“Not at all what you had in mind when you made that request, no,” the king said, and this time his voice could have frozen a block of ice. Marellus’s mouth dropped open. His cheeks went from fuchsia to white in an instant. “Sir Corin is a knight of nobility and dignity, a dragon, and honored by all. I presume you had some other type of husband in mind for Lord Aster, hmm?”
Marellus sputtered, gasped, and bowed his head, too much a courtier not to know what happened to someone who argued further with a king in this kind of mood. The look Dericort shot Aster had more venom than a whole nest of snakes.
Aster couldn’t help the grin that spread over his own face. And then, although he could very well help it, he didn’t want to: he winked. Dericort let out something between a groan and a squeak, fists clenched.
“Enough,” the king said, and returned his attention to Corin, who’d stood patiently the while, shoulders back and hands clasped behind him, in a perfect parade rest. Even with his torso bare and a velvet cloak draped around his hips he looked every inch the knight. “Sir Corin, state your request.”
Aster’s jaw dropped as Corin actually—knelt down. For him, for Aster…
“Your Majesty, I apologize for my behavior,” Corin said crisply. “I embarrassed and offended you, and I deeply regret it. As for Lord Fanfelle, I also regret the action I took during our duel. In retrospect, I ought to have done something else.”
The king raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. That, Aster knew from many years of observation, meant he was trying not to laugh.
“We will refrain from asking what action you believe you ought to have taken instead, lest it offend our royal sensibilities,” he said. “You are restored to the crown’s good grace, Sir Corin. Make your request.”
“I ask for Lord Aster’s hand in marriage,” Corin said without the slightest hesitation. “I ask you for the greatest boon any man could receive,” he added more loudly, clearly pitching his voice to be heard by more than just the small group gathered at the top of the stairs—and oh, fuck, Aster twisted his head around, and yes, there were easily a hundred courtiers gathered behind him, whispering and waving their fans, eyes gleaming, fuck fuck fuck.
And then he saw her. His sister. Belinda. She stood half behind another lady, but he couldn’t miss her face: eyes flashing like murderous sapphires, skin white but with brilliant spots of red, one on each cheek. Her coloring owed nothing to rouge today. That was pure rage.
Corin started to speak again, and Aster turned back to him. Fuck Belinda, anyway. He loved his sister, but she’d brought this on herself.
“Lord Aster’s beauty and grace and wit are more than I deserve, and any marriage portion that accompanies him ought to belong to him and him alone. I want only him for myself.” Corin glanced over his shoulder, and his smile set Aster’s heart aflutter. “In the case of the Cezannes’ noble offspring, I believe the third time was the charm.”
“Oh,” Aster said helplessly, as that hit him right in the middle of the chest.
Corin had remembered. That one, offhand remark he’d made about his family laughing at him for being the plain youngest sibling, and Corin had remembered.
A faint shriek of fury echoed up the stairs, a sound Aster remembered from many an evening at home when Belinda hadn’t gotten her way. Apparently Corin’s words had reached the crowd below.
Drawn like a fragment of iron to a lodestone, Aster stepped forward, knowing that he ought to stay where he was until the king gave his answer, but unable to stop himself. He also knew everything he felt had to be shining out of his eyes, but surely he didn’t need to hide it now? He’d never need to hide it again. He’d never need to be ashamed again, or worried, or nervous, because Corin had chosen him over everything and everyone else, and he’d chosen Corin, and fuck everyone else, anyway.
Corin scrambled to his feet with none of his usual grace, and Aster walked right into his arms, where he belonged. For a long moment, Corin gazed down into his eyes, searching and intense. His arms around Aster’s waist were trembling. Aster petted his chest, dug in his fingertips, shaking just as much. And then Corin smiled, and he dipped his head and took Aster’s mouth with his, his tongue sweeping in and claiming him.
Distantly, Aster heard Theobert say, “Well, I suppose our royal consent is second to the groom’s. Lord Cezanne, enough. Lady Cezanne will be happy and that’s what matters, eh?” And there was some kind of roar: laughter or applause from everyone assembled, or perhaps simply the blood rushing in Aster’s ears as his heart beat so hard and so fast it almost bruised his ribs. None of it mattered at all.
Corin lifted his head, leaving Aster’s lips tender and swollen. It took him a moment to blink his eyes open halfway. Somehow he’d ended up bent over Corin’s arm. No wonder there were cheers and jeers from the garden, fuck.
But the pure joy shining out of Corin’s eyes, and his smile, made up for it. “I think they’re going to want us to get married right now,” he said softly. “Will you? It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Kiss me,” Aster said. “And then marry me.”
Corin grinned, ducked down and pressed another swift kiss to his lips—well, almost a swift kiss, except that Aster chased him, and then Corin nibbled on his lower lip, and then Aster moaned, and then finally they broke apart—and at last he let him go enough to take him by the hand.
“I think we’re ready to get married now, Your Majesty,” Corin said.
Theobert raised his eyebrows. “Don’t hurry on our account.”
“I’m not,” Corin said. “I’m hurrying on my own account.” He turned and smiled down at Aster.
“I told you running away was a good decision,” Aster whispered. “I’d do it again.”
Corin threw back his head and laughed, squeezing Aster’s hand. “You can make all our decisions. Clearly you’re better at it.”
“We’ll do it together,” Aster said.
And hand in hand, they went through the sunny doorway to be married.
TwoHoursLater…
