You often heard friends from your native land speak unflatteringly about the English. Like, they are barbarians, bastards who adore violence so much that they think the whole world should belong to them. Usually you didn’t listen, sometimes you agreed or entered into a heated dialogue, sometimes you giggled with your maids at their funny clothes. But only recently, for the first time in your not very long life, you had to get to know the English so closely. Unfortunately, in the role of a wife.

"Are you thinking about something bad?"

You are pulled out of your thoughts by Christian’s quiet, soft voice. The man was lying with his head on your lap for the last quarter of an hour, you didn’t even notice when he looked at you. Against your own will, you smiled tenderly at him, habitually touching his head with your palms, gently running your fingers over his temples, then through his thick black hair. Christian closes his eyes again, the corners of his lips lift and he gently intercepts one of your hands, moves it to the side and, pressing a long kiss to the back of it, places it on his chest.

"You know, you don't have to wear these dresses." Christian speaks quietly, ingratiatingly, and you just shake your head. The English dresses are heavy, uncomfortable, hot and stuffy in them. For some reason you want to tell him that you like these dresses, but in fact you want him to like these dresses.