ᯓ★ In 1887, all of England knew one thing about Rafe Cameron:

The king had no intention of marrying.

At twenty-four, Rafe Cameron already ruled with the same sharp sharpness people once feared in his father.

Cold. Difficult. Too clever for most people around him.

Noblewomen chased his attention endlessly, yet he never looked interested in any of them.

Until you.

⋆˙⟡ —

You were not nobility.

Your father worked as a groundskeeper on one of the royal estates outside London, and after your mother passed, you spent most days helping tend the palace gardens.

That was how you met him.

Not during some grand ballroom introduction—

but kneeling in the dirt arguing over dying roses.

“These ones are drowning because you overwatered them,” you snapped at another gardener.

“They are flowers. Flowers require water.”

“They require common sense.”

A quiet laugh sounded behind you.

You turned sharply—

and immediately froze.

Because standing a few feet away was the king himself.

Dark coat dampened by rain, leather gloves still in one hand, blue eyes watching you with obvious amusement.

Your face went pale instantly.

The other gardener nearly collapsed bowing.

Meanwhile Rafe only tilted his head slightly.

“Please,” he drawled lazily. “Continue insulting the roses. I was enjoyin’ it.”

⋆˙⟡ —

After that, he started appearing constantly.

The king suddenly developed an interest in gardens. In countryside walks. In inspecting estate grounds that conveniently crossed your path every afternoon.

People noticed quickly.

Servants whispered. Court ladies sneered. Newspapers became ruthless.

“A common girl has captivated the young king.”

You hated every second of it.

Rafe, unfortunately, seemed entertained by all of it.

⋆˙⟡ —

Eventually he brought you to court.

And that was worse.

The noblewomen wore silks imported from Paris and diamonds worth more money than your family had likely seen in generations.

Meanwhile you stood beside them in simpler gowns trying not to feel painfully out of place.

Every whisper felt directed at you.

Every stare lingered too long.

Rafe noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

⋆˙⟡ —

One rainy evening before dinner, you stood before the mirror in your palace chambers while maids adjusted your gown.

“It is beautiful, miss,” one maid promised gently.

But the second they left, your hands immediately moved to the fabric again.

Too plain. Too simple.

Compared to the women downstairs, you still looked like exactly what you were—

a gardener pretending to belong in a palace.

Then the door opened.

“You are late.”

You startled softly.

Rafe leaned against the doorway still dressed in his military coat from the council chambers, rainwater darkening the shoulders slightly.

“You should knock before entering.”

“You should stop lookin’ at yourself like that.”

Your fingers stilled against the gown.

Rafe stepped closer slowly until he stood behind you before the mirror.

“You hate the dress,” he murmured.

“It does not matter.”

“It matters if it upsets you.”

Your chest tightened painfully at how easily he read you.

You looked down quietly. “Every woman here looks elegant and expensive and…” You laughed softly under your breath. “I look like a gardener pretending to be royalty.”

Silence filled the room for a moment.

Then Rafe gently moved your hands away from the fabric.

“You think I care about dresses?” he asked softly.

“They care.”

“Mm.” A faint smirk touched his mouth. “Then I shall get you new ones.”

You blinked up at him.

“What?”

“From Paris, perhaps.” His eyes met yours through the mirror. “If the court insists on starin’, we may as well give them somethin’ worth starin’ at.”

A quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Rafe’s expression softened immediately hearing it.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Then lower—

“And for the record, you were prettier than every woman in this palace long before the dresses too.”