A/N: 4 or 5 short chapters of wedding fluff. It's not meant to be historically accurate; rather, it is meant, like EA, to use some historical elements in the telling of a fairy tale.

The treaty with Spain was on hold, which pleasantly surprised King Francis. He had been sure he had already watched the whole thing blow out the window when his son at stood up and walked out of his own wedding. However, the monarchs of Spain seemed blame themselves—or their daughter, at least—just as much as they blamed France and Henry. While Princess Gabriella blubbered on in the arms of her lover (a priest, no less), the Spanish ministers and royals and met with the Queen and King of France in the private apartment behind the throne and discussed what was to be done.

King Charles of Spain seemed disposed for reconciliation. "We tried something and it didn't work. Why force them? I always knew Gabby was a romantic sensibility," he'd told them genially.

Queen Marie's heart had been in her throat. Half of her was wild with joy that her son had followed her heart (and pleased that she wouldn't have that sobbing banshee for a daughter-in-law and future Queen of France) and the other half of her was terrified at what Francis would do, and what this would mean for the future of her country. "They're just children," she'd agreed. "It hardly seems fair."

"Not all children are spineless, and the world is not fair," Queen Isabella of Spain had said sharply. "Your son should do his duty by my daughter. And you should not have allowed Gabriella to go mooning about as you did, Quinto," she said, rounding sharply on her husband, "or else this would never have happened."

"Perhaps the fault lies with us," Marie had interjected gently, "for being too lax in raising our children. But then again, perhaps we have been too harsh." She lifted a brow and looked significantly at Isabella, while Charles looked approvingly at Marie.

Francis frowned. "The point is that we had a treaty. France stands by her offers."

"Your son?" Queen Isabella asked, her voice sounding cantankerous.

"Will be made to hear reason, on my honor."

Behind him, the ministers were flurrying furiously, but King Charles ignored them. "I have a new proposition for you. Listen to me Francis—this is just man to man. We both want this treaty. You want it; I'm not opposed to all of France's desires, despite our past history." Francis, not opposed to being diplomatic, nodded. "Our children marrying was merely a matter of convenience, to seal the deal. Do you not agree?"

"Oh yes," Marie said, moving in—but was stopped by a glare from her husband.

"What I propose is this: that our children marry who they choose, within the time we set for them. If one or the other of them do not choose someone they love—and who loves them back—it's a romantic notion, isn't it, Izzy?—then the treaty is null and void. But if both make a love match, the treaty is signed."

"Why, what a quaint idea!" Queen Marie explained.

It was not the quaintness of the scheme—nor, in fact, the down-to-earth sensibleness of it—that convinced King Francis. It was the way his Queen was looking at the King of Spain that irked him into it, and that was that. Henry had proclaimed who he would marry immediately—though not, it was observed, before Princess Gabriella. All that remained was for each of them to be married to make good the treaty.

And so the wedding preparations were begun immediately, though kept small and private. There were many reasons for this, many of which dealt with the fact that Prince Henry had been slated to marry Princess Gabriella just days before, but some of which had to do with the particular matter of the Baroness de Ghent and a certain daughter of hers.

It infuriated Queen Marie, the way that woman had used her own step-daughter, even if that step-daughter had lied to her son and caused him heart-break. It hadn't, after all, been the step-daughter's fault. Besides which, half of that heartbreak, perhaps all of it, would have been averted had not the Baroness told the truth from the moment she had realized who the 'Countess Nicole de Lancret' was. And it infuriated Francis that anyone had dared lied to the Queen, and Queen Marie was infuriated that Francis was infuriated. One thing worse than King Francis was King Francis infuriated.

Prince Henry, too, had expressed that he was infuriated, and infuriated that his father was infuriated, and so on. They had plotted—rather pettishly, it must be admitted, all three of them being so infuriated—how best to inflict revenge on the de Ghents, and it seemed very necessary to Henry that her step-mother see Danielle as a Princess, before being sent off to the Americas. As such, it could not be known too widely who the prince was marrying in a private ceremony in the palace chapel this day—which was all very well, as the gossip about it being that servant at the Masque would have been dreadful. After she was made Princess and future Queen of France, very few would dare to mention what she might once have been. And that suited Francis, Marie, and Henry—and their fury—all very well.

Henry was eager to explain to Danielle that the speed and privacy of the wedding had nothing to do with her, who she was, or anything she had done. Danielle didn't need an explanation or any excuses, but Henry had wanted to make it clear to her that he was not ashamed of his bride, and he wanted to convince her that his parents were not ashamed either. Danielle wasn't so sure that he wanted to convince her of that last so much because it was the truth as because he didn't wanted her to feel discouraged about marrying him in any way, shape, or form.

He was still a little bit afraid she would turn around and say no. It still broke her heart, the expression on his face when she had asked him to say her name again. He hadn't been sure she would forgive him, approve of him, accept him. Danielle smiled a little, even in the midst of the confusion around her. Of course she had accepted him. Who could say no when her prince commanded her? And still, he doubted.

"You really have forgiven me?" he had asked, as he helped her into the carriage in the front yard of Le Pieu's estate.

