There is his younger brother

Tradition does suggest the next in line to the dutchy of Illenda should be considered. In most cases you would bet that with such a long betrothal and such close families it would simply happen by weight of rumor, supposition and gossip. Everyone would expect and so it would be. Yet this time, even before the funeral, Duchess Illenda sent a letter to both you and your mother formally stating she would not seek and would not endorse a betrothal of you to Anton, her own son.

'She hates him almost as much as my own mother does,' that other bit of you thinks.

It's true. And your father also hated him quite a bit for some reason.

'It's silly when he's always been nice to me. We get along nicely and he always has stories to tell about his trips at sea.'

You sigh. A quick check between your legs with your finger reveals exactly what you thought you'd find. Your desirous cleft is very wet. You'll never sleep now, not until you do something about it. In the dark you mutter, "Do all women have this problem? Is it just princesses, cooped up in our tower bedrooms?"

'Maybe it's just me,' whispers that voice. 'Maybe all the other princesses are quiet girls and you're the only one who's ****.'

That was possible too. You're sure some young women have the chance to sneak away and have their fun. Otherwise how could there be so many bastards? But not you, no, no. The 'royal sanctum' is supposed to be guarded and uninhabited from now till your wedding night.

'How boring!'

Yes. Worse yet, just a few months ago, when you got all hot and bothered, it was easy to deal with. You just pictured Lucas in your mind's eye and worked away at your thirsting slit until your legs quaked and then you could lie back and rest. But you can't very well... do that when thinking of a dead man. You thump the mattress in frustration. Why couldn't Lucas have just come here six months ago and married you?

You take a moment and try to feel really bad about Lucas for a few minutes, but at the end you're still horny. That other bit in the back of your head just won't leave you be. If you hear Madame Zelande comment that you look tired one more time...

'Just think of Anton. No one will ever know.'

With some trepidation you lay one finger against your needy loins. You almost picture Sir Arrick again, but quickly divert your mind to Anton's smiling face. Mmmm, yes, he's so close this time. He's touching your cheek so gently. Pressing a glass of wine to your lips. Wiping away the drop that escaped with his finger. Then he takes your hand and pulls you close. A soft, kind hug. How long has it been since your parents gave you a hug?

You imagine Anton rolling your long gown back to expose your legs. You try to stop him, but he rubs the insides of your knees and winks at you as he spreads you and pushes you back on the big picnic blanket. You look up at the great oak above, then Anton's head obscures the tree, silhouetted by soft green light. He leans in and kisses you...

And your legs go rigid as your questing finger sends you over the edge. Your other hand instinctively clamps over your mouth to make sure you don't wake anyone. 'Oh Gods!' you think to yourself. 'How was it so powerful this time?'

'Well,' says that other part of you, 'it has been a while since you took care of yourself. Maybe you should think of nice, handsome Anton every night to tire yourself out.'

Oh my. That seems like a dangerous idea. As you start to drift off you think one last thing: You had best work out which man you're going to end up marrying quickly. Otherwise you'll be dreaming of all the wrong ones.