"Don't bother doing that. You cooked, so I'll clean." She paused after having said that, her head down, and when she spoke again, her voice was tight. "That's the arrangement William and I had. Whichever one of us cooked didn't have to clean. Of course, he would clean as he went along, and I would leave the poor man with a kitchen that looked like a bomb went off in it."

  She trailed off and just stood there forlornly, tears trailing down her cheeks. Douglas's heart clenched painfully at the sight of her looking so sad. He quickly relieved her of the things she'd collected to bring to the kitchen, then brought her back into the dining room with him to hold her on his lap.

  "Don't worry about the cleanup, honey. I'll do it," he whispered, desperately wanting to soothe her. Douglas rubbed her back and kissed the baby fine hair at her temple, then seized on something that might make her laugh, or at the very least, indignant—sometimes the two were one and the same. "Do you actually know how to cook now? Real food, even, minus the ptomaine?"

  His volley had just the right effect on her. She smacked his shoulder and pouted at him, although her eyes still sparkled with unshed tears. "Yes, I do—not, you know, chef class cuisine, but neither of us wanted to eat that kind of thing, anyway. Neither of us had a chef working for us when we got here, so we determined to learn together."

  "That sounds like an excellent idea. You'll have to cook for me sometime."

  Then she did something that he hadn't expected. His strong princess—who was strong enough to walk away from everything she'd known, to marry a man no one wanted her to marry, and leave her homeland and everyone and everything she was familiar with for a very different kind of country, and an even more different lifestyle—pressed her face against his neck and began to sob, whispering in a watery voice, "I miss him so."

  As soon as he realized that she was crying, he closed his arms much more tightly around her, crooning, "Oh, my poor sweetheart," to her as he stood and carried her back into the living room. He stretched out on the surprisingly wide couch, tucking her in next to him and still holding her tight. He certainly hated to see her cry, even when he'd caused her to do so due to his own attentions. But he wasn't a man who fell apart when a woman cried. He'd had two sisters, and he knew how to deal with a woman who was in tears. Lots of men—even some he knew—would run screaming away, rather than try to do anything about what was causing her tears, or even just try to comfort her through it.

  His sisters, who were both also strong women, had taught him that he didn't need to do anything more than provide a safe, warm place for her to cry. And that was exactly what he did for his Charlotte. He didn't try to get her to stop crying by promising her baubles or extravagant presents. He didn't get angry or resentful that she was overwhelmed with grief, regardless of how long it had been. He knew that this had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the loss of her husband. And even though that wasn't the most comfortable subject for him to deal with, it was certainly something that was important to her—that was hurting her at the moment—and that was all he needed to know to prompt him to do what really took him the least possible effort and was hardly a chore to him. He just held her, whispering soothing things into her hair, squeezing her arm and hugging her tightly.

  In fact, he was honored that she—who wasn't one for histrionics or dramatics or throwing fits and crying every five seconds to get her way—trusted him enough to reveal the depths of her grief.

  Charlotte couldn't believe how she'd just crumbled on him! That wasn't at all like her, and when the tears subsided, her eyes flickered to his sheepishly. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry for doing that."

  "Not a-tall, darling," he said with the slightest Irish lilt.

  "Still, I don't want to impose—" She made as if to get up but found he wasn't willing to let her go.

  His voice was a husky whisper. "You couldn't impose on me if you tried, darling. That sounded as if it had been bottled up for a while."

  "It… it had been." His closeness, the ease with which he coped with her excess of emotions, made her feel more open to him than she probably should have. "I was… we were very insular, the two of us. We kept to ourselves most of the time because that was how we wanted it to be." The tears returned, but she didn't acknowledge them, and neither did he, except in the way he began to slowly rub his hand up and down her back. "Wh-when William died, I was all alone, for the first time in my life, really. I mean, I grew up around the court, and then Stephan became king, and I lost him, and then all of the mess with Sarah. And we had a wonderful life together, but it was built around him, and now he's not here and I'm so alone."

  "Oh, honey," he murmured. "It must have been so hard for you."

  Charlotte sniffled loudly, feeling very embarrassed at having confessed such things to him. She tried to lift herself away from him again, noting how warm he was beneath the hand she'd laid on his chest, but he wouldn't let her go very far. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry," she said, flushing unbecomingly and snuffling loudly again.

  Douglas ignored her apology and produced a fine linen handkerchief, embroidered with his family crest in two corners, and his initials, as Duke, in the others, which she accepted gratefully.

  "I had never felt the rift between myself and my family—my home—more acutely in my life, and yet, I know that I only have myself to blame for that. I didn't feel that I could tell my own sister about the death of my husband, and not one member of my family came to his funeral. That's not right, and I know that it's my fault, too."

  His low, soft, "Baby," at once soothed her and put her slightly on alert with its subtle, chiding edge. "You were well within your rights to do what you did. Your sister practically shoved you out of the country herself by forcing you into having to make a horrendous choice, and you made the one that was right for you. If I were in your place, I would have done the exact same thing."

  She was amazed to hear him say that. "You would?"

