His mother frowned, mistaking his silence for hesitation. “Franz, I did not crush a revolution so that you could be picky about brides. And with war heating up at our borders, we don’t have the luxury of fighting over your marriage. Bavaria—that’s a grounded and honest choice for an alliance. And anyway, it is already decided. You will meet her at your birthday party at our summer villa in Bad Ischl. There we can announce the engagement.”

Sophie paused, tilted her head, and reached across the table to squeeze Franz’s hand, hers warm and soft against his. However powerful she was, she was still his mother. Her squeeze meant to let him know that she genuinely thought this was best—not just for the empire, but for him as emperor.

“The people need to dream again,” she continued, removing her hand.

Guilt burrowed its way into Franz’s unsettled heart. His mother wasn’t a fool. She knew what the country needed. She’d put him on the throne and kept him there—alive. Franz loved his mother, respected her. And he would give her this: a bride, a wedding, an heir. It would bring his mother peace—and secure the empire’s future.

Franz’s rooms were moody and dimly lit when he returned to them in the twilight. He unlaced his shoes and pressed his toes into the thick, red Persian rug, letting out a sigh of relief as he did so. He stripped off his jacket, catching a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror—suspenders dark against his white shirt, his brown eyes deep in shadow. He ran a hand along his face, feeling the tackiness of skin against fingertips, the sharpness of the edges of his mustache, the fatigue coursing through his veins.

From the corner, a familiar voice whispered in the dark, “Majesty.”

Franz paused, caught between the desire to be alone and the desire sparked by the voice itself. The voice was playful, sensual. His mistress knew Franz well enough to know that today of all days he needed her, needed to feel her skin on his.

Louise stepped out of the shadow, her familiar curves hidden under a shaggy, white bearskin. Another gift from Russia. Another reminder that Habsburg was wanted at war.

Franz shook the thought away.

His shoulders loosened as he watched the bearskin approach, a pale, shapely, naked leg appearing and then disappearing as Louise made her way toward him, tantalizing and slow.

“Is this your secret fantasy?” she teased. “Your Majesty the bear, and me the helpless squirrel?”

She was in front of him now, her scent all cinnamon and fiery urgency.

“And what if it is?” He traced a finger lightly across the soft bearskin, imagining her neck and shoulders underneath.