Archive of Our Own ^beta

1672

Harry’s entrance into a ballroom was almost never grand. He had only ever been announced with his peers once or twice. Every other time, he snuck in through one of the side entrances to join a soiree that was already in progress.

That often happened when one was leaving the king’s bed. It seemed silly to double back and enter through the front, especially when the King’s wife insisted on showing him each and every single one of her outfit options before she descended.

As if this ball was any different than the one the month before or the one scheduled for the month after. The endless drudgery of being a courtier.

Not that Harry was one. A courtier. 

He didn’t mind, though. He liked being invisible, blending into the drapery when he chose.

While many of the King’s previous dalliances had been quite public—the talk of court—no one had been talking about Harry yet, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Humming to himself, feeling the glow of a perfect afternoon wrapped up in the arms of his beloved King, Harry ducked through a doorway and out into the ballroom under a heavy curtain as he always did. His afternoon had been rather rigorous, and there never was a shortage of food at these balls. He should find the refreshments.

Lifting his gaze to scan the room, Harry was taken aback. 

Every set of eyes had landed on him, and a hush fell over the crowd surrounding him.

The music continued to play loftily as a few couples spun in the center of the floor, but on the whole, Harry felt pinned in place at the center of attention.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he frantically searched for someone, anyone to explain to him what was going on, and why all of a sudden everyone was staring at him expectantly. This was the nightmare of court he had been trying to avoid.

The Queen was nowhere to be found and all the rest of his close friends were servants. He was becoming intimately and immediately familiar with the divide between court and those who kept the court running, and just how difficult it was to ride the line.

The King, his beloved King, wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour. Not that he would have been able to publicly help Harry, the lowly, common scholar, and tutor of his children.

“Don’t go,” he had whispered in Harry’s ear as his arms draped across Harry’s skin, desperate to keep his bed warm a little bit longer.

He had been right. Harry shouldn’t have come.

Overwhelmed, Harry’s vision cleared enough to land on an anomaly in the movement of the crowd. While everyone else was standing around whispering to each other as they watched Harry, there was one figure just barely acknowledging him, looking bored, as he lounged in one of the gilded chairs closest to the platform where the King and Queen were supposed to sit to watch the proceedings.

The truth hit Harry like a dagger buried deep within his abdomen.

Gaultier Dimont. Vicomte de Limoges.

The King warned Harry the other day. After months of putting off their liaisons, he finally told Gaultier that there was no place for him in his bed anymore. 

In private, Harry had kissed the King’s pink lips, marveling at the youthful lift of his smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Harry had used the pad of his finger to trace the lines there and profess just how much the King truly meant to him. 

He should have known. For all the goodness in the world, in Harry’s world, in court, there was a price to pay.

Not knowing any other course to take, with a confidence he did not possess, Harry lifted his head and strode forward letting the crowd part for him until he reached Gaultier.

Whispers of words fell on his ears, but he didn’t even need to hear them. He knew what they were saying deep within his soul. Whore. 

He could not blame them, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear as it passed through the crowd like a wave at his back.

“Monsieur,” he greeted Gaultier with a small, disrespectful bow of the head as soon as he was within range. He could offer himself this single victory.

“You are certainly brave to show your face this evening,” the Vicomte drawled.

Every intention Harry had of confronting him died as his throat closed up and the pressure of so many eyes on him finally began to weigh on his conscience. His breathing had picked up speed and he could feel as the sweat began to bead at his lower back, gathering in the linen of his chemise under his waistcoat.

“What did you do?” Harry hissed.

Gaultier finally turned to face him directly as his smirk unfurled. “I have simply offered you all of the benefits of being the King’s whore. Isn’t it lovely?” he simpered with faux celebration. 

“Why?” Harry choked out. “Why would you expose me this way?”

He knew, but somehow it wasn’t real until Gaultier admitted it. Harry needed to hear it, hear his betrayal brought out from the shadows and into the light.

“Because you, my dear,” Gaultier said with a deep-seated venom laced through his tone. “You have taken what is mine. But do not worry, it’s only a matter of time before I have tempted him again.”

The need to defend the King kickstarted Harry’s heart and animated his limbs, breathing vigor back into him if only for a brief moment.

“You dare to think you could ever own the King?” Harry spat.

Gaultier’s eyes flashed in the candlelight. “No, you poor, pathetic boy. You have taken away the privilege and power that a place in his bed afforded, yet you have no idea what to do with it. You will bungle it and ruin this monarchy.”

“I—” Harry was taken aback. Influencing the King was not his responsibility, nor was it his place to do so. Harry prided himself on letting their time together be an escape. He could never imagine using the King in such a manipulative way.

Gaultier cut him off. “The difference between us is simple. I know that I do not own the King. I never intended to own him, just use him as he used me. You, on the other hand, think that you have won his heart as though this is some sort of fantasy. You think that he won’t toss you aside as soon as someone new catches his eye at just the right time. You think that you can be afforded the benefits of laying with the King and escape the rest of the world unscathed.”

Tears burned at the corners of Harry’s eyes as Gaultier raked over the hot coals of his deepest insecurities.

“The Latin and Greek that you teach and are so fond of have warned you thoroughly, yet you have not listened. Was it not Icarus who flew too close to the sun? Do not burn yourself.”

With his parting words, Gaultier made his exit, leaving Harry once again to be pierced under the harsh, judgmental stares of the court.

Before he could think twice, he fled through the side entrance he had used to sneak in not moments ago.

It was easy when he and the King were apart to think about what he was giving up to live this life. This life of courtiers and balls and politics and underhandedness. 

But it was also easy to lay in bed with the King wrapped up in their own world and imagine that they were off in the countryside, just the two of them, away from everyone that wanted a piece of him. 

There was no in-between. The King had to rule, which meant they had to be at court. They had to stay with the Queen and their children, with Harry on the fringes of society. A society that until today had barely known Harry existed.

Harry needed to ask himself if this was what he wanted from his life. This in-between, this purgatory, where he was nothing and everything all at once with no real place in society. He needed to ask himself if the King was worth all of this and there was only one person who truly understood his pain and the questions bubbling up from deep within his subconscious.

He stumbled for a moment as he pushed through the heavy palace door. And then he ran.

1670

Harry had not known what to expect when he arrived for his first day of work at the palace but it was certainly not the two wonderfully behaved children that were seated in front of him.

The Dauphin was eight or so and his younger sister Marie was six. Whilst their governess was in the room they were quiet and submissive. She was a harsh woman who Harry suspected doled out her punishments liberally. That wouldn’t do.

As soon as she left, it took some time, but the children finally started to open up to him. They were exceedingly bright and Harry enjoyed hearing about what they had learned so far with their previous tutor. Their time together was short, but it would lengthen as the children got older and their lessons more involved, but for their first day together he didn’t want to overtire them. 

A footman knocked on the door of the study they were using for lessons, and he was carefully bedecked in the ostentatious uniform of the palace.

“Sir, the Queen requests your presence.”

Harry’s blood ran hot, then cold. The Queen. Harry had come from humble beginnings, and he still couldn’t believe he was the tutor to the young royals and visits with the Queen regarding their schooling could become part of his daily life.

It wasn’t odd, he supposed, that he had not met her yet. He was, after all, looking after her children, but he knew that it was commonplace amongst those of a nobler sort to leave their child-rearing to someone else. 

Harry’s heart pounded as he followed the footman down a long corridor to the farther end of the wing. The palace was every bit as grand as everyone had professed it to be, and Harry was reasonably impressed, but it also seemed excessive. When they arrived at the Queen’s private parlor, the footman informed Harry that someone would retrieve him when the Queen summoned him.

The anteroom was splendid, draped in beautiful purple and fuschia silks with gold detailing. Through all of the ostentation, the effect was almost intimate. Cozy. A noise from outside lifted up to the window that was cracked slightly. Ever curious, Harry crossed over to it and pushed the pane open a bit more.

There were a number of young, virile men running around the south lawn practically naked wearing just their trousers and playing some sort of game with each other. Harry couldn’t say it was the worst thing he had ever witnessed, and he was admittedly mesmerized for a few moments.

In the middle of the fray—that involved some sort of long sticks with nets and small balls similar to those used in tennis—there was one man outrunning the rest. There was something odd about his interactions with the men around him, though. They seemed careful with him. 

If it was in defense of the man’s beauty and angelic nature, Harry couldn’t blame them. The man had shiny brown hair and golden skin as though he went out and played games like this every day. The contours of his muscles weren’t as pronounced as some of the other men around him, but they were graceful and strong.

The man disappeared from sight for a moment and Harry snapped out of his trance. Not wanting to be caught nosing around, he pulled the window back flush with the frame, leaving a small crack between them once again.

Now that Harry’s eyes were drawn away from the men playing around, he noticed there were quite a few spectators watching whatever game it was they were playing. All of them were courtiers, Harry suspected. As was the man he had been watching. If there was one thing his mother taught him, it was that the members of the court were not to be trusted. Harry was there for one reason and one reason only, to teach the children. He would do well to stop gaping at the gorgeous men and remember that.

A few minutes later, another footman emerged to inform Harry that it was time for him to enter.

Again, Harry was surprised. The children were already in the room, splayed across a large opulent rug spread across the middle of the floor.

Marie was kicking her feet up behind her as she read and the Dauphin was on his back throwing a ball up towards the ceiling and catching it again. The boy switched positions and threw the ball higher. There was husky laughter and applause as he caught it again skillfully.

The woman sitting in the chair was much shorter in stature than Harry expected, curled up with the skirts of her gown surrounding her and covering up where she had no doubt tucked her feet under herself. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head mirroring the style of the day with no powder or wig to adorn it.

“Ah!” She cried when Harry entered. “Harry, do join us.”

“Your highness,” Harry bowed deeply, congratulating himself on remembering the proper etiquette when faced with such an odd scene. “Children,” he nodded at them each in turn.

“Hello again, Harry,” Marie called without looking up from her book. She was named after her mother, who was officially Marie-Thérèse d’Albanie, if Harry remembered correctly.

“I hope you’ll forgive the informality, but I’m told my children approve of you, so I don’t want to stand on airs if it’s not necessary,” the Queen said easily as she gestured to the tea set in front of her. It was certainly much nicer and more precious than his mother’s set, but he couldn’t help thinking how similar a setting this was to his mother’s home. “Sit, sit please.”

“Your highness—” Harry started as he carefully lowered himself onto a seat.

The Queen carried on as though he had never spoken, reaching for her previously poured tea and taking a sip. “I shall reserve my own judgment, of course, one can never know what your motives are, but for now the hardest part is over with.” She smiled warmly and set the cup back in the saucer.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

As if she sensed that, the Queen immediately picked up control of the situation again. “You come very highly recommended.”

It was no secret that Harry was well connected considering his station in life. That was to say, he wondered if he was the most common person on the whole grounds if one didn’t count the servants. Tutors were less than the nobility they taught and more than a servant, which made them naturally other. Again, Harry had to wonder that the connections he had made had actually come to fruition.

“Yes, your highness. As I’m sure you have already heard, I met the Vicomte de Limoges during my travels in Belgium, and then again in Paris.”

For the first time since he had entered the chamber, something tightened in the Queen’s smile. “Harry, if the testimonial of Gaultier Dimont was your only selling point, you would not be here. I have done my research, and your connection to him is purely academic and in no way personal.”

Harry was shocked at the change in her tone. It sounded as though she did not like the Vicomte de Limoges—Gaultier—as she had called him. Given that it was only his first day at court he had no idea why, and he didn’t wish to pry. It was both comforting to know he had passed some other test of character by not being more intimately tied to the man, and discomfiting to know that the Queen seemed to have a trove of prior knowledge.

“That’s correct, your highness. I can only think that when he saw my pedagogical thesis regarding the tutoring of young children, he thought of me for the appointment. And nothing more,” he was quick to add.

The Vicomte was handsome, Harry couldn’t deny that, but every time Harry spoke to him he felt as though his secrets were being slowly drawn out one by one and assigned a value according to his particular personal goals. It was off-putting.

“There is some truth to that. Someone then brought me your manuscript and I read it. That was when I decided to appoint you as their new tutor.”

The Queen was relaxed and the tension was leaving her, but Harry could see now that there was a shrewdness behind her eyes that he had missed upon first meeting her.

Growing more comfortable in his surroundings, Harry reached for his own teacup and brought it to his lips to take a sip.

