“I petition your good nature to not diminish the importance of my height - very little is remanded to me as a weapon of visage then my height. And, little gives me pleasure then reminding you of how very little you are; it is a shame you shall not let me pocket you.” Three feet tall indeed; she scarcely eclipsed his chest without strain, and each act of tenderness delivered in a sweet kiss was by the hand of god, gracing miracles on the mortal earth. He simpered in delight as she teased him, relishing jibes as deeply as exaggerated statements of love. Philip regarded her in a brusque, energized fashion, moved by both the candor of her words, and the thundering of the heart beneath it breast - it seemed acutely tuned to the bell tower, whose fatal cry would announce the tournament half past the approaching hour. The lack of intimacy between them became regrettable when he retreated to dress, a task slowed by his refusal to avert his eyes; only when his mind was no longer solely enraptured on her features, did he finish. Each time Philip sought solace in her heavenly face, he was given not only pleasure in regarding a lover, but remembrance of the little echoes of their love - awaiting eagerly the return of their parents from a sabbatical that hand begun to wane his affections towards the court.
He would have reveled in the ire Joanna readily delivered onto the Tudor name had time not been pressing. “Securing the favor of Henry would be a gallant way to restore the name of your father to its deserved glory - but I fear I should fall privy to the redhead’s charms, and never return to your bed. And should you overthrow Henry in an unmatched fit of revenge, I pray for the fate of England.” Philip’s demand of her attentions and affections were regulated to an agreeable amount on most occasions, but he denied himself convention in his hour - where much lay predicated on the securing of her renewed love. Little, not even the words of a priest native to the homeland of all religions, would allow him to derive as much self-assurance, as would the word of Joanna. Biblical, ethereal, witch woman. He was perishing in want of her favor, and quickly sunk to the smallest iteration of his person that existed. With eyes full of tender, wanton need, his gaze addressed her person most earnestly. “I beg for you to no longer relish the sinful pleasure of torturing your husband, whom you took an oath before God to provide with only bliss. Joanna.” Her Christian name was dragged from his lips as if sunken in a pot of honey; a mixture of whine and simper, the noise that was uttered from a mountain of a man (both in name and stature) would have shocked those unacquainted with him so intimately as she.
Joanna captured her chin between her forefinger and thumb in a display of consternation, granting Phillip an advisory raising of her brow, as one would do a nettling child. This implicit warning was issued not only to deter him from the inevitable path of crossing swords his wife, but to eschew the unfortunate circumstances that would arrive should anyone overhear his treasonous remarks. ❛ Not a soul may claim that I have not done my utmost to encourage your endeavors, dear husband, but lying with the king – or anyone else for that matter – is not one of them. ❜ Once the short distance between them had been crossed, the duchess unabashedly admired her husband’s countenance and physique before it became ensheathed in impenetrable layers of iron-clad armor. No sooner had she finished readying his apparel than she removed her lithe hands from his waist, pacing a step backward only to allow him room to sink onto his knee before her; a look of wantonness flitting across pleading features, sculpted in accordance with Michelangelo’s craftsmanship. If it was possible to place one’s heart in another’s hands, hers surely belonged to Phillip as their fingertips locked and she drew nearer to him.
❛ I cannot grant you my favour, ❜ the serene noblewoman began, ridding her throat of all anxieties with a quiet cough, ❛ not without the promise of something far more everlasting than an asinine little quilt I had rather beg for than stitch myself. Phillip... you know well my convictions regarding the joust. I do not promote them. The possibility of your person being injured strikes the fear of God into my person – and I do swear to Him, Phillip, if you are hurt you will be the last to receive my sympathy. But I hope for your sake that you exit the tournament victorious, if even only to me. There are four souls in this world who depend upon you and I do hope that the fifth will not be far along. ❜ Pale digits moved to her waist to unspool the lilac ribbon clasped upon her bodice, blindly placed into her husband’s palm – their eyes never straying from one another.
❛ I’ll be expecting this back, you know. ❜ Joanna released a watery cough, blue irises pooling with moisture as she leaned forward to brush her forehead against Phillip’s. The Duchess was not renowned for her declarations of love, for her husband proudly bore the title of the ‘silver tongue’, and yet she knew little moved Phillip quite like the assurance of her abiding devotion to him and thus made the effort.
