Then something unlocked. His palms came up slowly, finding her face, cupping her jaw. And he kissed her back.

Livia had meant it as a thank you. A simple, sincere, uncomplicated expression of gratitude that she had perhaps not thought all the way through before executing. A teaspoon of something sweet, freely given.

What she hadn’t accounted for was Richard. For Richard, a teaspoon of water handed to a man who has been wandering a desert is not a kindness — it is a torment. He felt the softness of her lips, held her close and he took thoroughly, deeply.

The kiss stretched beyond thank you, beyond any reasonable interpretation of the gesture she’d originally intended, until the only thing that separated them was the fundamental biological need for oxygen.

They pulled apart. Richard took several steps back. His back found the wall and he stayed there, chest rising and falling with more effort than a single kiss had any right to demand.

He was not, he would freely admit, a man built for restraint. Self-control was something other people were good at. Sensible people. Composed people. He had always found it faintly overrated right up until moments like this one, when the absence of it became genuinely inconvenient.

If he stayed close to her, he was going to do something she would regret. He was quite certain she would regret it.

"What—" His voice came out considerably less steady than he’d have liked. He cleared his throat. "What was that for?"

Livia, infuriatingly, smiled. "A proper thank you." She tilted her head, watching him flatten himself against the wall with what could only be described as amusement. One brow arched delicately. "Are you all right?"

"You have to go." He pushed off the wall, gesturing toward the door with urgency. "Now. Quickly."

Before I make a decision we’ll both have to live with. He kept that part to himself.

"Oh — okay. I’m sorry." Livia said and then she was gone — the door clicking shut behind her.

Richard stood in the silence she left behind. He groaned. He had been betrayed by his own fundamental nature. He pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes.

How. How was that possible. How could one person taste like that. That was the taste of at least three women, the same feeling you get when three women were all over you at the same time.

He dropped his gaze. His breeches confirmed what he already knew. His cock was at full attention.

That was precisely why she’d had to leave. Because Richard knew himself — knew the particular, inconvenient way his self-restraint functioned, which was to say barely and under ideal conditions, neither of which applied here. Another thirty seconds and he’d have made a decision that belonged entirely to him and not at all to her, and that was the one line he refused to cross regardless of how spectacularly his body was currently lobbying for it.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Repeated this several times. Then he grabbed his coat, shrugged it on with perhaps more aggression than it deserved, and headed for the door. He needed an alternative, urgently. Before his breeches became a matter of public record.

*****

Meanwhile, in Whitehall, specifically in the king’s room which according to Stephen’s increasingly concerned observations was beginning to smell predominantly of wine, Henry was in a state.

An absolute, incomprehensive, unstructured wreck of a state. He couldn’t concentrate on correspondence. The documents on his desk had been in the same arrangement for four days because engaging with them required a quality of focus he simply no longer possessed.

Stephen had taken to opening windows to let the air out. The whispers had started that he was unwell. The bolder version was his favourite,Lady Bella had infected him with his madness.

Which meant, as he pointed out to Lionel in a terse and pointed exchange that morning, that the town would have it by the week’s end.

They still had the rumour of the King’s inability to bed his mistresses as both Stephen and Lionel knew firsthand from reliable account was entirely false. His Highness had indeed bedded the woman from Pudding Lane. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Once. Since then — nothing. No one could help the king. God knew they had tried. Stephen had tried. Lionel had tried. The Lord Chancellor had tried. Even Theodora had attempted motherly concern.

Nothing worked. Henry could not be cheered up. Lionel was already on his way to find the Duke of Kingsmere, because if anyone could drag Henry out of his own head, it was Richard. Richard had the rare talent of being so thoroughly irritating that sorrow sometimes stepped aside just to avoid him.

Thankfully, everyone still believed the king was mourning the loss of his son. That grief was acceptable. A dead child gave people something noble to whisper about. It allowed Henry his silence, his wine, his hollow eyes, his sudden temper.

The city would collapse if they heard the truth. The King of England was pining after a woman from Pudding Lane.

A woman the court would call a harlot before they ever called her by her name. Stephen entered with the usual entourage carrying the king’s dinner. Two servants held covered dishes, another carried bread and fruit.

Henry looked up from his chair near the window. His hair was slightly disordered. His eyes were tired. A half-empty cup sat near his hand, and another lay abandoned on the floor where it had either fallen or been thrown. These days, Stephen no longer asked. "I’m out of wine, Stephen," Henry said. "Why do you bring so little?"

Stephen bowed his head. "I will see to it immediately, my lord."

The food was placed on the table in the room. Stephen pulled out the chair. Henry rose, stood steady then he swayed.

Stephen was beside him at once, close enough for Henry to use him as support without making it obvious to the servants. Henry’s hand gripped his sleeve, before he recovered.

Henry lowered himself into the chair.

(Brought to you by Mar King 3/3)