To her, he was only a royal and well-mannered Beaumont. A gentler voice. Finer clothes. A crown instead of a whip.
They entered the palace through a side door, leaving the garden's shadows for candlelit corridors. Their footsteps echoed softly through the halls. Henry walked ahead while Livia followed with the shawl drawn close over the indecent fall of her gown.
Henry noticed almost immediately that as they walked, the passing servants and guards on duty could not help but steal glances at Livia.
The shawl did little to help. It covered her shoulders, yes, but not enough of the dangerous dip of the bodice or the soft swell of her breasts. Every step shifted the fabric. Every candle they passed seemed to find another inch of her to expose.
A passing footman's gaze slipped, then dropped in terror when he realised the King had seen him.
Henry stopped so abruptly that Livia crashed into his back.
