Page 63 of Corin and the Courtier
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Corin said, with extremely ill grace. “My concern for Aster’s safety—”
“My son’s safety is no concern of yours!” Aster’s father interrupted him explosively, as if he could no longer contain himself. “My family is no concern of yours. How you dare to show your face—”
“Enough,” the king said, his tone extremely mild and all the more threatening for it, and Aster’s father sputtered into silence. “Sir Corin, explain yourself.”
“I was trying to explain myself to Aster first,” Corin snapped, and then added belatedly, “Sire.”
“If it please Your Majesty, I don’t think there will be time for that before the joyous wedding bells ring out. I believe this…individual,” Marellus said, waving a languid hand at Sig, “has claimed Lord Aster, has he not?”
Sig opened his mouth, and so did Jules, and then Sig slapped a hand over Jules’s mouth, and God, this would be a disaster—
“No, I have,” Corin said, and wrapped his arm around Aster’s waist to yank him close.
For a moment the world stopped spinning and came to a jolting halt, even as everyone else erupted into a chorus of questions and protests and complaints, with Aster’s father shouting and Marellus arguing, something about the proclamation and Corin not fitting its requirements, and Sir Gustave scolding them all.
Aster gaped up at Corin. “But you—you—”
Corin turned his head and met Aster’s eyes, vermilion flames dancing in the depths of his own. “You deserve better,” he said, very low, for Aster’s ears only. “And I wish I could give it to you. But I only have myself to offer.” His arm around Aster’s waist might as well have been forged from steel. “Will you take me?”
Take him. For his own. Corin, marrying him…in front of everyone. The world had gone all wobbly again. He braced himself on Corin’s solid chest, and oh, God, the texture of his faintly scaled skin, and the possibility of having Corin to lean on forever when he needed him. Or to be leaned on, when Corin needed it. Together. It didn’t seem real.
“Are you serious—you can’t possibly, I mean, you—”
Corin bent down so their noses almost touched. “Yes or no,” he growled, and his fingers flexed against Aster’s hip. Fighting his claws? All the blood in Aster’s body rushed south and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He had to get this over with,now, so that he could have Corin alone somewhere, or he really would fall to his hands and knees and beg right here in front of all these people.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes.”
Corin’s mouth opened to reply, and he leaned closer, and the look in his eyes…
“Sir Corin! I must insist that you attend!”
Corin looked up as Aster flinched. Fuck, Sir Gustave had a set of lungs on him when he needed them. And Aster might actually kill him if he kept interrupting!
“What?” Corin snapped. “I’m not allowed to propose in peace, Sir Gustave?”
“Propose?” Sir Gustave’s voice rose to something like a screech. “You, sir, are before the king, and you’re not wearing any pants! And as Duke Marellus has pointed out so cogently, you do not meet the requirement for claiming Lord Aster’s hand in marriage or any other reward offered by His Majesty’s decree. Therefore, I must ask you to leave this place at once and allow the business of court to proceed unhindered!”
Aster’s belly clenched into a cold little knot.
For a shining moment, he’d forgotten about that part of the decree. Corin had come for him and nothing else mattered. But Corin would never humble himself. Not for Aster, not for anyone…
“One moment, Aster,” Corin said softly, and let him go.
Aster reached out after him, but Corin had already stepped away, standing in front of the king. “Your Majesty,” he said, “may I lay my petition before you?”
Theobert’s lips twitched slightly. “As Sir Gustave points out, it’s more traditional to approach the king wearing pants, Sir Corin. Actually—” And he gestured at his advisors, a twitch of the finger that had one of them leaping to attention, whisking off his cloak and presenting it to Corin with a flourish. Corin wrapped it around his hips and tucked it.
Marellus stepped forward, cheeks red and eyes blazing. His quick, jerky bow and the fist clenched at his side betrayed his fury. Aster wanted to enjoy it, but God, Marellus might very well ruin everything. He had to force himself to remain still.
“Your Majesty,” Marellus hissed, “please allow me to interject. This is a farce, and offensive to Your Majesty’s dignity. Sir Corin left court after assaulting a noble gentleman, he is by no means an appropriate husband for Lord Aster, and Lord Cezanne does not approve—”
“When we require your opinion we’ll ask for it,” the king said briskly. “And Lord Cezanne is right there. My lord, do you have anything to say?” His tone made it excruciatingly clear that Aster’s father had damn well better keep his mouth shut. Lord Cezanne shook his head, and the king smiled. “Very well, then. Duke Marellus, must we remind you that we took responsibility for Lord Aster upon yours and Lord Cezanne’s particular request?”
Oh, God. The king was taking Corin’s side, and Aster’s.
Aster could have kissed him. Although with Corin already pantsless, perhaps any further breaches of protocol would be best avoided.
“But, Your Majesty,” Marellus choked out, turning purple. “This is not—not—”
