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"Indeed," he said, and with a flourish, he whisked her into an unexpected spin, drawing laughter from her lips.
Their path led them next to the stables, where the musky aroma of hay and leather mingled under the high rafters. Bernard introduced her to the horses with a tenderness that revealed the gentle nature beneath his princely facade. He spoke their names like old friends—Apollo, Elysium, Orion—and watched with delight as Eloise extended a palm filled with treats.
"Seems you're quite the horse whisperer," she teased, observing how the animals nuzzled closer to her, drawn by her innate warmth.
"Or perhaps they're simply charmed by your presence," Bernard countered, a playful glint in his eye.
The royal kitchen proved to be their final escapade, a cavernous room where copper pots hung like chimes awaiting the wind. The head chef, absent for the day, had left behind a legacy of aromas that hinted at feasts prepared behind closed doors. They embarked on a comedic attempt to bake a simple loaf of bread, flour puffing into the air like winter's first snow, coating their hair and clothes with a fine dusting.
"Who knew baking could be such an... exhilarating endeavor?" Eloise mused.
"Ah, but the taste of victory will be all the sweeter," Bernard proclaimed, watching the dough rise with a mix of pride and anticipation.
Throughout the day, amid the echoes of shared laughter and quiet confidences exchanged, Eloise felt the threads of a bond weaving together—a tapestry of companionship that felt as ancient as the palace itself and as fresh as the gardens in bloom.
Hand in hand, they returned to the heart of the palace, their footsteps light, their spirits buoyant with the joy of togetherness. And as the last rays of sunlight cast golden hues across the courtyard, Eloise realized that, in finding Bernard, she had discovered not only a partner but also a kindred spirit who delighted in life's simplest pleasures with as much fervor as she did.
Chapter Eight
Eloise's heels clicked against the ancient stone floor, a subtle counterpoint to the grand organ filling the vaulted space with sacred harmonies. Bernard, wearing a morning suit that spoke of tradition as much as it did of his impeccable taste, offered her an arm. As she looped her own through it, she felt the gentle squeeze of his fingers, a silent reassurance that transcended the need for words.
They walked together down the aisle of the chapel, flanked by centuries-old stained glass that filtered the morning light into a kaleidoscope of colors dappling their path. Bernard's family proceeded with the same composed elegance, the king and queen exuding a benevolence that was almost tangible, while his cousins' laughter whispered like a sotto voce accompaniment to the service about to unfold.
The sermon was a tapestry of ancient texts and contemporary wisdom, woven seamlessly by the archbishop. Eloise listened, occasionally sneaking glances at Bernard, who bore the weight of royal duties with a grace that made it look as though he were born to stand at the pulpit himself. A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she caught him stifling a yawn.
As the final hymn soared and the benediction settled upon the congregation like a royal mantle, Bernard’s family greeted fellow parishioners with the ease of long practice.
Lunch was a grand affair, not due to the opulence of the setting—they dined in a modest family room within the palace—but because of the company and conversation. The King recounted tales of state visits that had everyone chuckling over their chicken and roasted vegetables.
"Remember the time Father mistook the ambassador's wife for the gardener?" Frederick quipped, nearly choking on his water as the memory sent ripples of laughter around the table.
"Ah, horticultural diplomacy," Bernard added with a twinkle in his eye, "a thorny issue indeed."
Eloise laughed along, feeling like she was already a part of this family.
Their laughter mingled with the clinking of fine china and the soft shuffle of servants discreetly clearing dishes, the moment as comfortable as a beloved book whose pages never yellowed with time.
THE GRAVEL CRUNCHED beneath the tires of the gleaming vintage car as Bernard maneuvered with effortless grace along the winding path. Eloise sat beside him, appreciating his skills as a driver. She looked all around as pieces of manicured lawns and grand estates lined the road.
"Where are we off to?" she inquired, her voice laced with a playful curiosity.
"Somewhere special," Bernard replied, the corners of his mouth hinting at a secret mirth. "A locale steeped in sentimental history."
Eloise’s gaze took in the scenery as the car slowed to a halt beside a charming gazebo, its white lattice entwined with climbing roses. Bernard got out of the car and ran around it to open the door for Eloise.
"See there?" Bernard gestured toward the gazebo. "That's where my father proposed to my mother. It was their sanctuary."
"Truly?" Eloise's fingers traced the delicate blooms, imagining the scene.
"Yes." Bernard's voice softened. "He often said it was here that he found the courage to shape a future with her, a future that eventually led to...well, to this moment with you."
Bernard watched her. "I've always believed that the best parts of our past can illuminate the path to our future," he mused.
"Then let us hope," Eloise quipped, her eyes twinkling, "that your father was not standing in a bed of nettles when he knelt. It would be quite the prickly precedent to follow."
His laughter rang out, clear and bright, mingling with hers.
Bernard extended his hand, a silent invitation for Eloise to sit beside him on the gazebo's ornate bench. She obliged, enjoying sitting close beside him. It felt right. How had she never realized Bernard was a man who could make her happy?
