Benedict hunches to kiss me, his lips wild. He fucks me deep into the couch, as if he would imprint his possession on my body. He rages over me, and I’m quickly caught up in his passion. Licking, scratching, even biting as we writhe together, two bodies pressed and joined together, intent on becoming one.
“Frankie.” He grips my hair, tugging my head back. I meet his feral eyes. “Come with me,” he orders, with a sharp yank that sends a bite of pain singing through my scalp. The sting is swallowed immediately by the bliss growing in my body. “Come now,” he commands.
I do, my whole body seized and consumed by pleasure. He pumps himself into me, holding my eyes, then swallows my cry with his kiss.
We lie together, pressed chest to toe on the couch. He shifts to his side but keeps his body half covering mine. And I’m grateful for the weight.
But even as he falls asleep, his face tucked between my neck and shoulder, I know the truth. His scent mingled with mine, the soreness where he stretches me, the marks on my body from his rough kisses—they won’t stay.
We have this night. We might have tomorrow.
But we don’t belong together. I don’t belong with him. I don’t belong.
Winnie Bennett and Viscountess Cawthorne were right.
Frankie
When I wake up the next morning, Benedict is gone. He left a note in perfect cursive saying he’ll be back for lunch. I make my way to the dining room, where we’ve been taking our meals. Daniel is waiting there.
“Sleep well?” he asks softly.
I shrug and head to the sideboard. Instead of the usual array of newspapers beside the franzbrötchen and puddingbretzel, there’s only the Financial Times.
“Where are the papers?” I demand, turning to Daniel.
He looks uneasy.
“I can always go out and buy one.”
“Not if you don’t want to start a riot,” he says, and I wince.
“That bad?”
He sighs and pulls a stack out of his smart leather satchel. I wait until he’s spread them out and then approach them all at once.
It’s bad. Very bad. The scandal equivalent of a nuclear meltdown. My face and Benedict’s are plastered on every front page. Sometimes Chadwick’s headshot dances between pictures of the two of us.
According to the more respectable papers, I’m a social climber with ‘provincial roots’. According to the more sensational ones like ‘Redux’ and ‘The Daily Knot’, I’m a money-grubbing whore, and possibly an American spy seducing powerful men for their secrets. There’s no direct quote from Chadwick, but his father, Lord Cawthorne, made a statement: We stand in support of Her Majesty and her government. We have no association with Ms. Beaumonde, nor do we wish one in the future. Brief but vague—but any opinion from a newly minted Viscount holds weight.
The real damning stuff is the statement by Franz: My brother is a smart man. Too smart to fall for someone like her. One column quoted someone who speculated that our relationship was a publicity stunt, but mostly, the reporting seemed to waver between casting Benedict as a cold diplomat finally brought low, or a poor sod who was fooled by a pretty face and a ‘generous rack’.
“We’ll file lawsuits,” Daniel says smoothly. “Libel, slander.”
I rub my forehead. “Won’t that make it worse? Stir up more scandal?”
“Frankie,” he takes my hand and tugs me away from the papers, “there’s no way to stir up more scandal. We’ve hit the max.”
Not if someone digs out Benedict’s secret. I bite my lip to keep from blurting this out. Daniel probably knows about Benedict’s bastardy.
“This is awful,” I whisper. “This is the worst possible thing that could happen.” I pull my hand out of Daniel’s gentle grip. He’s trying to soothe me; I don’t deserve to be soothed. “This is the opposite of what you wanted. I was supposed to help!”
“You did help. Frankie, this is a fluke. The paparazzi loved you.”
“Until they didn’t.”
“Well, yes.”
“I should’ve told you about Chadwick. I honestly didn’t think it would come up. I’ve never told anyone about what happened. Not even my family. Only Benedict, last night.”
“I understand,” Daniel says gently. But he deserves to know the full story, so I give him an abbreviated version. When I’m done, his dark eyes glitter.
“You should have told us. Not because of the scandal. But so we would stand by you. Frankie,” he catches my shoulders to turn me towards him, “we stand by you.”
“Thank you.” I collapse in his arms, getting a hug I didn’t know I needed.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “We care about you. We could have made plans to publicly shun the Cawthornes.”
I stiffen, and he squeezes me tighter before letting me loose and adding, “Benedict still might”
I rub my arms as I step away from Daniel, suddenly cold. Benedict, Chadwick, the Cawthornes, Franz—it’s all such a mess. I can’t get my head around it.
“So what now?” I hope Daniel has a plan.
“Now we wait. Benedict was called to the palace. An early audience with the queen.”
I bite my lip. That’s bad.
“Chin up, Frankie.” Daniel doesn’t leave it to chance—he reaches out and lifts my chin with a finger. “It might not be so bad.”
I bite my lip, and nod. I fake a small smile—but neither Daniel nor I are fooled.
Benedict
I’m waiting in a green room adjacent to the queen’s main parlor, awaiting an audience with her. My aunt is closeted with her cabinet and closest advisors. They were scheduled to meet anyway for budgetary concerns, and planning to make the line of succession official. It’s just bad luck this scandal broke this morning.
Last night, I woke in the wee hours and couldn’t get back to sleep. I carried Frankie to our bed—we’d passed out on the couch after our glorious fuck—and sat for hours in the grey gloom, watching her sleep.
I didn’t need to read the papers this morning to know how bad it would be. Daniel will do his best to mitigate the worst, but a crossroads is becoming increasingly clear:
Give up Frankie, or lose everything. Let down the queen, my aunt, and my entire country.
I rub my forehead, then glance at the two palace guards guarding the door. I smooth my suit, trying for some composure. The air in the palace is heavier today.
The sound of scraping chairs tells me it won’t be long now.
“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” my aunt’s cultured voice carries through the door.
One of the guards opens the door in anticipation and a few seconds later the queen walks through.
“Benedict,” she says. Her skin looks papery and pale, her eyes tired. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her how she’s feeling, and invite her to sit.
Instead, I bow and wait for the blow.
“I trust you know why I called you here this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She tilts her head back to the room she just left. “They’ve spent the morning telling me this is proof you’re unfit to lead.”