“Dimont is my husband’s lover.” 

Harry snorted the warm liquid back into the delicate cup in shock. It irritated his nose and he couldn’t catch his breath as he began to cough involuntarily.

“Oh, dear,” the Queen handed him a handkerchief to wipe his chin as he recovered from his ordeal. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I needed to know if you knew.”

“And your conclusion?” Harry croaked. “Because I can tell you that I unequivocally did not. I never would have…” he trailed off stuck between defending the Queen’s honor and not wanting to tarnish his own name or be seen as turning his back on someone who had assisted him in getting his position.

“I don’t think you did, no,” she smiled as she reseated herself. “Dimont seeks to undermine me at every turn, including in the raising of my children.”

The children for their part, well behaved as they were, had not said anything so far, but at the mention of the Vicomte undermining the Queen the young Dauphin let out a muffled “Ugh.”

In Harry’s experience, infidelity was not something to be discussed so openly. He was feeling immensely awkward and at a loss for what to say.

“I’m sorry?”

The Queen smiled at him indulgently. “Oh, it’s perfectly alright. While I do wish my husband would find someone else, I can’t entirely blame him. Dimont is convenient, and doesn’t bring the messiness of attachment or the dimwittedness of so many others at court.”

She lunged forward, taking Harry by surprise yet again. Up close her large brown eyes and dark features on a paler olive complexion were stunning and earnest.

“I like you so far, Harry, but you must know. If I so much as doubt for a single moment that you have been sent here to further Dimont’s own ends, I will send you on the first boat back to the Indies.”

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat to ease his nerves. He certainly regretted ever associating with the Vicomte up until that point, racking his brain to go back over their conversations to see if he could think of anything untoward. To his knowledge, he couldn’t remember the Vicomte jumping up and down and yelling about sleeping with the King. But from the way the Queen spoke of it, it should have been that obvious. Especially if everyone at court already knew.

“Your highness, I swear to you, it was a professional connection and nothing more. I am here for the children, and would be perfectly content never speaking to that man ever again.”

The Queen searched his eyes intently for a few more moments as she flattened his hand between her own, tracing the pads of her fingers over the lines of his palms.

“Very good,” she nodded, leaning back into her more relaxed position on the chaise. “Now, tell me about growing up in Martinique.”

Harry had some inkling she knew of his background based on her research and the definitive way she had said “back” to the Indies moments before, but it was again disconcerting to know that someone else in the world knew so much about him before they even met.

This was a good posting, the best, as far as Harry could tell. Tutoring young monarchs in the making meant that he could mould young minds, and teach them about kindness and what was right. And children themselves were wonderful as they were at their most curious age, eager to soak everything up and learn. Not to mention it paid well and he could afford to start sending more regular payments back home to his mother in Martinique—where he had, indeed, grown-up. She did not need the money, but he considered it compensation for all she sacrificed for his education.

If staying on meant doing the Queen’s bidding and turning his back on the Vicomte de Limoges, Harry wouldn’t hesitate again. Wanting to remain in the Queen’s good graces given the first half of the conversation, Harry willed himself to relax, sit back in his chair, and answer all of the questions she might have.

Despite their tumultuous meeting, Harry realized as he felt himself fall into the rhythm of real conversation with her, he actually quite liked the Queen and enjoyed spending time with her. They passed most of the afternoon that way as the children played and read on the floor nearby or in one of the other chairs. By the end of it, she had insisted that he call her by her nickname, Bebe. Both “Your highness” and “Marie-Thérèse” were mouthfuls, and much too formal, she said.

That evening as Harry retired to his modest quarters on the other side of the palace, he couldn’t help but think to himself that his first day had been oddly uplifting.

1672

The walls began to shift and the floor felt unsteady under Harry’s feet as he fled the ballroom. Going to the King—going back to bed—was so tempting. He was the King, no one would bother him or force him to go to the ball if he didn’t want to go. 

But Harry knew what getting back into bed with him would lead to. It would just be more of the same. Harry would get drawn under by the temptation and nothing would change, none of his problems would be solved.

When he reached the royal apartments, he actively turned away from the King’s wing. The farthest door was one he had gone through so many times in his two years at the palace, a safe haven. There was only one footman standing guard at the door.

“Please,” Harry begged, holding in his tears as desperately as he could. The footman hesitated as he gave Harry a once over. His name was Jacques, and normally he was very friendly, but Harry was sure he presented quite a haggard picture at the moment.

Finally, he nodded and entered the chamber to ask for permission. Harry stayed out in the hall, not wanting to linger in the anteroom. 

After what felt like an age, the footman returned to let Harry enter. When he did, Bebe was emerging from her chambers, wrapping a dressing gown around her torso, tying it as she walked.

“Harry, dearest, whatever is the matter?” she strode forward with concern laced across her features. The door remained open behind her and Harry could see Luke, the Belgian Comte de Hainaut. Harry hadn’t realized he had returned to court so soon.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The control he had over his tears was beginning to slip and he could feel himself gasping for breath.

Both Bebe and the Comte protested as they surged forward.

“Nonsense, Harry. Tell me what’s happening. Is it Louis?” 

Harry balked at the use of the King’s given name outside of the bedchamber they shared but he supposed if anyone had a right to use it besides Harry, it was his wife.

“No, no. I’m sorry to worry you.” Harry took a shuddery breath. “It’s me. I went down to the ball as I sometimes do just to observe, and as soon as I entered it was clear. The court… Dimont... Dimont has informed the court that I am the one that regularly lays with him.”

Bebe brought her hand to her lips. “Oh, dear.”

Harry had all but forgotten about the Comte, but he approached them quickly and drew Harry to him, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. Harry couldn’t deny the gesture was comforting and paternal in a way he hadn’t known he needed. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. My love,” he leaned over to his other side to press a kiss to Bebe’s lips. “I’m going to go see the children.”

Bebe nodded as she pulled Harry down to the couch so that he could lay across it and put his head in her lap. “Come, my dear,” she said as Harry settled and she began to rake her long manicured fingernails across his scalp and he could no longer hold in the sobs that racked his body. “Tell me what happened.”

1670

Walking through the gardens, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He undid another button on his waistcoat—having already removed his jacket—coming dangerously close to taking that off as well. Sadly, he was only wearing a light cotton shift underneath which would have felt amazing in the summer breeze but would be entirely inappropriate.

He thought back to two months earlier when he saw the men playing that game in the courtyard right before he met the Queen. Court turned out to be a bit more hedonistic than Harry had expected. Thinking someone running around with nothing to cover their upper body was hedonistic probably put Harry in the minority amongst the courtiers, but he didn’t mind. Mostly, because whilst he resided at court, he barely interacted with society.

Harry was an academic. He was raised on the island of Martinique until his mother sent him back to the mainland for proper schooling, hoping Harry would make a life for himself. Thankfully, he had been given a grant to study at the Sorbonne, and from there, his good fortune had been sustained. Despite all of the privileges offered to him in the world, he didn’t have much money, so he liked to think his luck also came from his steadfastness in his work and he never wanted to take it for granted.

When the court position came to fruition through Dimont, Harry didn’t think twice before accepting because he knew it would be solid, steady compensation for a time. Royals and their temperaments had their reputations the world over, so he knew he could be asked to leave at any moment, but until then he was going to teach the children the best he could. And avoid getting involved in court life.

Harry could scarcely believe he had been there for two months already. The children were lovely and paid attention in their lessons to the best of their ability, but they were still children so occasionally they acted out. Bebe seemed to be happy with how he was handling them which he could only assume meant he was allowed to stay.

Bebe had quickly become a close friend to Harry over the weeks since he had been there. Never, when he embarked on this journey, did he expect to feel such mutual affection toward the Queen. The country she hailed from, Albania, was small and modest compared to what she had married into and she grew up roaming the fields of her parents’ land without even half of the pomp and circumstance. She too merely tolerated court life and complained when she needed to participate in it. 

Many a day, she and the children walked with Harry through the gardens after their lessons, but that afternoon she had sent the children out for special riding instructions. It was no coincidence that a certain Comte de Hainaut had only just returned from a trip back to Belgium.

It hadn’t taken much deduction on Harry’s part after meeting the Comte that morning to understand just what their relationship was. At first, he thought the man was merely Bebe’s lover whenever he passed through court. That was before he had encountered the man in person and seen the incredibly striking resemblance between the Comte and the young Dauphin. Marie, too, shared his mother’s bone structure, but her father’s coloring.

Throughout the course of their brief conversation over the midday meal it also became clear that his absence thus far had been an anomaly and he spent most of his time at court with Bebe and their children.

The children had mentioned him before, as had Bebe, and Harry began to have a much clearer understanding of all their previous conversations surrounding the Comte.

Again, Harry had to wonder where the King fit into the equation. The children talked about him nonstop as well, telling stories about their adventures together—making it entirely evident that they worshiped the ground he walked on—and Bebe spoke of him as though he was her best friend.

As an outsider, Harry saw the tangled web of lies they wove and began to get overwhelmed. He couldn’t imagine living their lives like that, but somehow it just worked. Everyone seemed to know and no one seemed to say anything.

That was why he was not cut out for the life of a courtier. It was all much too confusing.

Not that he knew how the King felt about any of it. Two months on, Harry still had not even seen the man. He had seen his hunting parties from a distance and had seen what he knew to be a gaggle of his men, and there were portraits of him everywhere. But if Harry was asked to point him out in a crowd, he didn’t know that he would be able to successfully.

Thinking about the children made Harry curious, so he turned towards the stable grounds. There was a fair distance between where he was in the gardens and the riding fields, but he had nothing on for the rest of the day.

As he drew nearer to the fields, he could see another sort of sporting match happening in the main riding field. There were a few courtiers suited to play, and many more seated around the side of the field where refreshments were being served.

Harry was going to walk past, intent on finding the children, when he was hailed by his original reference and benefactor, Gaultier Dimont.

“Harry, there you are,” Dimont called over the soft murmur of conversation as they waited for gameplay to continue.

Pasting a smile on his face—he really didn’t like Dimont all that much—Harry crossed over to him. 

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” he nodded.

Dimont introduced his companions at his small table briefly before standing up to have a conversation with Harry in private.

“How are you, Harry, how are the children?”

There was a greed that flashed in the man’s eyes when he asked about the children that made Harry uncomfortable. Almost as though he was rubbing his hands together ready to use them as pawns in his game. Harry didn’t know the man very well, but he did see an intrinsic ambition in him that he didn’t understand.

Through Bebe, Harry knew Dimont to be the King’s lover, and he could only assume based on his behavior, the man saw that as a position of power, having the King’s ear in such a way. Bebe thought he might try to take advantage of Harry’s position at some point, but he hadn’t. Until that very moment. Harry had relaxed his guard a bit, but now it was firmly back in place.

“The children are fine, wonderful in their lessons. I am on my way to see them now if you would like to join me?” he asked, knowing Dimont would refuse him. From the look on his face, Harry had guessed correctly.

“No, no. That’s alright. But I have not seen you since you’ve arrived at court. Surely you can take some time as a way to say thank you for your entree.” Dimont brought his hand up and gently caressed the side of Harry’s face, tucking a stray curl behind Harry’s ear.

For fear of being seen as rude, Harry forced every muscle of his body to stay in place and not recoil. Even if he had not formed a bond with Bebe, and heard her council in his ear, he still would understand exactly what was happening. Dimont was trying to consolidate power.

Despite his friendship with Bebe, Harry knew his position was tenuous at best. The King, by nature of being the King, had the final word on whether he stayed and continued to teach his surrogate children or not. Because despite how illegitimate they truly were, the King had claimed their paternity which meant they were legitimate in the eyes of the law. 

The worst thing Harry could do would be to offend the man who not-so-secretly had the King’s ear behind closed doors. 

The whole thing was giving Harry a headache.

“Of course, Dimont. Will you take luncheon with me tomorrow?” Luncheon meant they had an excuse to take their meal somewhere in public.

“Mmm,” Dimont hummed. “That will be lovely, yes. Come to my chambers when you are done with the children’s lessons for the day.”

Harry groaned internally. That was not what he wanted. “Very well. If that’s all, I don’t mean to be rude, but the children are expecting me.”

They were not.

“Your charges are in the fields to the east,” Dimont said with a grand wave of his hands.

Harry nodded his head to genuflect again before turning and starting a path in the direction where Dimont had pointed.

