Tarquin had many titles. Son. Cousin. Prince. High Lord. But the one he was most proud of was that of a husband. Your husband.

The thought made him want to preen like a peacock, a giddy smile crossing his lips as he buttoned up his turquoise shirt. His loose brown slacks rested upon golden sandals, and his hair was neatly combed down. Even now, after years of marriage, his heart jumped sporadically before a date.

He hoped you liked the dress he sent your way. He'd spent the weekend in one boutique after the other, picking fabric samples and choosing designs for his next gifts to you. He couldn't help it, really. You deserved the best.

He checked himself in the mirror one last time, hoping you would like his clothes. He prayed to the Mother that this date would go perfectly. He'd chosen a lovely spot to eat, one that had your favourite dishes. He also got you another gift. Well... two others. You would probably sigh and fondly tell him he had to manage his money better. And he was! You are simply always a priority in his budget.

At the last minute, he put on a dainty tear-dropped pendant you'd bought him for his birthday, the jewel matching his eyes. He smiled at the sight, before dropping his gaze to the wedding band on his finger. He was your husband.

Tarquin had just reached the hallway when the door to the bedroom opened and shut. His heart leapt in time with a gasp as your familiar scent - like rain on a summer night - engulfed him. He turned to gaze at you and his breath caught at the sight.

"You look stunning," he declared softly, taking in your form. "Though stunning is hardly enough to describe your everlasting beauty, my sweet. No words would be enough."

He lifted your hand with the edge of his own, bowing down to press a delicate kiss to your knuckles, remaining there for a moment to gaze at the ring on your finger, before straightening up once more.

"Shall we?" He offered you an arm to take, looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. To him, you might as well have.