His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Richard arrived at the ball early. Far too early. He had mixed feelings about the Langford name being placed behind the king’s bride. Mixed was perhaps too gentle a word. The feeling was more like swallowing glass. Livia, once Diana in the life he had built around her, would be presented tonight beneath his father’s protection.

Whatever he felt about Henry, whatever bitterness still lived in him, he would support Livia. Quietly, if that was all he could manage. From a distance, if that was all she needed. But he would be there. Tonight, if anyone sneered within his hearing, the Duke of Kingsmere would remind them that the Langfords had teeth.

His name and title were announced at the entrance.

"The Duke of Kingsmere."

His father turned at once. Lord Chancellor Geoffrey Langford crossed the hall towards him, dressed with his usual severe elegance. His face showed surprise first, then pleasure. "Richard...I did not think you would wish to come. Certainly not this early. There is hardly anyone here yet."

Richard looked around the great hall. His father was right. Servants moved between tables and walls, correcting what was already perfect. Musicians tuned softly near the raised end of the room. Footmen stood near the doors. "I bring my support along with me,"

"Thank you."

"I am not doing this for the king."

"And yet," Geoffrey said, "it is he who receives the benefit of your generosity."

"Sadly and unfortunately."

Geoffrey ignored that.

Richard looked past him. "Where is the future Queen of England?"

"She is being attended by Mrs Crowe," Geoffrey said. "She will come out when most of the guests have arrived. She must make an entrance."

"She never needed help doing that."

Geoffrey gave him a warning look. Richard pretended not to see it. His father stepped closer and lowered his voice. "A very important note for the evening."

"How promising."

"Stay away from her."

Richard gave only a grunt in response.

"I mean it."

"I heard you."

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. "Richard."

"Lighten up, Father," Richard said. "It is a ball, after all."

Geoffrey did not look reassured. "Your intended will be here soon."

Richard’s face cooled.

Ah.

The other arrangement. His future duchess.

"I expect you to be on your finest behaviour," Geoffrey continued.

Richard smiled. "I shall not disgrace the Langford name."

The sarcasm in the words gave Geoffrey a headache.

"You will help me welcome the guests."

Richard turned slowly. "Must I?"

"Yes."

"For goodness’ sake, you know how the mothers will begin parading their daughters before me."

"Exactly," Geoffrey said. "I want you to stand there and show them you are not the man you used to be."

Richard looked at his father then. Which man was that? The reckless one? "I would beg you not to be certain of that,"

Soon, the guests began to arrive. The Langford hall filled by degrees, with the growing swell of voices and music. The musicians had taken their places, and a lively measure began to move through the chamber while servants passed between guests with wine and trays of small delicacies.

Richard stood near the entrance beside his father, stiff as a man awaiting sentencing. "Welcome to Langford House," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Please enjoy the evening."

A baron bowed. A countess smiled. Three mothers had already angled their daughters towards him and one young lady had curtsied so low Richard feared she might remain there until Advent.

The hall continued to fill. Candles blazed in sconces and chandeliers. The floor reflected the movement of gowns. Wine cups flashed. Fans opened and closed like wings.

A young lady stopped in front of him. "Your Grace."

Richard bowed. "Welcome to Langford House. Please, go ahead and enjoy yourself."

"My name is—"

"My lady," Richard said, already looking past her towards the next arriving guests, "I must welcome others."

"My name is Seraphina Morley," she said.

"Morley?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Are you related to the Earl of Morley?"

"My father is the Earl of Morley."

"Good for you."

Her brows rose. The young lady’s mouth tightened. "I am supposed to be marrying you."

"You are my intended?" he asked.

At last, he gave her his full attention. She stood before him in a gown of cream silk, modestly cut but beautifully made. Her hair was fair, arranged with elegance beneath a few pearl pins. She was small in build.

"I thought you would know that," she said.

"My father handles marriage matters."

"So I gathered."

Richard inclined his head. "I have been occupied."

"a man should at least be familiar with the name of the woman he intends to spend the rest of his life with."

Richard studied her. She did not simper. There was hurt in her face but she held it with discipline. She had pride. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.

She curtsied. "Have a pleasant evening, Your Grace."

Richard gave a small bow and watched her walk into the hall. The crowd parted and swallowed her gently. A young woman joined her, whispering something, but Seraphina only gave a faint smile and accepted a cup of wine from a passing servant. She did not look back. Richard kept watching anyway.

His father had indeed chosen a knockoff of Livia. Seraphina did not have Livia’s foreign brightness, that impossible Florentine glow that seemed to make every English room look slightly underlit. Seraphina’s beauty was softer.

But the resemblance was there.

The hair.

The eye colour.

The height.

The graceful build.

Geoffrey had not merely chosen a suitable bride. He had chosen a reminder. Richard shook his head.

What, in God’s increasingly questionable wisdom, had the old man been thinking? Why in heaven’s name had he chosen a woman who resembled Livia?

Perhaps Geoffrey had meant to hand him a version of the woman he could not have. If so, his father had badly misunderstood how hearts worked.

A heart was not a wardrobe. One did not lose a doublet and replace it with another of similar colour.