When he located the children, he hung his jacket over one of the polished fence posts and watched as they rode closer to him.

Both the Dauphin and Marie waved to him excitedly as they passed by flanked by their riding instructor. He watched them do a few laps before he heard someone else calling his name. Bebe and the Comte were coming towards him hand in hand, both of them glowing with post-coital reunion bliss. Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the picture they made.

“And how has your afternoon been, your royal highness?” Harry teased as they approached the fence to join him in observing the children.

Bebe hummed and turned her face up to the sky unable to contain her joy. “Just lovely, how has yours been.”

“Not as lovely,” Harry grimaced adjusting his position so that he was facing her rather than the fence. “Dimont stopped me on my way here. He wanted to invite me to dine with him tomorrow.”

“I knew the day would come.”

Harry nodded at her as the children came around again. “Yes, you were right about that. It should be interesting to see what it is that he wants from me.” He paused for a moment, considering his words. “You know that despite all he did for me to get me here, I would never…” he trailed off as she began tutting at him.

“Nonsense, Harry. I know that. I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. Don’t say such things,” she waved away his concerns.

“He touched my hair,” Harry said softly after a few moments. “Caressed my face intimately.”

Bebe was taken aback, and the Comte over her shoulder was as well, though Harry wasn’t aware he had been paying attention to their conversation. He schooled his features quickly enough that he didn’t give anything else away and turned to continue to pretend he wasn’t listening.

“That’s certainly a different approach,” Bebe muttered with a sneer. She really did not like the Vicomte.

Harry grew bolder with her assurances of her faith in their friendship. “Why have you not said anything to the King? About Dimont’s behavior towards you and the children?” 

The question brought Bebe pause. “There is nothing direct that I can point to and illustrate my point. He’s smart. He never truly interacts with the children unless forced by the King for some reason or another. That being said, I have made my distaste very clear in the past. And it’s not that Louis—the King—does not respect my opinion or my wishes. He tries very hard not to let Dimont influence him in anything having to do with me. But Dimont does still influence him to an extent.”

She paused for another moment, but Harry could sense that she had more to say. “I believe when I first told you of their relationship, I mentioned that Dimont is a lover of convenience. From my own observation, I think Dimont has grown much too comfortable in his position as my husband’s courtesan.” 

She and Harry were both startled into laughter at her choice of words because it was true. If his power and lavish lifestyle hinged upon his place as the King’s lover, he was no more than a courtesan to be hired at will.

When they calmed down, Harry considered the rest of what she said. “Too comfortable? What makes you say that?”

Bebe studied him shrewdly. “Because, my dear, my husband is a strong, smart, powerful, virile, young King. He’s a lion. He holds himself back most of the time. In truth, I’ve never seen him pursue anyone, he’s just accepted any lover of convenience that happens to cross his path like our friend Dimont.

“That’s like giving the lion a crust of bread to sustain himself. Meager and weak to fill his belly and hope to survive. But you?” She leaned back and once again assessed him from tip to tail. “I have known my husband since I was fourteen years old, he is my best friend. And I know without a doubt that Dimont has made the biggest mistake of his life throwing you—a beautiful and nimble gazelle—at the King’s feet and expecting him to still settle for the crust of bread.”

Harry’s breath hitched as he considered her rather morbid metaphor. “But I haven’t even met the king,” he cried out in distress. “I would never—The King would never want me. I’m no courtier.”

Bebe patted his hand before lifting it off the fence he was gripping hard enough that his knuckles turned white and taking it in hers. “You don’t think you would, but never say never. The King has not met you, but when he does, he will not be able to let go of you. As I’ve said, I love him and he is my best friend, but growing up a king means never hearing the word no. He is virtuous and smart and thinks about everything he does very carefully, but the heart is not the sovereignty of his people. It is something else entirely.”

He was saved from answering by the children returning to him. They walked back to the palace as a pack, and Harry found himself feeling somewhat withdrawn from the group.

What Bebe said had unnerved him. He had not come to court with the intention of currying the King’s favor. Or laying with him. He didn’t even know the King, and Bebe was already saying the King would want to keep him as his lover.

There was a multitude of events that needed to happen before that, not the least of which was actually meeting him.

Not that he would lay with the King. That was a distant, ridiculous thought. Too silly to bear.

Even so, he was still thinking about it as they reached the palace.

“Why does he allow all of this?” Harry asked her quietly away from the Comte and the children, emboldened once again by her faith in their friendship she expressed earlier in the afternoon.

“Who? The King?” 

When Harry nodded, she let herself fall back onto a chaise lounge and patted the cushion so that Harry might join her.

“As I said before, he grew up a king in most senses of the word. He abhors court and all of the courtiers but puts up with it as a necessary evil. These were all traditions of his father, who barely had a hand in raising him. He kept them in place to appease the nobility.”

“But if he had no intention of truly consummating a marriage with a wife, why did he marry you?” Harry recoiled almost immediately at the force of his own question. It was so unbelievably rude and invasive and he would understand if Bebe slapped him across the face.

Instead, she laughed. “Oh, dear. We have talked about it before. When I was young, my father needed protection outside of the Sultanate. The empire that controls my country is beginning to crumble, so my marriage has created a powerful ally. Then of course, there was the matter of the young King needing a wife. He met with a few women, I think, before he finally chose me. It was two years between the first meeting and our marriage. I was sent here when I was sixteen.”

“So young,” Harry breathed. Not too much older than the young Dauphin.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thankfully, I met my love within the first two years of being here. It’s around then that the advisors start to get nervous when there is no evidence of a forthcoming heir.” Bebe watched as the Comte played with his children across the room. Young love that withstood the test of time so far. It was inspiring to Harry and gave him butterflies. 

Bebe managed to drag her gaze away to refocus her attention on Harry. “I suppose he maintains the court still because a sense of normalcy keeps them happy, and it keeps them from paying too much attention to what’s going on right under their noses. We have taken something forced and awkward and made it beautiful. Don’t you think?”

She winked at Harry as the sky in the windows behind her began to color with the setting sun, proving her point in its own way.

The next day, Harry was frazzled as he made his way back to the Queen’s chambers. He had just taken luncheon with Dimont, and he needed to tell her everything while he could still remember it. Harry had been there, present at the meal, and he still did not know how he felt about it.

Dimont had spent his time detailing the goings-on at court as though Harry knew anything about anyone—which he decidedly did not. Everything about it was a mix of idle gossip and predatory suggestion. He never wanted to go through that ever again.

But he would certainly be labeled rude and ungrateful if he didn’t do as Dimont asked and dine with him. Dining with him was harmless enough, even if it was in his private chambers.

More than anything, Dimont talked about the King. The King said— The King did— The King saw— The King killed—. They had just come back from a hunting expedition before Harry had run into him the day before, so it made sense that the King was fresh in his mind.

Harry rather wished the King would hide his room if only to save Harry’s own sanity.

Dimont did not seem as put out as Bebe was when he learned that Harry had not yet met the King. He quite ignored it when Harry said something, and continued to extol the virtues of the King himself rather than sully his image with his relation—or not—to Harry.

It was blatant enough that Harry wondered if there was a particular reason Dimont did not want Harry to meet the King. That didn’t mean Harry agreed with Bebe, of course, he didn’t. There was no truth to what Bebe had suggested. But it was possible Dimont was against it for another reason. He probably thought Harry to be too common for the King’s presence if his previous opinions and subsequent gossip were anything to go by.

Harry had tied himself up in knots enough over the past day, that he was beginning to spin in circles. After listening to Dimont all afternoon, Harry could only conclude that court was entirely too twisted for him. The amount of energy of the mind devoted to who was having an affair with whom, and who would or would not marry whom, and who had fathered children outside their marriage. It was all useless.

All Harry wanted to do was teach the children. Luckily, his charges were wholly worth the effort. He couldn’t have asked for better pupils. If only their father had been a father of some sort. Or a baron far away from the gilded halls that seemed endless when one was trying to find one’s friend to confide in them.

The footman posted at the entrance to Bebe’s antechamber finally came into view and Harry wanted to sob with relief. The week before, he had finally told Harry his name: Jacques. He was a nice, older man, who had once served in the King’s army before he had hurt his leg.

Curiously, Jacques was turned away from Harry, conferring with a few other footmen gathered around the door. 

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked as he neared them.

All of the footmen stood at attention quickly, but Jacques held his hand out to signal to them and they relaxed.

“Not at all, Monsieur Harry,” Jacques answered in his lilting accent that indicated he hailed from the south coast. “The Queen is not ‘ere but the children are.”

“Very well, may I enter?” 

Jacques stepped aside and waved them in, and the other footmen followed suit.

“Louis?” Harry called softly to the Dauphin as he passed through the anteroom and turned the corner into the Queen’s parlor. He could hear low, murmured voices as he approached.

“Yes?” an unexpected voice answered.

Harry drew up short. There before him was the beautiful man from the courtyard that Harry had seen on his first day at the palace. 

He was in a very different setting now. The most glaring was of course that he had clothes on this time. Both times Harry had seen him, he was very relaxed. The first time presumably sporting with his friends. This time, he was leaning up against the settee that Bebe and Harry usually sat on with his feet sprawled out in front of him on the floor.

Marie, little Marie, was curled up on his chest with her feet tucked under herself as her eyelids showed her losing battle with sleep. He held her close and secure with his left hand while with his right hand, he was pointing to a map. The Dauphin was studying the map and the toy soldiers littering it, changing things as the man directed him. Harry recognized it as one of the battles they had been studying in their History lessons.

It took Harry a moment to realize that the man had answered his call. He had answered to the name Louis.

Oh, no.

“Oh, no,” Harry whispered.

The King smirked as he gave Harry a very, very thorough once over. “I have had many a reaction to my presence, I must admit. But that is a new one.”

Harry was paralyzed with fear. How could he have forgotten himself?

“I’m so sorry, your highness,” he bowed deeply.

“Never mind all that,” the King said with an easy laugh. “You must be Harry, the tutor?” 

“Yes, that’s me.”

The King adjusted his grip on Marie and froze as she squirmed for a moment, waiting to continue until she had relaxed. Harry’s heart was flipping over in his chest with the intimacy and care of the scene before him. These children were not his own, he didn’t have to treat them with such gentle, loving kindness, and yet there he was.

“Bebe asked that if you came by to see her, I was to inform you that she and the Comte de Hainaut had urgent business to attend to…” The King waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he relayed his message.

Harry’s frustration and adrenaline and shock all bubbled over. “Ugh, did they not take care of enough business yesterday?” He immediately remembered himself, slapping a hand over his mouth.

The King, too, covered his mouth in an attempt to quell his laughter. “Evidently, no.”

An awkward silence settled around them. Bebe’s chamber door was open, so Harry could only assume they had gone to another part of the palace for their “business.” At the present moment, Harry was waiting for the King to dismiss him so that he could escape and crawl in a hole.

“What was it that you so desperately wanted to relate to her that it could not wait for her business to… conclude?” the King asked absently as the Dauphin tugged on his sleeve and he turned to point to another section of the map.

Given the subject matter of his luncheon and the person with whom he dined, Harry wasn’t sure he should divulge anything. But the idea of lying to the King was a much scarier prospect.

“I dined with the Vicomte de Limoges for luncheon.”

“Ah,” the King nodded. “And you wanted to report back?”

His tone taunted Harry, teased him. He knew how Bebe felt about Dimont, and he could probably deduce from Harry’s knowledge of her affair that they must have grown close.

Harry was caught. He didn’t want to be insubordinate, but he also didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between the King and Queen. How had he become so tangled in this web?

“Relax, please, Harry. I am only teasing. Sit with us and wait for Bebe to return. Marie has taken to leisure, maybe you should too? You look tense.”

From his place on the floor, the King was looking up at Harry from underneath his eyelashes with an easy smile. He once again leaned his head back so that he could appreciate Harry fully. The whole effect of the King’s gaze made Harry feel seen and desired in a way he had never experienced before. His skin tightened and his pulse quickened, and there was an invisible force drawing him into the King’s orbit.

The King was asking Harry to stay and sit with him in this intimate, familial setting as the light shone on his transcendent beauty and he gathered his two surrogate children close to him with love and affection.

It wasn’t until he sat down in one of the chairs and settled himself in for a comfortable afternoon of leisure that Harry realized he had fallen into a trap. A trap of the King’s making.

