The girls were well-bred, well-trained, and entirely aware of why they had been chosen. Their parents had not hesitated.
Why would they? To be noticed by the king—even in such a capacity—was an opportunity. A connection. A step closer to influence, to favour, to something greater than their current standing.
What happened within the king's chambers was secondary. What mattered was proximity.
Theodora reached the king's door, the guards standing tall on either side. Before she could speak, one of them stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully.
"His Highness is not available, Your Grace."
Theodora stopped. Not available? "What? Where is he? It is night already." Theodora demanded, her voice cutting sharply through the corridor.
"We do not know," the guard replied, his head bowed, low enough to hide the unease in his expression.
Theodora's lips tightened. "You do not know?" she repeated. "Where is his valet? Where is Stephen?"
Another pause.
"We do not know, Your Grace."
Fury—passed through her eyes.
"Is my son in the palace?" she asked, giving them one last chance to correct themselves.
The guard hesitated. "We do not know," he said again.
"Has everyone in this palace gone mad?" Theodora snapped. "Find my son. Now."
The guard turned immediately, barking orders to the others stationed nearby, their boots striking the stone floor as they hurried off in different directions. Only one remained behind, rigid at his post, afraid that moving might somehow worsen the situation.
Theodora exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over her sleeve to smooth away the irritation crawling beneath her skin. "What the hell?" she muttered under her breath.
Behind her, the two young ladies shifted slightly, their earlier anticipation now replaced with uncertainty. They stood stiffly in their fine gowns, unsure whether to speak or disappear.
Theodora glanced back at them. She had chosen them carefully—fresh faces from respectable noble families, eager enough to please, ambitious enough to be useful. She had assumed Henry was merely bored. It happened. Men like him always required novelty.
"You may go back to your rooms," she said curtly.
They curtsied and withdrew without question, their soft footsteps fading down the corridor.
Theodora turned back to the king's chamber door. She stared at it for a moment longer, her expression hardening.
Then, with a small, irritated huff, she turned and walked away.
*****
Livia waited. And waited. The small room seemed to shrink with every passing minute, the candle burning lower, its flame bending and straightening, it too was growing restless. She had expected noise by now, Nicholas's coarse laughter announcing the beginning of her undoing.
But nothing came. She began to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. The thin fabric of her chemise brushed against her thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how exposed she was, how deliberately she had been prepared. The corset pressed against her ribs.
Had he changed his mind? The thought flickered briefly. Unlikely. Nicholas Beaumont did not abandon profit.
Unless, her steps slowed. Did no one come to bid? No bidders. No men. No auction. An unexpected mercy.
Her shoulders dropped slightly at the thought, tension easing just enough for her to notice how tightly she had been holding herself together. She allowed herself to imagine Nicholas storming in, cursing his luck.
It wouldn't save her forever. But it would save her tonight. She exhaled slowly. Her gaze drifted toward the mirror.
She did indeed look beautiful. Every detail had been chosen to provoke, to entice, to sell.
Her hair framed her face in soft waves. In another life…in Italy, she would have made a beautiful bride.
She would have stood beside a man who chose her, not bought her. A good man. One who would look at her with warmth. One she could love.
One she could give children. If her father had not decided she was only good enough to be sold.
When her mother had drawn her last breath, Livia had become his responsibility—though she had barely known him before then. A stranger bound to her by blood, nothing more.
His bastard daughter. At first, she thought he cared. She had allowed herself to believe—foolishly—that she might belong somewhere.
But he had only been biding his time. Searching for the right buyer. He could not take her home. Could not claim her openly. Not without risking the life he had carefully built—his respectable wife, his legitimate children, his standing.
Livia had been a problem to solve. And he had solved it by selling her. Shipping her away to London, across distance and water. Space could erase her existence. Removing her from his world would preserve the illusion of perfection he had created.
Soon, she heard footsteps. Livia recoiled instinctively, backing away until her spine met the cold wall at the far end of the room. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and chest, refusing to settle into anything steady.
Her heart climbed painfully into her mouth. Lord…
The prayer came without thought, without structure, stripped down to its most desperate form.
Let there be no bidders. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her chemise, clutching it. Please… let there be no bidders.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. Silence. A cruel, stretching silence that made her ears ring.
Then the door opened. Nicholas stepped in. Two of his men followed behind him. The smile on Nicholas' face told her everything she needed to know.
It was wide and triumphant. Greedy even.
"No… no… please…" Livia whispered, the words tumbling out as she shook her head, her body already trembling before anything had even happened.
The hope she had built just moments ago collapsed instantly. Nicholas looked at her like a man who had struck gold.
"You," he said, pointing at her, presenting her to an invisible audience, "my dear girl, are the best investment I have made in my entire life."
Livia's stomach dropped.
"Good news!" he continued. "There is to be no auction."
Her eyes widened, confusion breaking through the fear. If there was no auction… then why was he smiling like that?