  "Yes." He was so emphatic that she believed him. "I could no more have allowed anyone to tell me who I was going to love than you could. What the queen—and her ministers—did to you was absolutely wrong."

  He certainly sounded as if he meant it, but he'd also defended the queen to her, so she wasn't quite sold on the idea.

  "If your sister had told me that I couldn't see you, I would have left my sword and my uniform in the throne room and taken you away with me."

  Charlotte swallowed hard and blinked back tears. "She would never tell you that. She was always throwing you at me. At times I almost wanted to tell her that we were involved, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction."

  Douglas's clear eyes met her still cloudy ones. "I didn't know you were involved with William until you told me that you were leaving."

  Charlotte shifted a little nervously. "It was… a different kind of involvement with him."

  "Obviously, it was a deeper one than we had, or you had, anyway." His body had tensed as it lay against her. "Silly me. When I met you that last time, I had an engagement ring in my pocket."

  She hadn't known that and gasped out loud when she heard it. "No, you didn't," she whispered.

  But Douglas nodded solemnly. "I certainly did."

  He was so wrapped up in his own painful emotions that he let her get away from him. Charlotte ran into the only room in the house that had a lock on it—the bathroom. She didn't bother to turn on the shower or the faucet to try to drown out her sobs. It wasn't as if he didn't know that she was crying. She'd been sobbing on him all morning.

  For a long few seconds, Douglas remained where he was, caught up in the strongly remembered emotions that were coursing through him. But then he rose and came to lean his arms against the doorframe. He'd heard the lock click into place, so he didn't bother to try the knob. "Come out to me, Charlotte." He said it in a soft, serene way that nevertheless managed to convey to her that he intended to be obeyed.

  She was too busy wallowing in how she'd managed to screw up so many lives merely because she loved a man. Two men, her mind corrected viciously for her. But she pushed that thought to the back of her brain, where it belonged. She'd chosen the one who needed her the most at the time, and if she had the same thing to do again, she wouldn't do anything differently, despite what Douglas had just revealed to her.

  Hearing her weeping so piteously and not being able to help her in any way was going to kill him. "Charlotte, open the door, honey." This time he sounded much more coaxing, although she had no doubt that he was going to lose patience with her shortly. Douglas meant to be obeyed—whether it was by the men who served under him or the women he put under him.

  Knowing she was already in enough trouble and not wanting to add to it, she rose from where she'd been sitting on the edge of the tub, saying in an atonal voice, "Just a minute," knowing that that would put him off for a bit before he realized that she still hadn't done as he'd asked.

  She stood in front of the mirror and looked at her face. It wasn't too bad, considering her age. She was no spring chicken anymore, but she still had relatively few lines on her face. Her eyes—when they weren't nearly swollen shut from crying—were clear and bright, and her hair was long and silky, one of the few things about herself that she really liked. And William had loved it.

  Charlotte splashed some cold water onto her face, then dried it with a towel before she turned to unlock the door and open it. What she did then was totally unplanned; there was no involvement of her forebrain at all in what happened. She simply walked forward until she couldn't any longer because she'd run into the brick wall that was him and wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him as if he was the only solid thing in her world.

  It was the bald truth that he was, and she needed to be near him—she craved it. Who was she kidding? She craved him and everything he could—and did—do for her. Having seen him again, the desire for him that had never really been very tamped down within her, as much as she hadn't allowed herself to think about that fact for years, had been rekindled into an inferno. Charlotte wanted to stick herself to him like glue, to cling to him like a limpet, and the power of those thoughts scared her a bit. She'd never been the needy type, and she didn't want to become it just because she was lonely.

  But it wasn't just that. This was him—Douglas—and she couldn't shove aside the feelings that he inspired in her that had nothing to do with their physical relationship, either. He'd been more than just her lover and her dominant. He'd been her advisor, encourager, and sometimes—gentle—critic. He'd always been completely honest with her, and she'd never once sensed that his involvement with her was disingenuous or that he was only pursuing her for what he could get out of it. She'd been in that position before, and she knew down to her core that he was not that kind of person.

  She didn't want to cram that all back down inside her to be studiously ignored. Apparently, he was willing to forgive her for what she'd done to him—which she would have bet he'd never do, and that was one of the reasons she'd not gone back to her native land after William passed. She couldn't bear the idea of seeing the inevitable and wholly understandable censure in his eyes. And because of his grace, she was more than willing to indulge herself with him for as long as he was willing to stay.

  This did not mean, though, she vowed to herself, that she was going to go back with him, when and if he went. She wasn't. She was just going to avail herself of his incredible body and mind while he was offering them. She'd never thought she'd see him again, and the sight of him only reinforced just how much she'd missed him. If he left, she'd be devastated, but then, that was probably the most karmically balanced thing that could happen. She could ask him to stay, as he had asked her, and it would kill her to do it, but she wouldn't beg or wheedle or threaten him to get him to do so, as he hadn't done to her.

  Douglas couldn't believe that she was standing there in his arms, hugging him tightly and practically wrapping the rest of herself around him. He wasn't sure he could move with her arms and legs holding him where they were, so he put his hands beneath her butt and lifted her up, so her legs were around his waist, and walked them into her bedroom.