Unease settled in his belly as Harry saw a vision of a gazelle, grazing in a field as the lion crouched in the tall grass behind him, finally looking for a satisfying meal.

1672

Harry watched mesmerized as the candles in  Bebe’s parlor burned and burned. The motion of her hand in his hair soothed him as he told her about what had happened in the ballroom.

His sobs had calmed to soft hiccoughs as he explained how deeply he had been hurt by being humiliated and put on display. At the hands of Dimont.

Once his thoughts turned again to what he supposed he could call his rival, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about him: Gaultier Dimont. In some ways, the source of Harry’s deepest happiness and greatest despair. He had brought Harry to the palace, built him up in society—as a means to his own ends, to be sure, but Harry still benefited from it—introduced him to court, Louis, and then tore him down again. Soon the news that Harry was no more than a common whore would spread to the academic circles, and his reputation would be ruined.

As he was already drowning in his insecurities, he thought about the relationship between Dimont and the King. They were together for years before Harry came along. Years and years of building up comfort with each other, intimacy. 

Harry thought, in his heart of hearts that what he and Louis had surpassed anything else, but there was always the possibility that it was a figment of his imagination. Had Louis secretly returned to Dimont’s bed on the side? That would mean that he had assured Harry and Harry had believed him blindly. 

Harry was fairly certain in his incoherent mumbling through his tears he had expressed his fears to Bebe. She had vehemently denied them, but she was Louis’ best friend and wife. She had only perceived loyalty to Harry.

Once Harry opened the Pandora’s box of his mind, he could no longer hold anything else back. What if Louis was not seeing Dimont on the side, but someone else entirely? What if Harry was being replaced by someone else?

Again, he must have let that slip, because Bebe abruptly stopped playing with his hair. She gripped his chin and turned his face so that Harry was facing her fully.

“My dear, I know that you are hurt and scared of the attention that comes with being found out as Louis’ lover. But you must understand, that is all that has happened here. You are new to court, so you do not know what happened when he and Dimont first took up together, or any of the other lovers he’s had over the years. They are derogatory today, but by tomorrow they will have forgotten all about it.”

Harry hiccoughed slightly under his breath. His humiliation was still fresh under his skin, he couldn’t imagine showing his face at any sort of gathering ever again. “Forgotten?”

Bebe nodded slowly, keeping his face upturned, but continuing her motions through his hair again. “They always act this way at first because they are jealous. They want to know what you have that they do not. Why should this tutor be the King’s lover when they are right there, ripe for the taking, throwing themselves at his feet?”

Harry hummed and let his eyes close as she reassured him.

“Soon, they will think nothing of it. You will still have your detractors, but everyone else will forget as soon as the next scandal washes through the court.”

Turning to watch the candles again, Harry mulled over what she was saying. How exhausting it must be for the people of the court to live their lives this way. Floating endlessly through life waiting for something else to buoy their pettiness and lift their spirits until the next thing came along. Their lives centered around what everyone else was doing. Harry didn’t see how that was any way to truly live.

There was a clamor in the hallway and the door burst open on its hinges.

“What did he say to you?” Louis growled.

Bebe jostled Harry a bit as she lifted her arms in a placating gesture to try to get Louis to calm down. 

“Harry,” Louis pleaded as he knelt in front of the couch and planted a bruising kiss on Harry’s lips. “What did Dimont say?”

For as much as Bebe had helped Harry reach a state of tranquility, Louis had phrased his question in exactly the incorrect manner. To Harry’s adrenaline-fueled body and addled mind, it sounded as though he wanted to know exactly what Dimont had said because he wanted to know exactly what he had been accused of. 

Harry’s temper blazed and his head rushed with blood as he sat up. He must have looked a right mess as Bebe extricated herself from the chaise, making room for Louis to sit beside him. Louis immediately reached up to comb through Harry’s hair the same way Bebe had, and Harry flinched as he thought about how excruciating it was that Louis’ touch was so much more comforting.

He must stay strong. “What is it that you’re afraid of?” he whispered fiercely.

Louis was taken aback. “What? What am I afraid of? Harry, I’m afraid that Dimont hurt you.”

“Hurt me how?” Harry dared him to answer, but the confusion on Louis’ face only settled deeper.

As silence reigned, Bebe took over the situation.

“Louis, darling. Harry should sleep. He can stay with me tonight.”

The King immediately began to protest. “Nonsense, he is coming back with me to our bed.”

Harry leaned back into the seat and let his eyes drift closed as they argued. 

“I don’t think that’s best tonight.” 

Harry heard the rustle of Bebe’s gown as she moved to embrace Louis and whisper something in his ear. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes even as he felt Louis lean over and place a long, lingering kiss to his forehead with a whispered “I love you.”

He didn’t move again for some time until Bebe insisted that one of the manservants help him undress and get into bed with her. She held him close under the layers of blankets as Harry drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the sun on his cheeks and the salt air of his childhood at his mother’s farm on Martinique.

1671 

For all that it had taken Harry two months to meet the King, once they did meet, Harry saw him everywhere.

Suddenly, Harry barely had a moment’s peace from the King’s company. He frequently saw him in Bebe’s chambers or the children’s where he would sit in on lessons as long as he didn’t have any sort of state business to attend to that day.

And the children knew it, too. They loved to tease Harry about the attention the King was paying him, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing untoward had happened between them, and Harry intended to keep it that way.

It was no secret around the palace that the King took lovers. Gaultier Dimont was the most obvious of them all, having been the King’s regular companion for years, but Harry heard rumors of others too. He couldn’t deny that having met the King, his curiosity was piqued.

Now that they were spending more time together, Harry was beginning to understand what Bebe had said to him all those months earlier.

The King was young, smart, virile, all of the descriptors she had used when she had compared him to a lion. But her original metaphor may have been misplaced. Because in her scenario, Harry was the gazelle—sweet, innocent prey that did not see his impending doom. And in that, Bebe was woefully incorrect.

Harry could see his impending doom perfectly well. He saw it every time Lou—the King interacted with the children, or when the King laughed at Harry’s stupid jokes, or when he flirted so heavily with Harry that Harry had to excuse himself from the room just to catch his breath.

No, he wasn’t a gazelle, because a gazelle ran by nature to avoid the lion. It didn’t take one look at the lion’s sparkling blue eyes and lay down in the grass asking to be hunted.

But for all that he had been at court for almost nine months, Harry still had old fashioned sensibilities. He knew of all the King’s lovers, and through his own conviction and Bebe’s council, he had decided to stay strong and not give in to the King’s pursuits until he knew he was the only one.

If he was going to lay with the King, he was not going to share him. Especially not with the likes of Gaultier Dimont.

The King did not make sticking to one’s convictions easy.

“Monsieur Harry?” 

Harry looked up from the desk in the schoolroom where he was going over the Dauphin’s written composition.

“Yes, your highness?” he asked with a heavy sigh. The King had come to him almost every day that week under the guise of one thing or another. He would enter and sit at one of the children’s desks and they would end up conversing about nothing for over an hour, all while Harry felt himself grow even more charmed.

“Would you like to go riding with me and the children today?”

That was a new tactic. Harry did his best to avoid looking at him for his own self-preservation, but it couldn’t be helped. The King stood at the front of the room with his hands clasped together, the picture of innocence.

Harry could say no. By now, he knew that the King would not get offended if he refused him. But it was a beautiful day, one of the first warm days after the frost had broken and his offer was sorely tempting.

“Very well,” Harry agreed as the King crowed in triumph. “Twenty minutes, your highness. Please.”

Instead of leaving, the King came forward and sat on the edge of Harry’s desk. “Carry on.”

Harry managed to read five more words before the King was breaking the silence again. 

“Harry, how many times must I ask you to call me Louis?” 

“Your highness…” Harry needed to maintain the distance and peace of mind that the King’s title gave him. “It would be inappropriate.”

“And what is the trouble with being inappropriate?”

Harry sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation. “There is no trouble when you’re the King.”

Harry was worried about allowing himself to be so informal as to call the King by his first name because he had no means of guaranteeing he would be able to turn it off and on in the presence of other people. Especially Dimont. As much as the man—and his obsession with power—scared Harry, he was still the King’s lover which meant the King either didn’t see his manipulative ways or didn’t care. Harry couldn’t imagine the backlash if Dimont were to ever see him as a threat to his livelihood.

The King seemed appeased by Harry’s excuse and gestured for Harry to return to what he was doing. 

Harry began reading again but there was no chance of him being able to process anything with the King perched there on his desk as he was. But he also didn’t want the King to think he could get away with that sort of teasing.

“You haven’t turned the page in a while,” the King pointed out helpfully. 

“Yes, thank you. It’s difficult to finish my work with you reading over me as such.”

The King held up his hands defensively. “Very well, I shall leave you to your studies, Monsieur Harry.”

Harry tried not to watch the King’s very beautiful retreating form. And failed.

“I’m simply trying to educate your heir,” he called after him.

He made the mistake of giving the King an excuse to come back. “Well, then,” the King replied not letting the opening pass him by. “Certainly that gives me cause to tell you when you’re able to take a break.”

The King’s expression was bright and shining and sly, and with all of the other burdens he had to shoulder day to day it was these rare glimpses of the boy underneath that made Harry weak in the knees. For all his responsibilities, the King deserved some time off to galavant. And Harry deserved to go with him when he asked. 

That afternoon as they rode with the children, Harry pondered the weakness he had developed for the King. And that was what it was, a weakness that had grown quickly and spread in the months they had known each other.

The King wasn’t subtle in his desire to bed Harry. No, he made that quite clear early on, though never in so many words. Usually, he hid behind suggestion and innuendo. Maybe it was that he knew Harry would continue to say no, or maybe it was his attempt to wear Harry down. 

Because Harry did continue to refuse. It pained him every time, but he maintained his carefully curated distance.

Bebe didn’t help, either. The Queen was constantly aiding Louis in his case, letting them be alone together in various scenarios. Whenever Harry complained, she feigned innocence. He had a feeling she didn’t completely understand why he continued to refuse, but he did.

Despite all of the riding in the afternoons, and picnics in the gardens in which the children disappeared very quickly after eating, and random meetings, Harry maintained his distance.

He needed to maintain his distance. He wanted to be with the King, he did, and he probably would have if the King were a pauper on the street, but that was the central issue. Harry wanted to be with the King and the King alone. Meanwhile, the King had a different courtier in his bed whenever he wanted. The thought made Harry uncomfortable. Fidelity was important to him, which had surprised him a bit when he realized what was at the source of his reluctance. He wasn’t sure that if he was with anyone else, he would care as much.

Not even Bebe knew of his reservations in that regard. Harry had absolutely no claim or place to force the King to stop taking other lovers as though the King would take demands from a commoner in such a way. No, it was ridiculous, but it was how he felt. So he would continue to resist the King. 

The back and forth went on for weeks, and the King tested him to be sure. Every day, he brought Harry closer and closer to the precipice. But what would become of him if he was just one in a long line of the King’s lovers?

According to Bebe much of it was rumor, and that the King only laid with Dimont every once in a while when it was convenient for both of them.

To Harry, that seemed ridiculous. Everything about the King, from the way he stood, or the way he listened in council meetings, it was all incredibly hedonistic. Surely he had to be indulging himself more than that.

Once again, Harry was in the study room preparing the lessons for the next morning. More often than not the King came in and perched on his desk for anywhere from five minutes to an hour depending on what else he needed to do, or the length of his attention span that day.

Time ticked by and the King still didn’t arrive, and Harry managed to get fully engrossed in his work for the first time in quite a few weeks. Which was why he jumped when a footman entered the room to inform him that the King had sent for him.

“I’m to join him?” Harry asked to clarify, wondering what held up the King so much that he didn’t have time to come over but still wanted to see Harry. He had never been called to the King’s chambers before.

The footman confirmed his message and began to show Harry the way. The closer and closer they got to the King’s wing and apartments—not far from Bebe and the children’s—the more Harry’s trepidation rose. He tried to put Bebe’s morbid metaphor out of his mind for the most part, but this felt as though it was precognition. Never had he felt more like the gazelle than as he approached the King’s chamber for the first time.

When they arrived the footman knocked, and another one answered from the other side of the door, only cracking it away from the frame until he was sure they were who they said they were. Instead of passing Harry off to the next footman, the man came out into the anteroom before showing Harry in through the door.

That, again, was concerning. He could not trust himself alone in the private apartments of the King.

