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"Trust me," Connor told his wife, his hands at her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton of her shift.
"I trust you with certain things," Natasha responded bluntly. "With my life, with Grace's life... but I don't know that I can trust you with this."
Any other man might have sighed. Connor simply persisted, accustomed to the queen's reticence. "Then allow me to prove to you all the reasons you can, and certainly ought to, trust me with this matter."
"Allow you to prove yourself?" She repeated, a challenging smile playing on her painted lips. "Why Lord White, that implies I hold some modicum of power over you."
He chuckled lightly, and dropped to his knees in front of her. "You hold over me the greatest power of all. Love."
She hit him gently on the shoulder. "God help me, how did I end up married to a man who believes I can be won by poetic ramblings?"
"Oh, I am not trying to win you," he responded. "Why would I need to win what is already mine?"
Tasha threw back her head and laughed, baring the pale length of her neck. Her hands fell to his shoulders, gripping tightly.
Connor studied her. "As for how you ended up married to me, I believe you know that full well."
"No," she said softly with a smile, then knelt before him; he was taller than her once more. "Perhaps I require some reminding."
"And perhaps I am choosing to exercise my privilege as the man of the hour, to deny your request."
His eyes traced the shapes of her face: the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the proud set of her jaw, the incongruous softness of her lips. The fading sunlight illuminated her with a golden glow; she looked like an angel, or rather a goddess: all vengeance and cold, brilliant fury. So bright it hurt to look upon her.
"The man of the hour?" She scoffed. "Being born on this day twenty-two years ago, does not make you the man of the hour."
"Perhaps not," he admitted. "But it does entitle me to a birthday party, which frankly I believe we ought to throw tonight."
She arched a dark brow. "Why should we do such a thing? And so soon after..."
Natasha paused. He could read the hesitation in her eyes, the refusal to admit that her throne, her rule, had come under attack today. That the foundation of their world was threatening to be overturned.
"So soon after the poll?" He nudged her. "So soon after Lord Huntington decided to foment revolt in the courts that could lead to treason?"
Natasha groaned. "Must you mention that... that bastard of a baron? I have never liked the man, and now he has tempted me to execute him."
"But, if you took my advice, you could have the element of surprise before you ruin his life rather than end it," Connor persuaded.
Natasha pursed her lips; he could see years of isolation and stubbornness warring against her inherent pragmatism. In the end, she conceded. He stood and held out his hand to help her up; she used his grip to pull him back down. Connor landed on the oak floor next to her, tangled in a heap of limbs and fabric. Tasha laughed, and he with her despite the slight ache in his side that come from falling on the floor.
"Would it be so difficult for you to be kind to me on my birthday?" He asked. "One day out of the entire year..."
"I was being kind," she bantered. "I pulled you down to do this."
And then her mouth was on his, one hand on the back of his neck, her slender fingers sliding into his hair. Her mouth was soft, the skin of her shoulder smooth against his fingertips when he tugged at the collar of her gown. She tasted of strawberries and flour. He pulled away in surprise and also to keep their spontaneous kiss from generating less innocent actions. "Thank you," he said. "And when were you eating strawberries?"
She stood, and extended a hand to him this time. "When I was tasting your birthday cake, of course! Do get up now, or we'll be late for the party."
His wife did manage to always keep him on his toes.
• • •
Crystal goblets rested in the hand of every guest, and chandeliers' crystal droplets shone far above them, casting down fractals of radiant candlelight. Soft whispers filled the room, the sound of guests chattering amongst themselves. Steam from the warmth of the ballroom clouded the plate-glass windows, which allowed for views of the snow-dusted city buildings scattered over the valley sloping below the palace. Heavy, rich drapes—in navy blue, flecked with silver and fading to white at either end—were tied back at the side of each window with white cord. The courtiers congregated at the edges of the room, clearing a path for the royals to pass through.
"A toast!" Natasha raised her glass at his side. "To my wonderful husband, the father of my child, and the prince consort of Arlea on his twenty-second birthday. May you have countless more to come."
She gave him a conspiratorial wink as they--and the rest of the room's inhabitants--downed the champagne. The room filled with music as the orchestra began to play: the silky sounds of a violin, the low thrum of the bass, the smooth glide of a piano. Connor held out his hand to Natasha, keeping a close eye on Lord Huntington, the Baron of Abbotsford, from the corner of his eye.
"Would you care to dance, darling?" Connor held out his hand, initiating their plan while also planning on enjoying every moment of the festivities.
"I would quite enjoy a dance with you, Connor." Candlelight glanced off the crown on her head, off of Natasha's coils of hair woven into an intricate knot. The queen, to everyone else, may still have been a cold shrew, even if she wasn't a murderess. But to him she was warmer, more alive, more passionate, than anyone else he had ever known.
"Then let us dance."
The look in her eyes was scheming, challenges being plotted behind those dark eyes. He met them with a smirk of his own, just as Natasha deliberately stepped backwards... lurching out of Connor's arms and stumbling into one Lord Abel Huntington.