recognise it.

Richard leaned in and kissed her. When he pulled away, his eyes drifted to the books scattered around the bed. His mouth twisted. "I would very much like to fuck you right now," he said, "but I currently hate your books, and I don’t want them staring at me."

Livia was still laughing when he picked her up. He carried her out of the room, down the corridor. His bedroom door received the same treatment as every other obstacle between Richard and what he wanted — dealt with efficiently, kicked shut behind them.

He deposited her on his bed. His hands found her dress and he fumbled with the bindings.

"Patience, your grace." She bit back a smile. "They will come off eventually."

"Not quickly enough." He located another binding, dispatched it, moved immediately to the next.

"You could simply — if you’d just let me—"

"I have it."

"You absolutely do not have it."

"I’d ban clothes entirely if I could," he muttered, attacking a particularly stubborn knot.

Livia laughed outright at that. "Absolutely not," she said, pushing his hands aside and finding the bindings herself. "I have no desire to walk around England encountering things I cannot unsee."

Richard snorted just as the bodice gave way. His hands pushed the fabric down and he dove in — lips finding her breasts, pressing kisses across each curve before his mouth closed over her nipple. He groaned — low and deeply satisfied — sucking and tasting and sighing against her skin.

His hand pushed beneath the remaining fabric of her dress. Fingers moving upward along her inner thigh, finding warmth, finding the familiar slickness that made his breath change against her chest. He probed slowly at first — one finger, two — as his mouth continued its thorough appreciation of her breasts, loving every inch of her skin with lips and tongue and the occasional graze of teeth.

Livia’s hips began to move. Then three fingers. She gasped. Then four — stretching her, filling her completely — and the sound that left her wasn’t a gasp anymore.

It was a cry. Her whole body arched toward him, riding his hand without shame, wanting more of exactly this, more of him, more of everything he was so devastatingly willing to give.

His thumb found her clit, circling in slow rotations that synchronised with the four fingers still buried inside her and the mouth that refused to leave her breasts — sucking, pulling, working her nipples to a tautness that bordered on unbearable, that fine line between pleasure and too much where everything becomes the same blinding thing.

Livia’s toes stretched and curled against the sheets. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding while the rest of her came apart.

His thumb pressed firmer. His fingers curled. His mouth pulled. All at once, all together, all too much —

Her thighs snapped shut around his hand and she came hard — squeezing him with everything she had, a cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm broke over her in long, shuddering waves. Her hips rolled forward chasing every last tremor of it, her fingers pulling his hair without apology, his name dissolving somewhere in the sounds leaving her lips.

Richard stayed exactly where he was until the last wave passed. Then he got to his knees. He pulled his shirt over his head — none of the fumbling he’d subjected her dress to, and his breeches followed.

****At this point, Henry is probably going to murder Richard. Hehehehehe.

(Brought to you by MissyDionne)