Harry stepped through the door and immediately understood why the footmen had left. He meant to speak up, to clear his throat, alert the King to his presence. Instead, he simply watched in silence as the King’s back was to him. 

Part of his brain, some miraculous part that was still functioning, recognized that there was a tub of steaming water next to the bare form of the King. So he had probably just bathed. But Harry couldn’t process any of that, because he was staring at the King’s naked backside.

He had seen the King without a shirt that first time playing in the courtyard with his friends, and again a few more times since that now that the weather had gotten warm again.

None of that had prepared him for the sight in front of him.

The King’s rib cage expanded as he moved to pick up the dressing gown draped across the settee to his right. He bent at the natural dip in his waist that Harry wanted to trace with his tongue and calculate the exact measurement of the angle. His skin was inexplicably golden, and Harry traced it with his eyes until they dropped down to the curve of his—

“Hello, Monsieur Harry.” The King caught sight of him in one of his looking glasses and raised his eyebrow before turning around.

Harry flinched at being caught out. “I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “The footmen let me in I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to go.” He was trying as hard as he possibly could to keep his gaze above the King’s waist as he draped the dressing gown over his shoulders and left it gaping open in front.

Desperate for a reprieve, Harry dropped his head back to admire the beautifully painted ceiling. “You called for me?”

The King’s footsteps landed on the carpets as he came closer. Harry didn’t know if the dressing gown was closed now or not. “Did I?” he asked as his voice lowered and became huskier.

Harry groaned, and it took him a moment to realize that he had done so audibly. Done being embarrassed, he snapped. He brought his gaze back level with the King, and he didn’t look per se but he could tell that the gown was not tied enough to hide his naked form.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he begged, long since leaving his inhibitions behind.

The King reached his hand up to caress the outside of Harry’s arm. “Why do you avoid me? Avoid this? Have I imagined the connection between us? Tell me now so that I may know.”

It would be so easy to say yes and be done. He didn’t think the King would retaliate against unrequited affections. He could tell the King he had imagined the flirtatious glances and the long talks in the sunshine as they ambled through the garden. The fluttery feeling Harry felt in his chest every time he saw the King wasn’t real.

Except that it was. Harry could never lie to him.

“No, you haven’t imagined it,” Harry whispered.

The King reached up to caress Harry’s face. “Then why will you not embrace me?”

Dimont’s face flashed through Harry’s mind along with a slue of male bodies parading through that very room whenever it was “convenient” for the King.

He took a step back and the King’s hand dropped into the empty space between them. 

“Because of the Vicomte de Limoges.”

The King recoiled as he grimaced in shock. “What does Gaultier have anything to do with you and I?”

Harry could feel himself shrinking. His shoulders slumping under the weight of what he was about to say. To the King of all people.

“I know he is your companion in high regard. Along with whoever else is joining you in your bed. I’m sorry your highness. I cannot share a bed with someone else.”

The King looked even more confused. “I don’t want you to share my bed with someone else, I want you to share it with me.” He stepped closer again.

Harry shook his head and matched his step with a retreat of his own. “No, no. I mean— If I am to share your bed, I don’t want to think that Gaultier is simply an hour or two, or a day behind me. Worse if you were to go to him before you were to come to me.”

“Is that what you think of me?” the King closed the dressing gown in front of him and crossed his arms, but the pose was anything but vulnerable. He stood with his feet wide apart in defiance.

“Do you deny that you have multiple lovers?” 

“I do now,” the King replied frankly. “But that has no bearing on what my future may hold. I would consider discussing that with you.”

Harry stepped back again. That had not been a satisfactory answer. “You would discuss the condition that I want you to myself, but cannot agree to it. That is why, your highness, I keep my distance. That is why I cannot embrace you. For if I were to do so once, I would never stop.”

His steady retreat brought him as close to the door as he was going to get, so Harry defied all convention of turning one’s back on the King, and left, flying past the footmen in his haste to get back to his own much more modest apartments.

Three days went by without the King coming to see him. The first day, Harry rationalized that the King needed some space to come to terms with what he said. The second day, he had so much work to do that he barely realized. The third day, he finally broke down and went to find Bebe.

He was so upset, he could barely see through the haze of his own feelings to recognize that taking refuge to complain about a woman’s husband and how he was treating him was… odd.

Bebe nodded along in understanding as Harry explained the situation to her and what both he and the King said to each other. She waited until he was done to consider what she was going to say.

“I’m sad that the two of you can’t come to some sort of compromise. It should be him, of course, if you were there in his bed he wouldn’t need anyone else. But, I can’t tell you why he hasn’t reached that conclusion on his own.”

Harry shrugged and wiped his tears with her monogrammed handkerchief before eventually going back to the study.

The last person he expected to be waiting there for him was the King.

“Monsieur Harry,” the twinkle of teasing was all but gone from the King’s eye as he waited for Harry to come all the way into the room.

“I’m sorry, did you wait long?” Harry asked, unsure of the new formality between them. He had gone weeks without meeting the King only for their relationship had turned on a dime into something much closer to resembling friends, and now they were going backwards to something in between the two.

“No, don’t worry yourself.” 

When he didn’t elaborate, Harry sat down and waited for him to do the same. Perch on the corner of his desk again. In silence, Harry waited for him to say something.

“The Dutch are encroaching again. Approaching our borders.” 

The King very rarely discussed any of his affairs of state with Harry, and his candor was troubling. He finally sighed and approached the large wooden desk, though he did not sit on it. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I must go away and join my army at the front.” The King did look genuinely sorry. His visit wasn’t a telling off, or another pursuant mission. He was there to say goodbye.

Harry was shocked enough that he rose to his feet. He wanted just once to reach across the desk and hold the King in his arms, but their discussion in his chambers held him back. This changed nothing. He was leaving, but he had said nothing less and nothing more. He tightened his grip on the desk in front of him to prevent himself from giving in to the urge.

“I’ll miss you.” Harry allowed himself the single admittance.

The King nodded. “I hope that when I return, we can continue our discussion from the other night.” His gaze was heavy as he stared at Harry meaningfully, but still, his words gave nothing away.

“I look forward to it.” It was a paradox, Harry’s desire to have the conversation again. He wanted to know if the King would be able to cast aside his other lovers, but he dreaded that he would say he couldn’t.

The King gave him one last look before turning around to leave. Harry tried to memorize every inch of his form so that he could look back upon it while he was away. Or if, by some horrible twist of fate, he never returned.

Before he opened the door, the King paused and faced Harry again.

“Please, just once before I go?” 

By some miracle, Harry understood that he was asking for a small admission. A compromise, as Bebe said. Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“Goodbye, Louis. I will think of little else,” he whispered.

The King held himself still for a few moments—a feat Harry would have thought impossible before. And then he was gone.

1672

Though Harry did not imbibe, he slept endlessly the next morning. When he awoke, Bebe was gone.

Blearily, Harry redressed himself the best he could without any sort of help. He was grateful to Bebe for the privacy but it had the unfortunate effect of leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Before his posting in the palace, Harry’s life had been schooling. Academia. His mother sent him away from Martinique after his father died so that he might flourish with the best education they could barely afford. Harry lived for his books and papers and studying languages. His purpose became to then impart those lessons onto his students. He adored tutoring and teaching.

But that had been slipping away from him slowly with every brush of Louis’ hand across his back and every kiss he placed at the nape of his neck as they drifted off to sleep.  

Somehow, Harry had become one of the women he read about in the tales of kings. Infidelity to the Queen, illegitimate children, illicit dealings. The devotion he felt for Louis—the King—consumed him. Louis had drawn him in and shown him a life he never could have imagined full of luxury, power, and love beyond his wildest dreams. 

Harry had agreed to this life when Louis came back from his campaign. How naive he had been then, he hadn’t understood the scope of what he was doing to himself.

Now, the picture was becoming clear.

The children would continue to grow, age, reach the point where Harry would no longer be able to satisfy their intellectual curiosity. That was perfectly natural, that was how it should be when children came of age.

But what would become of Harry after that? If his pretense for living in the palace was to be his function as the children’s tutor, they would need another reason after the children were gone.

Though, Harry supposed, Louis was the King. They didn’t need a reason behind Harry’s residence as long as Louis agreed and accepted it.

Fresh humiliation washed over Harry as he thought about the night before. If his pretense was gone he would spend the rest of his life living in the shadows of the rumors. Whispers behind closed doors. Speculation. Leaving Harry with no legal claim to Louis, and Louis no legal claim to him in return.

Would that he was able to steal Louis away to the countryside to forget about everything and leave their life behind to go off and tend their garden in the fields of the south.

Harry sighed. Louis would be bored before the first week was out. Harry wouldn’t mind a life alone with Louis and his books, but the dynamic spark that lived within Louis needed to be fed. Louis’ relationship to the world around him, his vivaciousness, was part of why Harry loved him so much. Part of the reason why he stayed. He had never met anyone like Louis before.

Suddenly the four walls of Bebe’s bedroom began encroaching on Harry’s relative peace. The opulence was stifling when faced with the fantasy of a cottage in the countryside. The battle between Louis’ love and Harry’s own personal humiliation began warring inside his head. Could he stay? For Louis? Could he live his life under constant scrutiny?

Harry couldn’t breathe. He tore out of the bedroom through the parlor where they made so many happy memories. Where he first met Louis. He ignored Jacque’s calls of concern echoing off the walls of the hallway behind him. He needed to get to his apartments. He hadn’t been there in weeks, months, and there was probably a heavy layer of dust over his belongings but he needed distance.

A thought had planted itself in his head and for all that Harry was being pulled by thoughts of Louis and their life together, he suddenly could not shake it.

Harry needed to get out of there. He needed to leave. Hot tears started falling down his face before he realized he was crying, his vision getting blurry as he fled.

When he arrived at his rooms in the eastern wing, he was surprised to see that they were pristine. He huffed out a sardonic laugh at the unmitigated irony.

There he was upset about Dimont outing him as the King’s bedfellow to the courtiers when the servants had known for months. Their secret was bound to reach the court eventually. The secrecy itself had been a sham.

Harry’s anger was misplaced, he knew that. He was certainly complicit in his own relationship with Louis. No one else could be faulted for that. The rest of his anger was pure frustration and insecurity. Wrapped in that ever-present desire to steal Louis away from the rest of the world so there was no one to interfere in their lives and they could be together without reproach.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Harry began to dig for his portmanteau. His desire to leave was building by the second, aided by the fact that Louis was nowhere to be seen to tempt him to stay.

1671

With Louis gone, Harry was functioning surprisingly poorly. Again, he was surprised that the King so vastly affected his day to day life, especially given his first few months at the palace when they never met at all.

Somehow, the king had ingratiated himself into Harry’s daily life, which was absurd. He was the King, surely he had better things to do than insert himself into Harry’s life.

And yet, Harry found him looking for the King in the afternoons after the children’s lessons were done. Or looking for him in the riding fields, somehow expecting him to come riding over the crest of a hill as though it was all some elaborate prank.

The weeks wore on, and Harry grew increasingly restless with the lack of word from the King’s camp. Not that he expected Louis—the King—to write him, a lowly tutor. He was very low on the list of priorities given he had a pseudo wife and children that he adored. Even if he did find the time to write Harry, it wasn’t a missive he would be able to dictate. Or at least Harry hoped it wouldn’t be. And then further still, the note would be read by so many people between the King’s hands and Harry’s, so he wouldn’t be able to say anything interesting.

In all of Harry’s fantasizing of letters, and without the daily reminder, it was easy for Harry to forget that he had, in essence, rejected the King. It was entirely possible that Louis had gone away and come to the realization that he didn’t want to give up his freedom and his multitudes of young, beautiful lovers that surely now littered the road between the palace and the front.

Harry was getting carried away.

His relief came finally a few weeks later in the form of a letter to Bebe. The King had written her rather a long letter, and as they sat in the parlor after the children’s lessons as was their custom, Harry had to keep himself from straining his neck to see even a piece of what Louis had written.

Bebe rifled through the pages before she found whatever she was looking for, turning to Harry and handing over at least half of the pages.

“These are yours,” she said with little explanation before sitting back with her remaining section.

Harry gripped the multiple leaflets of paper in his hand. “What?”

Bebe nodded at his closed fist hanging in the air between them. “They’re for you.”

“No, they’re not,” Harry protested. 

“They’re certainly not for me, so I have no care if you read them anyway.”

With that, she went back to her own pages.