"Only if you will forgive me," she had replied, settling into the plush seats as he took his place across from her in the coach.

He shouldn't be riding with her, he knew. It endangered her reputation; she should be treated just as any future queen approaching the palace would be treated—as Princess Gabriella had been treated. But he was too impatient and excited to deal with the pomp and formality of all that. He had almost lost her due to his own sheer stupidity, and he wasn't about to let her out of his sight for any length of time. He only hoped he could control himself, here in this enclosed, completely private space with her.

"Forgive you for what?" he had replied, jerking himself out of such warm thoughts. "You did nothing wrong."

"I deceived you!" Danielle replied, amazed that he could think that was nothing wrong, amazed that she was here in his carriage with him—still amazed that any of this was happening at all.

"To save a man's life," he said, his voice just as energized as his home. Then he waved his hand negligently, teasing her with royal dismissiveness. "That's hardly worth a grudge. Though," he continued, as if another thought had just struck him, "I wonder about the day I took you to the monastery. First, that you were at your manor in courtier's clothing at all, and second, that you kept up the pretense. Surely it was superfluous, by then."

She scowled at him and he raised his brow, mocking. He was baiting her. "How was I to know you wouldn't behead me for having made use of the pretense in the first place, your Highness?" she said, acidly—though not quite able to keep the playfulness from her voice.

"You might have refused my invitation to the monastery, at least. It would have been more prudent, given your situation."

"How was I to refuse your invitation, my Lord, without revealing who I really was?" she inquired, as if innocently.

"Quite simply," he replied, just as innocently. "Really mademoiselle, I don't see why you felt the need to carry out an elaborate deception when all you needed to do was carry out a quick one" He cocked his head to one side and said wickedly, "You could have just told me you were leaving the country, shut the door in my face, and never have seen me again."

She gave him a dirty look which was usually only reserved for Gustave when he had, through some fluke, managed to best her in the various games they played. "You know very well I couldn't do that."

"And why? I ask you, madam, why—"

"You already know why," she said levelly. The playfulness was suddenly gone from her voice and her eyes were all seriousness, locked with his.

It was a loving, gentle seriousness that suddenly made him glad he was sitting down. He swallowed, finding that his mouth was suddenly dry. "Yes, but I need to hear you say it." He was chagrined to note that his voice was a trifle hoarse.

Her heart rose into her throat, and he could hear it there, in her voice. "Because I had already fallen in love with you," she told him, looking him straight in the eyes. He settled back into his seat, satisfaction washing over him, only the smallest part of which was gloating over having gotten the upper hand in their playful conversation. "Because," she went on, and he sat up again, startled, "I had started loving you the moment I met you. Because I knew then that I would always love you, that I would never love anyone else, that—"

"Stop," he said, wincing. He fell back into his seat again and closed his eyes—looking very much as if he had a headache.

Suddenly, Danielle was alarmed. She remembered him once intimating that he found her passion exhausting, or at least thought it would be so. Was it possible that the strength of her affection and desire for him far exceeded what she thought he felt for her? That he only felt for her the same apathetic interest which he had felt for . . . Marguerite, for example? The thought was ridiculous; if it was true, he would of course not have come to Le Pieu's and whisked her off her feet. Still . . . "Henry," she said gently, touching his knee. "What is it? If I have—"

His hand suddenly gripped hers, and she found that it was quite warm, and his eyes, when they snapped open, were blazing hot. "You did nothing wrong. Only, you must remember not to speak to me that way until after we are married."

"Wh—"

"This is why," he said gently, anticipating her question. He pressed the hand he was gripping against his chest.

She could feel his heart beating there, wildly, so fast and thunderous that it made her own heart suddenly gallop, too. "Oh," she said, abashed and chagrined, and looked shyly into his eyes. "But you know, your Highness, after we are married . . ."

"After we are married, you may say whatever you like." He pulled her hand away and lightly kissed the top of it before returning it to her. Suddenly he smiled, and gave her a teasing look. "Just be prepared for the consequences."

"It seems, my Lord," she said archly, a smile creeping up on her face, "that you are the one who should be prepared. You are, after all, the one who finds my mouth so fascinating—and I'm afraid you've seen little more than half of what it can do."

The prince was struck dumb for a moment. For many moments, actually. "You really must stop torturing me," he said finally, utterly failing to sound as arch and teasing as she had, even as his tightly clenching fists belied the attempted tone.

"Then you must stop baiting me," she teased, a triumphant light in her eye.

"By God," he breathed. "After we are married," he emphasized, "I will show you how fascinating I find that mouth, far more eloquently than I was ever able to say it." He paused a moment. "And then we will see who is speechless."

Danielle grinned, remembering her reaction to the voracious heat in his eyes. They had ridden in silence after that, both of them rather wishing, she was sure, that he had decided to ride ahead of the carriage without her after all. It was only the comedy of the situation—the inanity of regretting being cooped up with each other when it was, in fact, the only thing either of them wanted—was the only thing that saved them from rendering each other mutually speechless.

to be continued...