His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Chapter 137: She Was The Strict One

Livia searched his face. "You truly believe that?"

"I do." He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. "You are not a shame I am bringing home...You are the woman I am choosing."

The carriage rocked gently beneath them. Livia looked down at their joined hands, trying to breathe around the ache in her throat.

"And your mother?" Livia asked.

Richard’s thumb paused where it had been stroking slow circles over the back of her hand. "Now that," he said, "is where you might have gotten some pushback."

Livia shifted slightly in the carriage, watching him. "She won’t like me?"

"Oh, she would have liked you eventually. But she would have been the same with any woman. I am afterall her only child." Richard smiled faintly. "She was the strict one. My father is strict too, but level-headed. She would have thrown a total tantrum first, of course. My father would have paid heavily for it."

"She sounds frightening."

"She was." His smile turned quieter. "And wonderful."

"You keep saying was."

Richard looked at her. "She is late."

"Oh," Livia whispered. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know that."

They settled into silence for a while. Richard’s hand returned to hers. Then Livia’s brows drew together.

"How did you know my name?"

Richard’s eyes flicked to hers. "What?"

"My actual name...Livia."

Something cold moved through him. He had been too careless.

Damn it.

She watched him closely. "You said Livia or Diana."

His face failed him as he swallowed. "Did I?" Richard asked.

Livia lifted her head just enough to look at him. "Yes, you did. I never told you...You never gave me the opportunity to."

"I..." he began.

Nothing came.

Damn it.

"I..." he tried again. "From Beaumont," he finally said, reaching for the most plausible answer he could find. "Someone must have said it at Beaumont’s. I do not quite remember."

Livia’s gaze remained on him. "Hmmmm..."

Richard felt sweat gather beneath his collar. Then, to his surprise, she settled back against him, placing her head on his shoulder as if the answer had satisfied her. He closed his eyes briefly.

Coward.

He could have told her right then and there. The truth had opened its door and invited him in, and he had chosen the alley behind it instead. His arms tightened around her, pressed his mouth to her hair and hated himself a little more.

*****

Henry arrived at the Lord Chancellor’s house with his usual entourage, the one he used whenever he was not moving through London in disguise.

The entire street seemed to wake at once. Lord Langford hurried out to meet him in the drawing room, having moved with impressive speed for his age.

"Your Highness!" Lord Langford bowed deeply.

"Lord Langford," Henry said, offering the smallest smile. "How are you?"

"I am well, Your Highness." The older man straightened, still clearly trying to understand why the King of England had come all the way. "My lord, you could have sent for me."

"I thought it best to come myself. This could not wait," Henry said.

Geoffrey gestured toward the chairs in the living room. "Please, sit."

Henry sat. Geoffrey settled opposite him.

"What can I do for the Crown, Your Majesty?"

"The ambassador to France," he said. "I want him replaced."

Geoffrey paused. Surprise first. Calculation second. Concern third. "Well, uh..." Geoffrey cleared his throat. "Has he done something wrong, Your Highness?"

Of course. That would be the first question. Henry had known it would be. So He had spent the day preparing.

Researching.

Covering every base.

Making sure his order looked legitimate enough to pass under the nose of any councilman, bishop, foreign envoy brave enough to question it.

The fact that the idea had been born from jealousy was irrelevant.

"Hasn’t he?" Henry asked. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper. He placed it on the table between them. "Take a look at his work in the past year."

Geoffrey picked it up slowly.

"Trade concessions delayed," Henry said. "Port access softened in France’s favour. Wool tariffs argued with less enthusiasm than they deserved. Maritime terms left vague."

Geoffrey’s gaze moved down the page.

Henry continued. "Whose side is he on, Geoffrey? England’s or France’s? If not for your constant push, half of what we are getting in this treaty would have slipped from our hands while our ambassador smiled politely."

Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. "He is experienced," Geoffrey said at last.

"I need intelligence, loyalty."

"He is not as young and sprightly as he used to be," Geoffrey said carefully. "We all are not."

Henry’s mouth curved. "Exactly."

Geoffrey immediately regretted speaking. He knew, with painful clarity, that he had just placed the final brick into a wall meant to trap someone. This was one of those moments. He understood he had walked directly into Henry’s chosen path.

"Which is why," Henry continued, "we need someone young. Efficient. Charming."

Geoffrey sighed. He already knew who was on the king’s mind. There were only a few men in England who could be called charming by the king, his son was one of them.

"Your Highness..."

"The Duke of Kingsmere," Henry said.

Geoffrey closed his eyes briefly. "Your Highness, people will talk. People already think he received Kingsmere because he is my son."

Henry’s eyes cooled. "He received Kingsmere because the estate was near ruin and needed a man I trusted to bring it back to order."

Geoffrey heard the past tense. Trusted. His gaze lifted, searching the king’s face. "Your Majesty...this will look like favouritism."

"I don’t care about people. I want a good job done."

Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. He could argue. He could ask more questions. He could delay. The current ambassador was weakening English interests, and Richard, damn the boy, did possess the exact talents Henry had listed. Geoffrey rubbed a hand over his brow. "Your will be done, Your Highness."

"Thank you. When can this be arranged?" Henry asked. "I want him to leave for France as soon as possible."

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