Harry glanced down at the pages in his hand for the first time. The scrawl was messy and uneven. He would never let the children get away with such scratching, but knowing that it might be from the King’s own hand made Harry feel oddly endeared.

At the top of the page there was a simple, “M.H.—”

Monsieur Harry. Unable to help himself, Harry continued to read, still not entirely convinced he was the letter’s intended recipient. 

One or two sentences in, his understanding was beginning to grow. The King made the transition between Bebe’s letter and Harry’s own a very murky one with no signature and very little break in conversational style. 

Suddenly, the language became much more personal, and the King started to describe the depths with which he missed the mysterious M.H. and all that he wanted to say and do with M.H. when he returned home.

The letter was surprisingly loquacious given what Harry knew of the King. The language was extremely flattering, and many of the sentiments mirrored Harry’s own. Harry himself felt like a silly child with an infatuation, wanting to crush the letter to his chest and faint back in his chair with the strength of his overwhelming feelings.

Who was this King that he saw on the pages in front of him? Why did he not say any of those lovely things before he left?

Harry contemplated those questions with each sweet and earnest letter that came pouring in from the Dutch border. He often felt as though his mind was drifting off in pursuit of those questions when it should have been drifting off regarding academic pursuits. But it was easy to be preoccupied when one’s admirer was off valiantly fighting a war.

The dark spot came when Harry realized that despite all of the verses of prose the King had written, nowhere did he mention Harry’s condition. He wanted to be the sole fixture in his bed. He did not want to share him. With each passing letter, the lack of promise in regards to that specific condition was the only thing keeping Harry from getting lost in his fantasies of he and the King being together—of which there were many.

Six months after he had left, the whole household and court lined up to welcome the King home from war.

Nerves had overtaken Harry and he felt as though he would be sick all over the procession before anyone had even come into view.

He was too lowly to stand up with Bebe and her Comte, even though he desperately needed her support in his present state.

For all that the King had written him, Harry had replied very little. The King knew why, he knew that Harry didn’t want anything falling into the wrong hands, and the King didn’t either. It just felt as though Harry was interacting with the King with one hand tied behind his back.

What he wouldn’t give to see the King’s beautiful profile and watch the way his face changed so with each emotion that passed over it. It was a wondrous thing to behold, and something Harry had taken advantage of when he had it before. He had been deprived of the King’s magnanimous presence in his life, and he wanted it back.

Harry was so desperate that all he had been able to think about for the last few weeks was the strength of his conviction. Over and over he contemplated his desire for the King to bed him and only him with the promise that he would take no other lovers. Harry, who had always prided himself on his principles, was beginning to waver under the combined weight of loneliness and distance.

The King came into view then, riding at the front of his party with his flags waving gallantly behind him with his company of men.

Harry sucked in a breath as he braced for the impact of seeing the King up close again. He looked to be unharmed, though there was a bandage on one arm that suggested he might have been injured at some point. He had never mentioned anything in his letters. Maybe he didn’t want to worry Harry.

He watched as the King’s eyes searched the crowd, and his vanity overcame him as he hoped the King was looking for him amongst the sea of faces. Their eyes never met, though, and the King never stopped searching the crowd, so there was hope for Harry’s fantasies yet.

When he reached Bebe, he dismounted and leaned in to hug her before hugging the children. The King searched over his shoulder back towards the crowd one last time before wrapping his arm around Bebe’s shoulder and leading everyone back inside.

Just like that, the King’s return was over. Harry was feeling underwhelmed, deprived of the dramatic reunion they never would have been able to reasonably have without raising suspicions.

The children’s lessons had been canceled for the day, and as such, Harry had nowhere to go. He couldn’t presume to interrupt the family time that was surely transpiring behind closed doors. Though, he did have quite a bit of work to catch up on in his study. Listless, Harry headed off as the rest of the crowd dispersed around him.

He had not been at his desk thirty minutes when the door to the study creaked open the way it hadn’t in six months.

Harry’s writing hand froze over the notes he was taking and he refused to look up to prove himself wrong. It could have just been the Dauphin with a question because a young man with academic questions during his leisure hours was more believable than the King coming straight to Harry after seeing his family.

“Monsieur Harry?”

When he looked up the King was bathed in sunlight, looking more tan and beautiful and windswept than he ever had before, so Harry did the only thing he could do. He cried.

Tears fell, and his lungs couldn’t catch enough air, and soon he was sobbing over his notes. He had held himself together for six months, stitched up with twine so none of the hurt and worry and hope and affection escaped out.

The King rushed to his side, coming behind the desk and kneeling at Harry’s feet.

“I’m here,” he whispered tenderly, reaching up to cup Harry’s face. “I’m here.”

The King surged up and kissed Harry square on the mouth, with a strength Harry had never felt before. He had promised himself he would not embrace the King for the first time until he knew he was safe to do so without risking his heart, but those days were long gone.

Over the course of the King’s campaign, and the letters he had written, he had successfully torn down all of Harry’s defenses.

Between recovering from his fit and trying to kiss the King—Louis— Harry was struggling to breathe. The King pulled back and wiped Harry’s tears with the cuff of his sleeve. Louis. Harry supposed he could finally allow himself to call the King Louis.

“Come with me, to my chambers, where we will have some privacy,” he begged.

Harry knew that going with the King—Louis—to his private chambers was dangerous on many levels. It was the middle of the morning. People could see them on the way, the children could be looking for either one of them. Not to mention that if Harry got behind closed doors with the King, now that the physical barrier between them had been breached, he couldn’t promise that the King would not break down his convictions even further.

In short, going with the King was a terrible idea. But when he reached for Harry’s hand and began striding with exaggerated purpose for the hallway, Harry followed anyway.

When they reached Louis’ chambers, Harry barely had a moment to study his surroundings before Louis was dragging him into his bedroom.

There was a small settee off to the side, and Louis drew him over to it and they sat down.

“I suppose there is a lot to talk about between us.” Louis kept his vision trained on their conjoined hands between them.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, his voice breaking from the abuse his throat had suffered in so short a time.

Louis took a deep breath before finally looking Harry in the eye. “While I was away, I had quite a lot of solitude, though I was surrounded by thousands of men. None of them were you. Even though I had to, I didn’t want to seek their counsel, I wanted yours. I want to see you every day, I want to wake up with you in the morning, and be the last person you say goodnight to.”

It was Harry’s turn to take a steadying breath. “There is nothing I want more.” He could have stopped there. If he did stop there, he would get exactly what he wanted, the chance to be with the King—Louis. But he could be strong, because that wasn’t all he wanted. If it had been, he would have lain with the King before he went to war when Harry knew the King was also sharing a bed with Dimont.

Louis cut him off. “I know you still have reservations. I have reflected on what you said before I left, some days it felt like that was all I could think about. Before you came to the palace, before I met you, I never considered committing myself to someone before God because I had already done so with Bebe in the eyes of the law. She is my Queen, she is whom I have pledged my life to, no matter how the two of us feel about each other and regardless of our personal relationships. She has committed herself to Luke, and it never occurred to me that I could do the same.”

It felt as though Harry’s life was held in the balance as he waited for Louis to speak.

“If this is something you desire—for me to not lay with another—I will do it gladly for you. I would do anything for you.”

That gave Harry pause. “Won’t Dimont and the others feel scorned?”

With every ounce the confidence of a king, Louis shrugged. “There weren’t many others, just a few here and there. Mostly, I laid with Dimont when convenient, but I haven’t in six months since I went away. I shall simply not take up with him again.”

Harry was skeptical that the simple solution Louis was offering would be enough, but Louis was convinced and watching Harry with an intoxicating mix of earnestness and that same underlying confidence. 

Louis knew he had ensnared Harry, it was Harry’s turn to be sure he never wanted to even look at Dimont or another man ever again. Harry had denied himself long enough. Louis was offering himself to Harry, and had done enough for Harry to let himself give in to the desire he had fought for so long.

Leaving behind the voice in the back of his head that was still worried about Dimont, and his own reputation amongst his peers should they find out, Harry leaned forward to place a tender kiss to the King’s lips.

The kiss was a foil to the kiss earlier in his study. This one was long and slow and Harry was letting himself explore Louis’ mouth in a way he hadn’t been able to earlier when overcome with the emotion of seeing him home again safe and sound.

Harry finally took control, reaching up to cup the King’s cheek and feel the scratch of his beard under the soft skin of his palm. Because he had been writing, he was sure he had ink on his hands, but based on the way Louis was pulling him closer into his body, testing the limits of the settee, Harry didn’t think he minded all that much.

“Please,” Louis begged. “I have waited so long to hold you.”

Harry grunted in reply as he climbed closer and closer until he was splayed across Louis’ lap, covering his body with his own. Louis’ hands immediately reached up to wrap around Harry’s waist. In no time at all, the buttons of Harry’s waistcoat were undone, and Louis’ hair was sticking out at all angles.

“Louis,” Harry moaned as he brought his hand down to cover the front of Harry’s breeches. He could barely feel the friction through the fabric.

Louis’ response was astounding. He grunted and leaned his head back against the wooden frame of the settee as his grip tightened reflexively. 

“Say it again,” he growled.

Realization dawned over Harry and he leaned in to whisper in Louis’ ear. “Touch me, Louis.” He teased his breath across the shell of Louis’ earlobe, and that was all it took for Louis to surge up off the settee to try and stand.

As well developed a soldier as Louis was, they were still a tangled mess of limbs as he propelled them towards the bed.

To compromise, Harry extricated himself from Louis and began to undress. When they had both disrobed, they fell together to the top of the mattress. 

Louis had torn the opulent coverlet from the bed, letting it fall to the parquet floor in a heap until there was nothing barring them from the softness of the linen beneath them.

While Harry tried to bring Louis down to him to press their chests together so he could finally feel Louis’ skin against his own, Louis was content to lean over him and watch him from afar. He traced the outline of Harry’s face, brushing his hair back until it created a halo around him on the pillows.

“I know I’ve said this, but I have long dreamed of this moment,” Louis whispered.

The happiness Harry felt could not be contained as he beamed up at Louis. “So have I. I meant it when I promised you I would think of nothing else.”

Louis let the path of his hands continued to wander until he was cupping Harry intimately beneath the linens, gathering Harry in his hand with long even strokes until Harry was begging for mercy. Leaning down to reconnect their mouths, Louis finally gave him the mercy he sought when he quickened his pace, letting Harry find his release.

Harry laid in the bed, overwhelmed with the way his chest was heaving and his skin singing and the settled feeling that came from finally lying with the person he loved.

Renewed in his determination to be certain Louis would never look at another man, he quickly flipped himself over until he was the one covering Louis’ body.

Slowly, he teased his lips down the sensitive side of Louis’ torso, feeling the muscles twitch as he tickled them with feather light sensations from his lips and tongue. When he reached his destination, he darted his tongue out as though he was going to tease Louis there as well. Instead of following through, Harry swallowed him down quickly, as far as he could. He held his arms across Louis’ legs to keep him in place as he twitched from the pleasure, instinctively trying to bury himself in Harry’s mouth.

Harry continued on that way, alternating between light feathery touches and long, deep strokes until he had the King at his mercy, mumbling obscenities and gripping the linens beneath him as he spilled himself down Harry’s throat.

As they lay back in bed, the King gathered Harry to his chest from behind and as they drifted off to sleep in the middle of the day, the King pressed his lips to the nape of Harry’s neck.

“Sleep, my darling Monsieur Harry.”

The weeks went on as the weather grew colder and the frost began to descend. Louis’ campaign had ended with the weather and he was wrapped up in all of the business he had left behind over the past six months. But no matter how difficult it was, or how many of his advisors were vying for his time, he always made time for Harry.

Bebe was thankfully supportive of them, as awkward as it was, but sometimes Harry wondered if when she looked at him all she saw was the gazelle she forewarned him about. 

Soon, Harry was spending more nights in Louis’ apartments than his own, and though he knew it was dangerous to grow so attached so quickly after trying to hold himself back for almost a year, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. 

Louis was too addicting, his personality, his view of the world, it was all seductive and energizing, and Harry was entirely gone for him. If he thought his mind had been preoccupied with Louis while he was away, it was nothing compared to how he felt after he knew what it was to lay with him.

There was always an edge to their meetings, though. The rest of the world had not caught on, as Harry hoped they wouldn’t, and as far as he knew none of Louis’ prior lovers had protested the idea that when Louis came home from his campaign he was simply uninterested in starting up again.

