Page 195 of Nine-Tenths

Because, like, I'm still in for that penny, right?

We'd grabbed some green beans in Cardiff when we'd gone to the tailors. My well-stocked briefcase contains little packets of coffee in different stages of roasting so we can hand them off to any scientists who want to experiment with them. Or humans who might want to try drinking it.

I snuck a cup of it this morning, and fucking hell, it’s still amazing. I missed it. (Dav toasted me my first ever s'more last night and they are as fantastic as everyone said.)

"We're gonna be late if you keep primping!" I call up the stairs, when I reach the bottom of my mug.

"One moment!" Dav calls from the gallery. "I need… ah, there it is! Everything must be perfect, Colin."

"Come down, babe. I wanna see you."

"I look nothing as elegant as you," Dav complains. "Fashions have changed since I was last at court, and not in a way I expected. I blame Hollywood entirely."

"Shoooooow meeeeeee," I whine.

"If only to stop you from making that noise, Mine Own." Dav heaves a sigh, and then turns the corner of the landing and steps into view.

He looks (trust me, I have tried to find better ways to describe this and there are none) like the Empire fromStar Warsvomited all over him.

And honestly?

It's agood fucking look.

Sinfully tailored black breeches tuck into knee-high boots. His jacket is a Regency cut-away with a double row of brightly gold buttons, fanciful frogging, and no epaulets. Otherwise, it screams military. It's in the firm cut of the shoulder, the tight mandarin collar, the rolled gold hems. A detailed gold waistcoat peeks out beneath the bottom of the jacket, and there's a tasteful row of ornate medals pinned over Dav's heart.

Dav's wearing a circlet across his brow, which instead of forming a full circle at the back of his head, wings out just past his ears into stylized maple leaves cradling four perfect pearls, two per side—the symbol of a Canadian marquessate.

And his eyes.

My god.

I have always loved me a dude unafraid to rock some guyliner at Pride. But Dav's lids are full-on caked with gold the exact shade of his freckles. His lashes are black with mascara.

Every cell in my whole body screeches with lust, and for a second I completely forget how to breathe.

"There's certainly less embroidery than my original court suit, see, there’s nothing at all on the sleeves. But I’m told modesty is more the thing, now. It's my first audience since I've been created Marquess, and I want to make a good impression. Is it… is it not good?" Dav asks, as I stare at him, gawp-mouthed.

"The opposite," I say, all the sarcasm punched out of me. "Although…"

"What?" He asks, looking up, worry and self-awareness digging frown lines beside his mouth.

"Are you sure I'm the princess here?"

"Oh," Dav puffs out in a small chuckle. "Mine Own, I say this with the utmost love and affection, but…"

"But?"

He dimples at me. "Fuck off."

Chapter Fifty

Iam a very good boy and keep my hands to myself for the whole three hour car ride to Whitehall Palace. It is very difficult when Dav is looking so delicious. When we reach London, I'm distracted by the surprise of Christmas lights and holiday decorations in every storefront. The drive along the Thames is beautiful, and as we cross Westminster bridge, Big Ben and the London Eye both twinkle elegantly, attired for the season.

Have we really been over here that long?

Apparently, yeah.

Whitehall is Elizabeth Regina's nesting ground, the beating heart of a territory that encompasses a third of the world. The wall around the palace is tall, made of pale stone, equally historicand impressive as the rest of the city, andsmotheredwith bas-relief carvings.