One hour before midnight. The last night of freedom.

  All preparations were complete. Her books, personal items, memorable trinkets—everything was already neatly packed into heavy travel trunks adorned with the crest of House Hawke. On a mannequin in the corner of the room, like a ghost of her future imprisonment, gleamed the white wedding dress—a masterpiece of silk and lace.

  This was her last night in this bedroom—the room where she grew up, where she hatched secret plans and felt safe. Tomorrow morning she would leave these walls, this house—her only fortress—and depart for the North, to the cold estate of a man who embodied the very decrepit old age she had been so happy to escape when she woke up in this world.

  The bedroom, rich and exquisite, now seemed cold and alien. Amelia stood before the tall mirror in a simple silk robe. An expression of deep, quiet sorrow was frozen on her face. She ran her fingers along her slender silhouette.

  Marquis Garrick Hawke. He is eighty, fragments of thoughts raced through her head, sharp as broken glass. With my past experience, I could be the perfect nurse for him. But not a wife. His estate in the North... it will be my prison. No right to 'business trips' or 'secret projects.' He will lock me up like that necklace in the casket.

  Her fingers gripped the edge of the dressing table until it hurt.

  No. I will not let them bury me alive! Not after everything I've built! There must be a loophole. I must keep at least something... for myself.

  Despair gave way to cold, predatory determination. She pulled the bell cord, summoning Leon.

  He entered her chambers almost instantly. Seeing Amelia in just a robe, he froze, then abruptly turned away, his ears burning with embarrassment.

  "Your Highness! Forgive me, I... I should not see you like this! I will wait outside..."

  Amelia slowly walked up to him. Her voice sounded soft, enveloping, but every word was a hook with which she snagged his loyalty.

  "I cannot sleep, Leon. Anxiety... It is devouring me. I am so afraid of being locked up there, far from everyone, alone... You have been my only friend all these years. You understand this feeling, don't you?"

  "Yes, Your Highness," he forced out, staring at the wall and trying to breathe evenly. "I... understand."

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  She came up close, almost touching his shoulder. Her fingers, with the dexterity of a magician, pulled the small blue bird brooch from the pocket of her robe and pinned it into the locks of her dark hair.

  "Remember what this bird meant, Leon?" she whispered, looking into his eyes. "'I need help.' It is our secret signal. And right now, I am in trouble that a sword cannot handle."

  He squeezed his eyes shut; a battle raged within his soul. Embarrassment fought with duty.

  "Your Highness... tomorrow is your wedding. Your last evening," his whisper was tense and full of pain. "I cannot... I have no right. I do not want to... ruin your wedding night."

  A bitter smirk appeared on her lips.

  "You won't ruin anything, Leon. I am not asking you for the impossible. I am asking you only for a kiss... and nothing more. Just a few kisses, here and there, to soothe my anxiety. To quiet my thoughts and feelings that are raging at this injustice. Help me forget myself. Even if just for one night."

  Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him toward her. Their lips met. This wasn't the innocent "smooch" from childhood. It was a long, demanding, almost angry kiss. Leon froze for a second, and then the dam broke. Hesitantly, then tighter and tighter, he embraced her, answering her desperation with his own passion.

  Gently but decisively, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  In the adjoining room, Clara, who was preparing a bath with calming herbs for the Princess, heard strange, muffled sounds. First a quiet sigh, then another, louder. Her heart pounded with horror. She silently crept to the door leading to the bedroom...

  ...and, holding her breath, slowly opened it a millimeter.

  The scene that presented itself made her cover her mouth with her hand in horror.

  [??? SPICY SCENE DETECTED!

  While Clara closed the door here... on , she saw EVERYTHING.

  Read the Uncensored, Steamy Version (The "Royal Pleasure" scene) right now!]

  Amelia propped herself up on her elbow and gently touched his shoulder.

  "To the bathroom, Leon," her voice was quiet, husky, but commanding. "And finish the job yourself. With your own hands."

  Leon froze in confusion, trying to comprehend this final, humiliating, yet merciful order. At that moment, Clara flew out of her hiding place.

  She didn't say a word. She simply grabbed the stunned, disoriented Leon by the arm, jerked him up, and, giving him no time to recover, decisively shoved him into the adjoining bathroom.

  "Quickly!" she hissed, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

  CLICK!

  Clara resolutely turned the key in the lock from the outside.

  So he doesn't even think about coming back in a fit of passion, she thought grimly, pocketing the key in her apron.

  Having locked him in, she approached the bed. Amelia looked at her with a calm, slightly tired gaze. The anger and fear Clara had felt a minute ago evaporated completely, replaced by boundless female sympathy. She silently adjusted her mistress's disheveled nightgown and covered her with the blanket.

  Of course... she mentally addressed her mistress. Before they lock you up forever in a gloomy nest with an old raven, you had to learn that your body belongs to you. I do not judge. Let at least this night be truly yours.