His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Chapter 32: Dance For Him

Livia swallowed. "Uh... how?"

"Dance for him," he said. "He wants to see what he will be paying for, you know."

Livia’s fingers curled slightly at her sides.

"You make him thirst," Nicholas continued, warming to his explanation. "You don’t give everything at once. No, no... that is where most girls fail." He wagged a finger, pacing slowly in front of her. "You give just enough. A glance. A turn. A little sway. Let him imagine the rest."

He leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming. "Make him want more."

Livia held her breath.

"So when the time comes," he went on, straightening again, "I can hike the price even higher." A low, satisfied snicker escaped him. He spread his hands as if the brilliance of his plan was undeniable. "You understand? Make yourself irresistible."

"Is that all?" she asked carefully. "Just dance for him?"

Nicholas waved his hand dismissively. "Yes... yes... for now." His tone suggested there was always a later, but he did not dwell on it. "See, the hungrier he gets, the more he will pay."

Livia nodded slowly. "Okay, Mr Beaumont."

"There’s my girl," Nicholas said immediately, his grin returning, wide and satisfied. "You do what I say like this, you and I? We will make so much money, we will have no idea what to do with it." He turned sharply to the servant, his tone changing in an instant, all warmth stripped away.

"Make her stunning or I will have your head."

"Yes, Mr Beaumont," the maid said quickly, lowering her head.

Nicholas turned to Livia once more, his expression melting into a sugary, almost theatrical smile. "You... you are amazing," he laughed. With that, he swept out of the room.

Livia exhaled slowly. She stared at the gown laid out before her, an instruction she could not refuse.

Well... like Jane said. She just had to accept it. But this time... this time would be different.

If she could not escape, if she could not choose her fate, then she would at least make one decision for herself. She would not charm him. She would not entice him. She would dance, yes—but without the spark Nicholas wanted.

Let him lose interest. Let him walk away. Let this be over.

*****

That same evening, Richard Montague, Duke of Kingsmere, arrived at Beaumont’s establishment.

The street outside was alive with the familiar pulse of night—lanterns flickering, voices spilling out from open doors, the distant hum of London’s restless appetite for pleasure. His horse slowed as he approached, the building already glowing with warmth and noise.

When he had gotten the note that said his special request was available for a dance. He had let out a soft chuckle.

Why wouldn’t she be? He had not forgotten her—not the way she stood apart from the others. And certainly not the way she carried herself.

Nicholas, for all his greed, had a talent for presentation. His girls were always dressed to provoke attention, styled to perfection, turned into visions that men could not easily forget.

But that one... That one did not need help. Richard handed the reins off without looking, already distracted by the image forming in his mind. She was young, yes—but her body...

He exhaled slowly, adjusting his coat as he moved toward the entrance. He remembered the curve of her hips, imagined the way they would move.

As soon as he paid Nicholas the sum requested—an amount so outrageous it might have offended a lesser man—Richard did not even bother to argue. He merely raised a brow, counted out the coins and placed them into Beaumont’s waiting hand.

Nicholas’s grin widened, all teeth and greed. "You will not regret it, Your Grace," he said, practically bowing as he gestured for a servant. Within moments, Richard was escorted to a secluded alcove tucked just beyond the main floor—private enough to observe without interruption, but close enough to feel the pulse of the room.

The tavern roared around him. Laughter rang out, tankards slammed against tables, and the music—louder now—rolled through the air in waves of fiddle and drum.

Richard settled back in his seat, stretching one leg forward, tapping the heel of his boot.

His gaze drifted toward the staircase. Then, she appeared. A ripple moved through the room before the sound followed. Whistles. Low groans. Crude admiration spilling from men who suddenly forgot their drinks, their conversations, their companions.

Livia descended slowly. The red dress made from fabric so soft and thin it seemed designed to betray her with every movement. Candlelight caught against it, tracing the shape of her body—the gentle rise of her chest, the narrowing of her waist, the outward curve of her hips that drew the eye whether one wished it or not.

The men howled and called out. But as she passed them—without a glance, without a pause—their excitement twisted into disappointed murmurs.

She was not for them. Richard’s tapping stilled. He watched her approach, his gaze sharpening with interest.

When she reached him, she curtsied first. Then she lifted her eyes. He saw that she recognised him instantly.

And yet... she said nothing. Interesting. She began to move. Her hips swayed, yes—but only just enough. Her hands moved, but without invitation. Her gaze drifted, but never lingered. Every motion was technically correct... and yet completely devoid of what Nicholas had so clearly intended.

Five minutes passed. Richard leaned back slightly, watching with growing amusement. She was resisting.

Then he began to chuckle. Livia stopped mid-movement, the rhythm slipping from her body.

"Something funny?" she asked.

Richard leaned back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the chair, watching her with open amusement. "Isn’t there?" he said. "Come on, Diana. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?"

Her jaw tightened at the name, but she ignored it. "What am I doing?"

"Oh, I don’t know," he drawled, gesturing vaguely at her. "Standing there, moving just enough to call it a dance. Barely enough to justify the outrageous sum I just paid to be seated here."