They were fortunate in that regard, but it meant that for Harry there was always a barely perceptible sense of doom as he waited for the first shoe to drop.

It took a little over a month. He and Louis were lounging in bed one afternoon while the children were out riding for what was possibly their last lesson of the year. Harry was face down in the bedding and Louis was tracing shapes across his shoulder blades, craning down every once in a while to replace the tips of his fingers with a light brush of his lips.

“Dimont came to me this morning,” Louis said forthright, interrupting their contemplative silence.

At the mention of the courtier’s name, Harry stiffened but did not move in an attempt to remain casual. He knew he had already pushed his limits in his demands of Louis, he didn’t want to cause any more hindrance or make it seem as though he was being too controlling of the King’s actions.

He lifted his arms up and crossed them underneath the pillow he was resting on, if only for something to do with his hands. “What did he say?”

Louis hummed a bit before pressing kisses into the creases made by Harry’s shoulder blades.

“He tried to seduce me, or at least arrange a time for us to meet. Concerned that I had not come to him since I had returned.”

It sounded like he wanted something specific, Harry thought a bit unkindly.

Louis shrugged and let his shoulders drop down until he was resting on the pillow facing Harry. “If I know Dimont, that means he wants something.”

Harry bit down on a smile, trying to maintain his even demeanor. He and Louis had fallen so easily into each other and were so very much in sync. Though part of him reacted viscerally to the idea of Louis knowing Dimont so well. Harry did not need to be reminded of that fact.

“And what did you reply?” he asked.

Louis reached up and brushed Harry’s hair back. “I told him that I wouldn’t need to visit him, because I had devoted myself to one person. And one person only.”

His lips were pursed as he smiled, his eyes shining and creasing at the corners, so exaggerated that it made his eyes almost completely disappear with happiness. It was difficult for Harry, in the face of such joy, to damper the situation with his own concerns.

“Did he ask who?” Harry had met Dimont originally through his contacts in academia. It was harrowing to think of the man turning around and sullying Harry’s reputation in those same circles.

“He did, and I didn’t answer. But I think he suspects.”

Harry’s heart sank and he buried his face in the pillow, groaning. He could feel the defensiveness grow within Louis even if he could not see him.

“Is it so terrible, then, being linked to the most powerful man in the country and most of the world?” Louis’ tone was biting and sardonic enough that Harry’s head shot up and he leaned over to place a lingering kiss on his lips. The King acquiesced, melting into him easily.

“No, I just worry that it will cause a rift and make everything more difficult for everyone,” Harry replied when they finally pulled apart.

Once again, as it wasn’t Louis who had anything to lose, Harry could tell that he didn’t quite understand his plight. “I love you. Surely that should be enough. We are entirely too besotted with each other that our love for each other becomes much too obvious to anyone who has seen it.” 

He looked so earnest that Harry could not bear to argue with him about it anymore. Instead, he shifted so that he was nestled in the crook of Louis’ arm and his cheek rested on his chest, listening to his hale and hardy heartbeat, thanking God that he had found Louis in the first place. No matter what happened.

1672

No sooner had Harry thanked God that Louis had not found him, when Louis himself burst into the door of Harry’s rooms.

“Harry?”

The sense of dread in his stomach was growing exponentially. His back was still to Louis, so Harry wiped his eyes and turned back around to see a crazy, harried King with hair that looked like he had run his fingers through it a few too many times in frustration. His waistcoat was buttoned unevenly as though he had dressed in a hurry. Almost as though someone had called for him as soon as Harry left Bebe’s room.

“Jacques,” he whispered under his breath, not sure whether to curse the footman or thank him for looking out for his well being.

“He told me you left, but you were too quick for him to see exactly where you had gone.” 

Louis shot him his signature disarming smile and winked at him as though it was all some strop Harry had thrown that would blow over with a few charming lines and well-placed kisses.

As if to do just that, Louis reached out to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry resisted, pushing out so that Louis couldn’t quite tighten them around him. When he realized that was Harry’s intention he dropped his grip as though he had been burned.

His gaze then traveled to the open portmanteau thrown haphazardly on Harry’s bed. It had been many, many years since Harry had tried to pack his own things without the help of a servant, so he had no idea if he was doing it correctly, but it was at the very least a symbolic gesture.

Louis took a more placating stance. “I’m sorry Dimont hurt you, Harry. I didn’t realize he would lash out in such a vile way. I’ve spoken to him and stripped him of his privileges while he is here at court.”

Harry stopped and turned to look at him in disbelief. “That’s unnecessary.” Louis truly still did not understand. He had been born into the monarchy, into nobility. The kingdom was his birthright. There was nothing he had to do to fight for himself or his place in the world. It was easy to forget that fact when he was so lovely and charming and curious about the plights of his people and made it very clear that he felt for them and wanted to fix anything he could.

But had never relied on his reputation to succeed in the world. Success had dropped itself in his lap.

“It may be unnecessary, but he hurt you, and I’m the King, and sometimes I enjoy being able to abuse the crown.” 

Again, he was trying to make light of the situation.

Harry took a deep, fortifying breath. “I need some time away.”

Louis’ face lit up, which had not been the reaction Harry expected. “The countryside is beautiful this time of year. It might be a little cold, but we can go for a few weeks. Escape the prying eyes of the court.”

Oh, no. He didn’t understand.

Harry felt as though Louis had taken his dagger and run him through. He was going to have to break Louis’ heart to do this. How could Louis make him do this? Force him to break the thing he treasured most in the world.

A small voice in the back of his mind—the embodiment of every insecurity he had ever had—taunted him, telling him that it meant he was setting Louis free, sending him back into the arms of his other lovers.

“Louis,” Harry’s voice broke. “I’m going away. Home.”

Louis recoiled in confusion. “To Paris? Why?”

Harry sighed and reached for Louis’ hand to draw him closer. Holding him would make what he was about to say monumentally more difficult, but selfishly he needed the comfort of Louis’ touch like he needed his next breath. “No, not to Paris. Home. To see my mother in Martinique.”

Harry was prepared for Louis to push him away but he didn’t. Instead, he crooked a finger under Harry’s chin and forced him to look up from where he had been fixated on their conjoined hands.

“I don’t understand. Will you be coming back?” It was a valid question, the crossing would take weeks, and it was incredibly dangerous. 

Harry’s tears were falling freely now. The same voice in the back of his head was amazed that he still had any tears left in his body after the night before.

All he could do was tell Louis the truth. “I’m not sure.”

Louis finally let go of Harry’s hands, stepping back as his expression hardened. “No. You can’t go, I won’t let you.”

“Louis—”

“Harry, it’s too dangerous. I know more than most how many men do not survive the journey. Merchant ships, immigrant ships. Disease. Storms. I receive reports all the time of people who have died crossing the water. You cannot go.”

Harry turned away from him rounding the bed until it was a large expanse between them. If he had been less upset, he might have laughed at the symbolism. “I am going. I miss my mother, I miss my homeland. This,” Harry gestured to the walls to encompass the whole palace, court, all of it. “This is too much for me to bear. Shall I spend my whole life as the King’s mistress? With no purpose? No occupation? Just the shadow in your bed every night?”

“I must have a Queen.”

Harry shook his head. “And she is the most wonderful person in the world. But what of me? All this whispering between courtiers, all of the intrigue. It’s not a life I want to live. I am meant for a world of books, of facts and figures, and language, and long hours hunched over a desk and ink-stained fingers. If I don’t have that then what am I?”

Louis grew more incredulous. “But I love you, is that not enough? The children love you. You are here for the children.”

Harry felt the tension leave him in one fell swoop, and soon the exhaustion began to set into his bones. “The children will grow and move on, the way they are meant to do. And I love you more than anything. If I had my way, I would stay by your side forever, but if I do that now the rest of the world sees me as your whore and nothing else. My academic reputation will be ruined.”

“I can say something, anything and they will publish your work any way you desire.”

The gesture of love did not go unnoticed, but Harry had planted his stake in the ground and found that he could not move it even if he wanted to. “That is no way to work, based on the love and desire of a King and not my own merit.”

When Louis had no more rebuttal, Harry turned his back on him and let himself drop down onto the modest bedspread as he looked out the window over the expansive gardens of the palace. They were so manicured and uniform. What he wouldn’t give for the overgrowth of vegetation that called to him from his childhood home. He needed to cleanse himself of this toxic life.

The room remained quiet for a moment before Harry felt the telltale dip of the down feather mattress underneath him.

Seconds later, he felt Louis press a kiss to the nape of his neck—his favorite spot even now—before wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him back until his back was pressed against his chest.

They sat there for a while, breathing with each other gently until Louis began teasing his fingers at the buttons of Harry’s waistcoat.

He knew what Louis was doing, or at least what Louis thought he was doing. He probably thought this was just a storm that he could weather until Harry returned to his normal temperate self again. Unashamedly eager for a release from the emotion of the day and all of the heavy decisions he had made, Harry let his body be plaint. Louis kissed down his neck, pressing heat and want and desire into his skin inch by inch.

Louis was going to try and lay with him to prevent him from leaving, and Harry was going to let him if only to let himself have one last taste of Louis before he left for good. He would not let himself be convinced.

Everything about Louis’ seduction was slow and steady as though he was testing the waters waiting for Harry to put distance between them once again. If Harry had been a stronger man, or if Louis had ever been less than what he was, Harry might have escaped. He wasn’t, though, and he let himself give in to the addiction of Louis’ mouth on his.

He was lying prone on the bed underneath Louis, giving him every inch that he asked for, their bodies coming together as naturally as breathing.

They had both managed to uncover their torsos enough that they could press as much skin together as possible without going to the trouble of removing everything entirely when there was a loud knock at the door.

It wasn’t often that the composed and gracious King went feral, but in that moment he did growl at the offending door.

“Your Highness?” Jacques’ muffled call came from behind it.

“Not now,” Louis ground out.

“I’m sorry, sire, I would not interrupt if it was not vitally important.”

Louis’ arms were braced over Harry as they lay together on the bed, and he looked down at him the conflict between Harry and his kingdom warring on his face.

“Go,” Harry urged, if only for his own sanity.

Louis hesitated for a few more moments before giving in. “You must not go anywhere until I return.”

Harry knew he was going to have to make his escape while Louis was out. “Very well.”

It was fitting for those parting words to be the first lie he ever told him.

Eight Weeks Later , 1672

Harry strode across the deck of the Aventurier breathing in the warm sea air. The closer they drew to land and to the bustling port of Fort Royal, the more the blood sang in his veins. They should reach land before dinner time.

The journey had been taxing. Much more so than he remembered from his youth when he was first sent away at fifteen. He could feel himself losing weight, and had physically needed to adjust his breeches to prevent them from falling off his hips. There had been a few minor storms and one major, but Harry had only gotten sick over those rough seas. For the most part, he had fared much better than many of the other passengers.

There was one other family of courtiers aboard, and Harry knew they had heard based on the way they looked at him. He briefly considered traveling under an assumed name if only to prevent Louis from having to deal with the shame of his lover abandoning him.

And he had abandoned him. It killed Harry, the miles between them. The first few days of traveling to the coast had been utter torture, and he barely left the carriage and then his cabin, needing the bereft solitude of four close walls and a tiny bed to curl up in to forget the rest of the world.

Perhaps that was why the seasickness had not bothered him at first. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered without Louis.

Over and over again he repeated his mantra of needing time, needing space even though his heart screamed at him to run back into Louis’ arms. 

Given the way he left, Harry wasn’t sure Louis would even take him back.

As soon as Louis had left his room to attend to whatever business drew him away, Harry had finished packing his portmanteau with as much as he could carry and passing it off to be loaded into a carriage before he ran to find Bebe.

Eventually, he located her in the Comte’s apartments. He apologized profusely to her for leaving her without a tutor for her children, but she understood that he was hurting. Something in her eyes told him she didn’t quite agree with his decision but at the very least she respected it. After that, there were more tears as he found the children in the stables and said goodbye to them separately.

The only person he didn’t say goodbye to from his new life was Louis.

He couldn’t.

Before he left for the southern coast, he sent word ahead to his mother but given the volatile nature of sea voyages, he wasn’t sure which would reach her first.

He breathed in a deep, cleansing breath again as the call rang out that land had been spotted on the horizon. He was home, this would be good for him, good for his soul. It had to be.

