His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"And yet you cannot seem to see me inside the life you handed to me so graciously."

Richard’s stomach twisted. She was right. God help him, she was right. He had given her a way forward—and then he had nearly ripped the whole thing apart because he had been afraid to lose her. He was topping the selfish chart in one day. "Diana..." he said. "I wasn’t thinking."

Livia straightened. "I beg your leave, Your Grace. I would like to wash the dirt of the road off me and get some rest." She dipped into the smallest curtsy he had ever seen her give.

Then she walked past him.

"Diana..." he called with a sigh.

She did not turn back. Richard watched her disappear into the house. Maybe she wasn’t the one who needed changing.

Maybe he was the one who needed to learn the art of respect. He looked around at the staff still standing about the courtyard.

"Nothing to see here," Richard snapped. "Off you go."

The staff scattered at once. Not that they thought much of it. This was hardly the first time they had found the duke in a compromising situation with a woman. Richard had been discovered in worse circumstances, in worse locations, with women far less dressed. They would gossip, of course. But they respected the duke too much to think too lowly of him.

Besides, in Kingsmere, Richard’s scandals were almost part of the household rhythm. He walked back into the house, determined to talk to Diana.

He reached her door and tapped gently. No answer. He tapped again. "Diana?"

"Give me a minute, damn it!" she snapped from behind the door.

He leaned one hand against the doorframe and lowered his head. "I’m sorry, I was really not thinking."

Silence. He continued anyway.

"I was relieved that you came home. That is not an excuse. I know it is not. I saw you step down from that carriage, and I..." He exhaled. "I lost sense."

There was still no answer, but he knew she was listening.

"I want you to know that from that night we spent talking at Beaumont’s, I stopped thinking of you as..." He paused, jaw tightening. "Well. You know." He hated the word now. Hated that she had ever had to hear it. Hated that his own foolishness had made her think he saw her through Beaumont’s eyes.

"I came to Beaumont’s every day after that," he said. "Not for the ale, God knows. That ale tasted like death. I came to make sure he wasn’t sending you to other men. I would have continued to pay him just to keep everyone away from you. Including myself, if that was what it took."

"It’s just... things are happening that I cannot explain, Diana. I’m crazy about you. And it took the fear of losing you to realise that I love you."

The door swung open and Richard, who had been leaning against it with considerably more weight than he’d realised, almost fell directly into the room.

He caught himself on the doorframe. "Hey," he said.

It occurred to him, standing there with Diana looking at him, that speaking through a closed door had been significantly easier. There was something about the wood between them that had lent him a confidence he apparently didn’t own in person.

"I was changing," Livia said. She gestured at herself — at the nightdress she had clearly thrown on in considerable haste, the tie at the neckline only loosely fastened.

Richard looked. He didn’t mean to look the way he looked. He genuinely, sincerely intended to maintain eye contact.

But the candlelight was doing something entirely unfair, rendering the thin cotton of her nightdress more or less decorative. He could see the round, full weight of her breasts pressing against the fabric, the tiny taut peaks of her nipples visible with absolutely no ambiguity whatsoever. The curve of her waist. The flare of her hips. And lower — the soft shadow of the V between her thighs that the fabric did precisely nothing to conceal.

He cleared his throat. "I see," he said, with admirable composure. Incapable of leaving well enough alone, he added, "I do see quite a lot, actually." He gestured vaguely in her direction. "You might want to—"

Livia looked down and shrieked. "My God—!" She spun around, abandoned the nightdress as a lost cause, lunged for the sheets on the bed and wrapped them around herself with speed. Then she turned back to face him, cheeks blazing, eyes narrowed to points.

"You—" She pulled the sheet tighter. "You are infuriating!"

Richard had the spectacular nerve to look mildly offended. "What did I do?" he said. "I brought your attention to it. I could have stood there and enjoyed the view — which, I’ll be honest with you, was an extremely distracting view — and you wouldn’t have had the faintest idea."

"You—"

He held up one hand. "You’re welcome."

"You could be a gentleman and not look at all," Livia glared.

Within seconds, Richard was standing right in front of her. His eyes stayed on her face this time.

"I am not a gentleman, Diana," he said. "I told you that before. I do not intend to start now and most definitely not to you. But I promise to respect you more."

Livia’s grip tightened on the sheet wrapped around her. The anger in her face wavered. "You love me?" she whispered.

"Right..." He drew in a slow breath. "I forgot I said that."

"How can you love me?"

Richard’s brows pulled together. "How can I not? You are beautiful," Richard began.

"Surely not as beautiful as the noblewomen around you."

"Will you let me finish?"

"Sorry..." Livia quickly said.

"You are intelligent, witty, and you match my humour right back," Richard said. "Even when you should feel insulted, you somehow manage to insult me better. It is deeply unfair. And," he continued, his gaze dropping for one disastrous second, "you are distractingly sexy. That being said, I can still see your left breast..."