"Does that really need teaching? It was just in my head..."

Arabella's

voice trailed off into a whisper, her head bowing low. She felt a sudden, sharp wave of regret. Hanging words like c*ck on her lips was incredibly crude, and

Frederick

looked genuinely angry.

That one smack had left her bottom stinging.

It made sense—Frederick was an elegant, noble gentleman, a prince living in a castle who used seven or eight different types of cutlery just to finish a meal. And she had just asked him if he wanted to go to bed with her.

For a moment, Arabella was overcome with shame. "Don't look at me like that. I know I was wrong. I'm sorry".

Frederick's voice remained gentle. "What was wrong about it?"

"I shouldn't have used such vulgar words. I won't say them again. Please don't be angry".

Frederick found it hard not to smile. Her earnest, honest admission of her mistake was so endearing that it made him feel like the villain. Unwilling to see her so dejected, he gave her cheek an encouraging pat. "

Birdie

, it wasn't a 'wrong.' You don't need to apologize. It's simply a matter of the occasion. We can say those things in private, but in the eyes of others, you are a noble, dignified little lady".

Arabella tilted her head. "So I can say them to you as long as we're alone?"

"Of course, sweetheart. In private, you can share anything with me. I hope you never feel the need to hide yourself from me".

As her

Daddy

, Frederick was willing to tolerate everything about his girl—the good and the bad, the sweet and the wicked, the elegant and the crude.

Arabella loved it when he called her 'sweetheart.' She loved being indulged and pampered; it made her feel comfortable and relaxed.

She leaned in until her nose almost touched his lips and whispered, "How much longer will he stay like this? When will he go back to normal?"

Frederick's Adam's apple bobbed. "I don't know," he said calmly.

Normally, it would take him 'handling' it twice to settle down, or a dose of medication, which would take fifteen minutes. Most of the time, he chose the latter. He didn't want to tell his

Little Bird

yet that he was different from other men—his desires were ten times stronger.

In other words, he had a s*xual addiction.

But that was a matter for after they were married. For now, he would maintain his restraint.

Frederick tried to move past the topic, but Arabella was clearly in high spirits. "Then... how big is it?"

"……"

Frederick felt a headache coming on. Wanting to see just how bold she could be, he teased, "I don't know. Did you want to measure?"

"Can I? How to measure it?!" Arabella sat up straight, eyes gleaming with excitement.

"No." Frederick pressed her back down.

"Oh." Arabella pouted. "Can I at least have a look?" She hadn't actually seen it yet; hidden beneath the fabric, it was just a dark, looming shadow, mysterious and clouded.

Frederick couldn't help but chuckle. He was truly at his wit's end with her. "If you were this focused, persistent, and inquisitive during your lessons, I think I would be very proud of you".

"I'm very active in my lessons!" she protested.

She was active—too active. She had so many questions that she chased her three tutors incessantly. One of them, a British fellow who was already balding, was being driven to total hair loss by her endless 'whys'.

Frederick had arranged three tutors for her: one for German, one for Geography and Humanities, and one for Daily Life skills.

The German lessons focused on simple conversation; since her English foundation was excellent, it wasn't difficult, just tedious with all the vocabulary. Geography began with Europe, while the Daily Life course covered everything from food and clothing to etiquette. Frederick felt this was necessary since her common sense remained fragmented.

Her tutors were due to arrive in thirty minutes.

"One last question," Arabella said, holding up a finger.

"Very well,

Birdie

," Frederick replied with gentlemanly grace.

She leaned in excitedly. "If I can't look, can I at least touch it?"

Frederick smiled, his palm catching her jaw to stop her from staring at his lap. "That is outside the curriculum. Now is not the time for touching".

He had tasted the first tide of passion through their kiss today, and the sensation had been more wonderful than he imagined.

For now, it was enough.

He didn't want to gorge himself on the delicacy all at once. He enjoyed the process of "baking" just as much—the stirring, the whipping, the mixing, the chocolate ganache, and the final topping of overflowing strawberries.

"Then when will it be time?" Arabella asked with disappointment. She seemed genuinely fascinated by the prospect. Her desires, like her personality, were straightforward and pure.

Frederick narrowed his eyes with a smile and lifted her back onto the sofa.

Standing up, he ignored the prominent ridge in his trousers and began slowly buttoning his suit jacket. "Sweetheart, that was your second question".

Arabella was indignant. "You didn't even answer the first one properly! You tricked me!"

Frederick ruffled her hair. "All is fair in war. That is the wisdom of your ancestors". He deftly changed the subject. "Would you like chocolate mousse during your studies this afternoon? Or perhaps fruit scones with cinnamon tea?"

Arabella's anger vanished instantly. "I want both! But I don't want the chef's chocolate mousse—I want yours". Frederick was an expert baker; he could produce any cake she asked for.

"As you wish, My Lady".

Arabella spread her arms and looked up at him with a sweet, slightly stubborn smile, her ability to act spoiled now perfected. "Carry me".

Frederick naturally obliged. His arms were incredibly strong, and he lifted her whole weight with ease.