“You look—”
“Shhh . . .” he begged. “I’m trying so hard.”
“To do what?”
He smiled. He actually smiled. But it was the sort one made when one could not quite believe what was happening.
“George!”
“I’m trying, Charlotte,” he ground out.
“To do what?”
“To go slowly. I don’t want to cause you pain.”
Oh. She thought about this. “Do you want to move faster?”
“God, yes.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but feel delighted by the desperation in his voice. It made her daring. “Maybe you should,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not yet. But soon.”
His hand moved between their bodies. “You will like this,” he said. “I hope.”
She gasped. His fingers were gently rubbing circles along her flesh. It made her feel hot, and she felt it all across her body. She could not think about anything else, just his wicked fingers, and then, before she knew it, he was fully seated within her.
“Charlotte,” he said.
“George.” She didn’t know it was possible to smile a word, but that’s what she did.
“Here I am.”
“Here you are.”
And as he began to move within her, as their motions grew more frenzied and uncontrolled, that was her only thought.
There they were.
Together.
The next morning
When Charlotte awakened, she was alone in George’s bed. This did not bother her; perhaps he was an early riser.
They still had much to learn about each other.
She slipped on her nightgown and made her way through the connecting rooms to her own bedchamber. A basin had already been laid out for her morning ablutions, and after she splashed water on her face, she rang for the coterie of maids who dressed her each day. But for once, it did not feel like a chore. She had nothing but happiness. Nothing but delight and anticipation for the day ahead.
When she stepped into the corridor, Brimsley was waiting, as usual. His arms were full of squirming fluff.
“Pom Pom!” Charlotte exclaimed.
If Brimsley was curious about the marked increase in her excitement upon seeing her dog, he did not say so. “Your Majesty,” he said, depositing the Pomeranian in her arms.
“Is it not a lovely morning?” Charlotte said.
They passed a window that revealed the skies to be gray and dripping with drizzle.
“It is a picture of bucolic splendor,” Brimsley said.
She rewarded that lie with a radiant smile.
“Have you seen the King?” she asked. “If he has gone out for a ride or a walk we shall hold breakfast for him. I would like us to eat together.”
“I do not think he has gone out, Your Majesty. I believe he has a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“His mother,” Brimsley confirmed.
“Ah.” Charlotte didn’t really feel like talking with Augusta, but she was eager to see her husband again, eager enough that she was willing to interrupt their conversation to extract him. She turned to Brimsley. “They are in the sitting room?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Charlotte headed in that direction (Brimsley five paces behind, natürlich), but before she made her presence known, she stopped. Augusta’s voice was very sharp. Even more so than usual.
“Do not make me ask the question,” Augusta said.
Charlotte shushed Brimsley with a wave of her hand and then stepped back. She did not want to be seen.
“I am not making you ask,” George said. “This is none of your business. It is my marriage.”
Whatever qualms Charlotte had about eavesdropping evaporated instantly. They were talking about her. Surely she had a right to listen.
“Your marriage is Palace business,” Augusta said in that terribly precise accent of hers. “Your marriage is Parliament business. Your marriage is the business of this country.”
“Mother—”
“This cannot go wrong,” she interrupted. “I need to know if you have properly bedded her.”
Charlotte’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I should not need to remind you that the fate of the Crown rests upon your shoulders,” Augusta said.
“My head, I should think,” George muttered.
Charlotte smiled, pleased with his quip.
“Don’t be a fool,” Augusta snapped. “Tell me now. Have you done what is necessary?”
“You told me I had to wed for the Crown,” George said, his voice laced with impatience. “I did. You told me to charm her to make it easier for the Crown. I have done my best. You told me I could not let her know me because I must protect the secrets of the Crown. I have not.”
Charlotte froze. He had not let her know him? What did that mean? She looked back at Brimsley, still five paces away. Was he hearing this?
But George was not done. His voice rose as he continued his speech. “You told me to bed her. I have done so. I understand. It has been abundantly clear since my first breath that I am born for the happiness or misery of a great nation, and consequently must often act contrary to my passions.”
Charlotte did not want to hear anything more, but she could not move. Something began to die inside of her.
No, it wasn’t death. It was rot. This awful feeling—it wasn’t going away anytime soon. It was just going to get worse, slowly, inch by putrid inch.
“I am the picture of duty,” George said, and now his voice was sour with sarcasm. “The Crown resides within me, embedded like a knife. You do not need to explain it to me, Mother. It is me.”
Charlotte took a step back. Then another. Then turned entirely away. Brimsley was watching her with a careful expression. She stepped past him and walked back toward the dining room.
“I shall have my breakfast now,” she said, once she was certain she could not be heard by George and his mother. “There is no need to wait for the King.”
George
Buckingham House
The Main Sitting Room
16 September 1761
Marriage. Marriage was Palace business. Parliament business. Parliament, House of Lords, Lord, Lord, Lord Bute, not Lord Bute, new lords, there were so many new lords . . .
George squeezed his eyes shut. His mind was racing again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not today, not the best morning of his life.
Morning, morning. Morning sun, warmth of the sun, sun was a star. Not proven, not proven.
Charlotte. Think of Charlotte. Her face, her smile.
He took a breath.
Govern yourself.
Why had his mother come to call that morning? He had been so happy. So himself.
His mother had been so demanding, so determined to turn something beautiful into cold duty. Her voice had been piercing, and he had just wanted to be rid of her.
He would have said anything to get her to depart.
All he wanted was this one day. Just one day to feel like a man. Just a man.
Just George.
A throat cleared behind him. Reynolds.
“She is gone?” George asked.
Just George Just George.
He was just George. He had to remember that.
Govern yourself.
“Your mother has departed, Your Majesty. I saw to it myself.”
George nodded, even though his back was still to Reynolds. He held himself straight. He needed to keep control. “And Charlotte?”