One week into his sojourn in his mother’s household, Harry broke down and wrote to Bebe. 

He wrote to let Bebe know that he had arrived safely and to let her know that he was thinking of her always, and he would cherish her friendship for as long as he lived. Never had he ever had a better friend than the wife of his lover. The whole thing was absurd in a way, but so special to him. He never would have survived falling in love with Louis without her.

Everything about his return had been lovely. There had been parties, and meals, and general merriment. But everything his mother did with him was tentative. He didn’t talk about it much, especially not in every salacious detail with his mother, but she knew he was suffering from a broken heart. He was certain that it wasn’t hard to decipher what ailed him. And he knew to some degree that he was guilty of moping around with nothing to do. In truth, he had not planned what he would do when he arrived.

Thankfully on a fairly small but bustling island like Martinique, there was always a need for teachers. When he was ready, he could find a position with any of the local schools, he was sure.

Which was why it was a bit of a shock when another week into his return, he received a summons from the governor, a man he had seen in passing but had not met before even though society on the island was small. He wasn’t well versed in who was who having been away for more than ten years.

It was a further shock to him when the governor invited him in for tea and said that he had heard of Harry’s return, knew of his infallible educational pedigree, then mentioned that his own children were quite young but were coming to the age when he would have to start finding them tutors anyway.

The man was amiable, his children and wife were lovely, and Harry gladly accepted the position, his spirits lifting for the first time since he had left the palace.

Later that evening as he was recounting the story to his mother, the facts began to seem suspicious to Harry. There was no reason for the governor to know so much about him and where he had studied or his previous positions. He was sure there had been rumors upon his return, but someone with that sort of power did not just offer a man a position teaching his children on the spot based on rumors.

Louis.

Harry didn’t know how he had done this, but it had to have been him. At first, Harry was livid. He was trying to maintain his distance from the crown, from everything having to do with Louis. He had no right to interfere or control Harry’s life from afar.

Soon, though, his anger cooled. He had only been back to the island for two weeks. That meant Louis would have sent word to the governor right after Harry left. There was always the possibility that he wasn’t trying to be controlling. It was much more likely, once Harry stopped to consider the possibilities, that Louis was merely trying to take care of Harry from afar by helping to secure him a position.

Conflicted and confused, Harry went in search of the cove he used to frequent when he was young. It was private, connected to his mother’s property, so when he arrived he stripped down needing to feel unconfined and free.

He slid down into the warm water, intent to let himself float as he let his mind wander, considering the possibilities.

It was his choice to leave, his choice to put this distance between them. But when he thought about Louis taking the time to secure him a position even after he had left him without saying goodbye, it made his heart flip.

He wished more than anything there was a way he could have it all, but that simply wasn’t possible.

Two months into his stay with his mother, four since he had left the palace, Harry received a letter from Bebe.

His mother knew that he held a position in the palace teaching, but it was one thing to know and another entirely to receive a letter from the Queen Marie-Thérèse d’Albanie addressed to her son so personally.

“My Dearest Harry,” the letter began. Harry’s heart warmed as he crossed the room to sit down and he began to read.

Soon, that warmth was replaced with an icy dread. After she updated him on the palace, the children, the various servants that wanted to say hello, she began to talk about Louis. Each word picked a scab that had not entirely healed yet.

The King was irritable, he was restless, he spent less and less leisure time around people. He had gone into a deep decline. But it wasn’t just Harry’s abandonment that had caused such a drastic change in demeanor.

Bebe was ill. “Dreadfully ill,” she said as she tried to play it off as though the physicians were being macabre and ridiculous. But Harry knew her, he knew her strength. If the illness was not serious, she would not have mentioned it.

There was a final page to her letter, but Harry was already shaking with nerves. He didn’t want to read it, but he could not leave it to be ignored.

“I did not want to write this part my dearest, but my Comte, he is being dreadfully pushy about it and insists. If something were to happen to me—”

One of Harry’s tears dropped on the paper and he rushed to blot it out so that he wouldn’t miss any of her words.

“If something were to happen to me, I need to know that the children will be taken care of, but my Comte he will stay with them. Louis insists. He is who I am truly worried about, dearest. You deserve every happiness in the world, and I know why you have gone home, but so too does Louis. The two of you belong together. I’m worried that if something were to happen to me, it would break him, send him back into the arms of the dreadful men here. The two of you belong together, and you belong here with the children. My children. I would trust them with no one else. Come home, my dearest. We did not know how much we had truly grown to depend on you until you were gone. You are sorely missed.”

By the time he was finished, he was openly weeping with enough force that his mother came back into the room and ran over to him to comfort him. She lowered herself down, gathering him in his arms until he could let the tension out of his body and lean on her.

Bebe. Gone.

Sudden panic struck him and he sat up straight again. She could die at any moment. As quickly as he had made the decision to come back to Martinique, he made the decision to go back.

His mother had been exceedingly patient with him upon his return and had not pushed him for his reasoning to return home, but as soon as he announced that he intended to return, she put her foot down and demanded the whole story.

Haltingly, as he stammered and his cheeks flamed, he told her the whole story from his arrival at the palace until the day he left. She took it all in stride and as he finished, she sat quietly for a moment, contemplating what he had told her.

Finally, she drew closer to him and took his hand in hers. 

“I understand why you want to go back. These people, they mean a lot to you. And I understand that you want to see the Queen to make sure for yourself that she is well. But, Harry, if you go back now will anything have changed?”

She searched his gaze, and he could see that she was unsure of what she found there. And he knew her concerns were not unfounded, it was true that he and Louis had not said anything to each other. He was going back to life at court. Nothing had changed, that would always be the case. But if these months away had taught him anything, it was that a life without Louis was unbearable and if anything happened to take Bebe away from them while he was halfway across the world, he would never forgive himself.

Even taking the very next boat back across the sea, it still took Harry seven weeks of tense, handwringing, and endless pacing across the deck to return to the southern coast. From there, he sent word to the palace of his return, but it was still another week by carriage until he reached the gates of the palace.

Again, the voyage had been difficult. Harry knew he must have looked haggard climbing out of the carriage when the Comte de Hainaut was there to greet him. But he was in good company, as the man himself was clearly not doing very well either. Harry could see the strength in him, but the pain was slowly overtaking it.

“How is she?” he asked, not wanting to beat around the bush.

The Comte paused before they entered the palace. “Not well. Neither of them is. One physically, one mentally.”

Harry knew what he meant. He had never felt closer to the Comte than at that moment. They were special, the people they had chosen to love. There was a certain solidarity in the depth of that love that was impossible to understand unless one had experienced it first hand.

“And the children?” Harry had missed the children desperately while he was away, and his heart ached for them most of all.

“As good as can be expected.”

They strode quickly through the halls with an innate sense of urgency that Harry was attempting to ignore. He had been trying for six or seven weeks to convince himself that the urgency was unnecessary, she would be fine.

As they entered her bedroom—five months after he had left that fateful morning—he could see that the situation was very grave indeed.

Bebe’s vivacity had been drained out of her. Lying on the bed covered in blankets despite the warmth in the air, propped up with pillows that the children were sharing with her, she looked small and frail. It was amusing to Harry when she was well that she was more than a head shorter than him, but she managed to fill up a room with her spirit. That was gone now.

For all that the mood should have been somber, she and the children were giggling together, and all three lit up when they saw Harry.

The children climbed down and came to greet him, hugging him tightly as the commotion began to settle down.

It was only when Harry looked up again that he saw him. Sitting vigil in a chair in the corner was the mighty King. Every piece of Harry’s body was so finely attuned to Louis, the man he loved more than anyone in the world despite everything, the hatred Louis must feel, the trepidation Harry did feel at being back again. None of that mattered to his heart when faced with him again. It lurched in Harry’s chest, revived, suddenly pumping again after months laying dormant.

Louis’ expression was flinty and severe, and he wouldn’t even turn to look at Harry.

Bebe’s gaze bounced between them before she landed on Harry, studying him scrupulously.

“Everyone away,” she cried out as forcefully as she could in her condition. “I must speak with Harry.”

The children quieted down and left with their father—their real father—but Louis lingered for a moment too long. Quelled by a sharp look from Bebe, he didn’t spare Harry a glance as he walked right past him to leave the room.

As soon as the heavy door fell shut behind him, she smiled. “He’ll come around.”

Harry sighed heavily, taking the invitation she offered by patting the open space next to her on the bed. When he was close enough to reach for her hand, he gripped it delicately. “I have missed you so.”

“I have assumed as much. Write one measly letter, and you seem to drop everything.”

Her joke startled a harsh chuckle out of him, and then another. Soon they were both doubled over with laughter, though hers dissolved into a harsh coughing fit. When she eventually took a sip of water and wiped her mouth with the handkerchief Harry provided, she tried to hide it but it came away from her mouth tinged with blood.

To head off his concern, she changed the subject. “We don’t have much time. I need to tell you this.”

Harry nodded, squeezing her hand as tight as he dared. 

“Stay,” she said fiercely, her eyes blazing. “Louis told me a bit about your concern—or as much of it as he understood himself—after I wrote to you. If you stay and something happens to me, I know I’ve said as much already, but I want you to take care of Louis and the children. My Comte, he will need looking after, but a different sort,” she chided. Her warning even in jest for him to stay away from her love in that manner was once again comical enough that they were giggling together. 

She grew serious once again. “As soon as I am gone, Louis will be able to wed again.”

Everything within Harry objected to the idea of Louis taking another Queen—that wasn’t Bebe—simply for show. But as he opened his mouth to say as much, she stopped him.

“I did some research with the help of the priest. Harry, it will not be easy. You will never be considered the consort. But, there is a type of union he can perform that will bind you and Louis before God. Invite the court so that they may see you joined together, or don’t. I cannot tell you what to do with your life. I can merely show you that there is a way.”

Her sentences wavered in strength and volume, but with every word, she said something akin to hope built in his chest. If only Louis would even acknowledge that he was there.

“It takes two people to join before God,” he pointed out as diplomatically as he could.

Bebe smirked. “He will come around. You have wounded his pride, my dearest. Give him some time.”

Harry leaned over to press a lingering kiss to her cheek before coming closer into her side. “Thank you for bringing me back.”

She leaned her forehead into his and they laid prone together on the bed for quite a while, drifting in and out of consciousness as she asked him questions about Martinique and his life growing up. Sometime later, Louis and the Comte returned with a servant to help Bebe bathe.

Harry climbed off the bed and took his place at the foot of it, standing as close to Louis as he dared without actually touching him as they stood together looking back at her. Their queen, wife, best friend, lying engulfed by bedding unable to move very much.

They left the room so the Comte could to tend to her. When they entered the anteroom, the room where they met for the first time, Harry stood awkward not knowing what to say.

Finally, for the first time since Harry had arrived that morning, Louis looked up and met his eye. His crystal blue gaze was devastatingly vulnerable in a way Harry had never seen before. 

Wordlessly, Louis dropped the eye contact and left the room. With nothing left to lose, Harry followed him. They reached Louis’ chambers quicker than they ever had before all those months ago. Months it had been since Harry had laid in this bed, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing below them in the ballroom.

The linens on the bed were different, but not unfamiliar. It dawned on him that Louis had somehow asked the servants to put the bedding from Harry’s old rooms on his own bed. He didn’t mention it.

In the quiet stillness of the evening, though there were still many hours until they usually retired, they reached for each other. Calmly, methodically, they helped each other disrobe until they were laid bare, facing each other as the light seeped out of the room.

Harry moved first, turning to climb under the coverlet and bury himself in the luxury of the King’s bedding.

He had not yet heard Louis move from his place at the end of the bed, and indeed it took another few heartbeats of silence before the down mattress dipped with Louis’ weight behind him. Harry didn’t flip over, not wanting to break the spell they were under, waiting breathlessly to see what Louis would do.

Searching fingers touched the skin of Harry’s naked hip, but he did not recoil, hoping the touch would appear. Louis reached around Harry fully to draw him in close.

Harry had maintained his composure as well as could be expected up until that point, but he finally broke apart at the carefully constructed seams when he felt Louis’ lips brush across the nape of his neck leaving tiny drops of wetness behind that chilled Harry’s skin immediately.

Four days later, Bebe was gone. 

In the waning hours of the fifth day, Harry and Louis vowed their lives to one another in a small ceremony. He would stay and take care of Louis and the children for the rest of his life. That was where he was meant to be.