Why did he look… happier?
"I have never seen such an amount of money in all my years!" Nicholas laughed. He turned slightly, gesturing toward the men behind him. "Take her to the carriage," he said.
"What? What is happening?" Livia asked, her voice trembling as the men began to move toward her.
Instinctively, she stepped back, but there was nowhere left to go. The wall met her spine again.
Nicholas smiled. "You were rented," he said. "For the month."
The words didn't make sense. Rented. For the month. Her mind struggled to catch up, to understand how something could be worse than the auction she had feared.
"Don't worry," Nicholas continued, clearly pleased with himself. "I will have you moved to the best room in the house when you return. You, my dear girl, are my princess from now on."
"Mr Beaumont, I beg of you," Livia said quickly, desperation rising, her voice breaking as she clasped her hands together. "Let me work for you some other way. Please."
"I am offering you a better life."
"Please, sir—anything but this. Anything."
The men reached her, rough hands closed around her arms.
"No—Mr Beaumont!" she cried, struggling now, her voice rising frantically. "Please!"
But Nicholas had already turned away. Already done with her. Already counting coin in his mind.
"Mr Beaumont!" she screamed as the men dragged her toward the door, her feet stumbling against the floor, her body fighting even when she knew it was useless.
*****
For what felt like the hundredth time, Henry asked himself what he was doing. And why.
He stood by the window of the small house on Wood Street—a modest place by royal standards, though well-kept. It was a property Lionel kept quietly for discretion, away from court eyes and endless scrutiny.
It felt… normal. Too normal for a king. What was it about the girl? He frowned slightly, his gaze distant as he leaned one hand against the window frame.
So she reads. That was hardly remarkable. Many women at court were educated enough to read, to entertain, to hold conversation when required.
But none of them read Canzoniere. None of them had looked at him the way she did. To her, he were simply a man, not someone the entire kingdom bent itself around.
It had been… refreshing. Not even Bella—whom he had long assumed to be his favourite—had ever unsettled him like this. Bella was beautiful, skilled in the art of romance and with impressive breasts.
Henry straightened slightly as movement outside caught his attention. The carriage had arrived. He watched as Stephen stepped forward, opening the door.
She appeared. Smaller than he remembered, perhaps. Or perhaps it was the way she moved now—hesitant, unwilling, her body resisting even as she was guided down.
Stephen helped her out of the carriage. He couldn't see her face just yet. The angle of the window only gave him fragments—movement, posture, the outline of a figure being guided rather than walking freely. But even from that distance, Henry could tell.
This was not her choice. There was a stiffness in the way she held herself, resistance in every step. Her body refused to cooperate with the reality forced upon it. She did not lean into Stephen's assistance; she endured it.
Henry's jaw tightened slightly. He didn't like that. He told himself it didn't matter. That this was how the world worked—how it had always worked. Women were given, traded, arranged. He had seen it all his life, sanctioned it even, in ways both direct and indirect.
And yet— this felt… different. They disappeared from view as they rounded the house, the carriage left behind in the narrow street. Still, Henry did not move from the window.
He remained there, staring at nothing now. Thinking. What was the point? If he fucked her, then what?
Would that be enough? Would it quiet whatever this was—this restless, irritating pull that had followed him since the market?
It was a theory. A crude one, perhaps. Desire, after all, was often nothing more than tension waiting for release. Perhaps that was all this was. A momentary fixation. A passing curiosity.
And if that was the case… Then he would end it. His mind betrayed him then, recalling the brief, accidental glimpse he had caught days before—on the brothel roof, when she had moved without thinking, when fabric had shifted just enough. A glimpse of her thighs.
Exotic. That was the word that had come to him then. The sound of the door opening pulled him from his thoughts.
He did not turn immediately. He had already given instructions—clear ones. Stephen was to strip away all royal formality. No titles. No announcements. No hint of who he truly was. He did not want her to know. He did not want anything to change. He heard her step inside.
A soft shuffle. Hesitation or fear, perhaps. He could feel it without looking. Only then did he speak.
"Steal anything lately?" he said, his gaze remained fixed ahead.
"Henry…" she breathed. Her voice broke on his name.
Was that relief? She had been holding herself together by sheer force and had only just now found something solid enough to lean on.
He turned. And stopped. If he stripped away the evidence of her tears—the faint redness around her eyes, the slight swelling of her lashes—what remained was… striking. The candlelight caught against her skin, against the soft ivory of the chemise that barely concealed her, the corset shaping her form indecently.
She looked… magnificent. "Its you…" she said, her voice gaining strength now as she took a small step closer. His gaze immediately dropped to her thighs as she moved. Well, fuck.
He could see the conflict play out in real time—whether to throw herself into his arms in relief or lower herself into a proper show of deference. "I heard of your predicament," he said simply. He kept his tone even. Pretending that this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience he had chosen to resolve.