  At least he knew right where it was now. This time was very different from the last. The edge had been taken off—somewhat—and he was determined to take his time with her. What followed was the most romantic encounter she'd ever had. Douglas had put her down in the bedroom but wouldn't allow her to move away or even undress herself.

  When her hands went to the belt of her robe, he put his over hers and looked down into her eyes, whispering, "Let me serve you, princess."

  She had to smile at that. He would make a horrible submissive, but just the idea that he wanted to do that for her was amazing, although she knew it was entirely in the spirit of a dominant wanting to take care of his submissive than any desire to be one himself.

  He came to stand behind her, pulling her against him and nuzzling the sensitive nape of her neck before he began to run his fingers through her hair. "I love your hair long."

  "William…" She stopped, figuring he really didn't want to hear much about his rival.

  "William what?" he prompted, to her surprise.

  "He asked me to grow it out. And since I was no longer going to be constantly photographed and my wardrobe and hair choices examined to within an inch of their lives, I agreed. It's not as long as it has been. At one point, it was down to my butt."

  She heard his sharply indrawn breath. "I would pay a lot of money to see that, little girl." He really did like it. For long moments, Douglas seemed entranced with her hair, winding it around his arms, brushing his fingers down the length of it, and twisting it into a rope that could easily have become a bun. "Very beautiful."

  "Stop," she whispered in embarrassment.

  "No, you stop. You've always been beautiful."

  Charlotte shrugged, eyes downcast. "I don't often feel that way."

  His voice was sex itself, mesmerizing and tantalizing both her brain and her body with its rich, velvet sound. "Well, then, that is a tragedy of truly epic proportions. You should always have someone reminding you that you're the most beautiful woman in any room."

  Still, she had to chuckle at that. When she was younger, perhaps, she tried to be like that. As a princess, how she looked and what she wore and her hairstyles and what she said and did were all fodder for everyone in the realm to critique. But now, she just wore comfortable things around the house, and she wasn't even sure that she could manage to function under the scrutiny that always befell the Royal Family. She'd felt the pressure then to be perfect and had never quite measured up to that, and now she was even less capable of it and less interested in trying to live up to others' standards, too. She had discovered that it was pretty damned good not to be the object of everyone's attentions—except his, of course.

  He didn't strip her clothing off—such as it was—but instead, he gathered her hair again and moved it to the front of her, to make it fall down her chest, lowering the neckline of both her robe and her nightgown enough to expose first one shoulder, then the other, teeth delicately nibbling her skin, mock biting her, but only allowing her to feel the very edges of his teeth, then kissing his way to the other side to give it the same treatment.

  Charlotte wanted to stomp her feet with the power of the delicate sensations he was deliberately inspiring that were driving her crazy. Her nipples were so taut, they were actually painful, and she knew that her essence would soon be running down the inside of her leg unless he stopped. And she had a feeling that he would have interest in doing so for quite some time. When he'd finished with her other shoulder, he leaned forward and nibbled the point on her upper back where both sides converged with her neck, and she shuddered, hard.

  Douglas couldn't hide a satisfied smile. "Feel good?"

  Her only answer was a low, guttural groan.

  He came to stand in front of her, somehow managing to arrange her garments so that she was bare to the waist, but was still—technically, at least—wearing both of them. It probably had something to do with the artful way he tied her belt, which was not so much around her waist as around her waist and her arms, trapping them very neatly at her sides while leaving her entire chest bare.

  Charlotte couldn't help but blush. Because of the intense way he was looking at her breasts, she felt an urgent need to cover them, but couldn't. However, her, "Douglas, let me go," completely lacked any sense of urgency.

  His eyes met hers. "And if I let your hands go, my dear, what would you do with them, hmm?" He was walking slowly around her, massaging here, exploring there, and keeping her entire body at a very heightened level of sensation.

  "C-cover my breasts," she whispered.

  He nodded. "That's what I thought you would say."

  He was in front of her again and stepped forward to cover the part of her she'd mentioned with his own hands, making her give a startled yelp and take a step away.

  A male eyebrow rose, the one that meant that she was—potentially—in trouble. "I know it's been a while, but are you allowed to move away from me, darling?" he asked in a conversational tone.

  She shook her head while biting her lip as his thumbs found and brushed over her nipples experimentally. Charlotte's eyes drifted shut and she moaned out loud as he touched her.

  Douglas chuckled softly. "Don't melt into a puddle of goo just yet, honey. We've barely started." His fingers began to pinch those same nipples, hard. "Now, what do you think you should do as soon as possible to avoid being taken over my lap?"

  "But…" she sighed softly, only to see him lower his chin to his chest and look out at her from brows that were now drawn, which had never indicated anything good for her in the past.

  So, Charlotte forced herself to take a step back to where she had been, even though the result was that her breasts were pressed obscenely into his palm, as if she was offering them to him.

  "Very good. Nothing should be covering your breasts when we make love other than my mouth or hands." He stood there patiently for a second or two. "And what should your answer to me be, Charlotte?"