The Fine Print: Despite how much I'd love to have a Julie Andrews for my very own, The Princess Diaries and my beloved Clarisse and Joe belong to Meg Cabot and Disney.

Author's Note: I couldn't get this idea out of my head for some reason. A little "what if?"AU . . .

To Get an Heir

By St. Clair

Clarisse Gerard Renaldi, Queen of Genovia, stood frozen in disbelief as her husband's words hung heavily in the space between them. Her lips parted as a breath shuddered across them. "My god, Rupert . . ."

Rupert quickly closed the short distance between them, desperate to make his wife understand the decision he had reluctantly come to. "Please, just hear me out, dear . . ." he began gently as he reached to caress her shoulder, smoothing his fingers across the pale blue silk of her robe, wishing more than ever that there had been some way to spare them both this conversation.

Clarisse jerked under his touch, startling him, shrugging out of his grasp and stepping just out of reach. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively, and for a moment, they simply stared at one another. Rupert guiltily tracked the faint blush of anger that started to creep up his wife's pale cheeks.

Finally Clarisse shook her head, trying to collect herself and keep the outrage she felt in check, and asked, "How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"Clarisse . . . we've both seen the doctors," he stated simply, turning away from her gaze to stare down into the fire. "We know where the fault lies."

In her own mind, Clarisse couldn't deny the truth of what he said, nor could she allow herself to accept his alternative. But as she studied the outline of his shoulders, watching as the usual broad and regal lines collapsed in defeat, she answered softly, "We'll keep trying just as we have been."

"For eight years, Clarisse. Eight."

Rubbing his hand across his forehead, trying to assuage the dull ache that had settled there, Rupert turned to face Clarisse once again. "It's time that we simply accept the fact that I will never father a child."

Clarisse opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off, "No, let me finish." He took a deep breath and declared, "Genovia needs an heir."

"But it wouldn't be a Renaldi heir," she countered quickly.

Rupert chuckled sadly. "Darling, do you really think that in all those 500 years there were never any less-than-legitimate heirs—I shudder to think just how many of my ancestors were conceived in some sort of sordid kitchen pantry tryst."

"How can . . ." she began, suddenly seething at his attempt to make light of this, when after all it was she that was going to be the butt of the joke. "Do I get to choose?" she spat. "Or are you planning to select the lucky man yourself? The man who gets the honor of impregnating the queen?"

"Damn it, Clarisse!" he yelled, grapping her roughly around the upper arms and pulling her towards him . "Do you think this is easy for me? It's humiliating. The speculating—in the press—hell, even in Parliament—"

The glint of the solitary tear that slipped down her cheek brought his tirade to an abrupt halt. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the guilt and shame he felt as he watched those beautiful blue eyes, clouded with hurt, blinking back tears. He had never seen his wife like this before. In all their years of marriage, he could never remember her losing her cool facade. The Clarisse he married did not get angry. The Clarisse he married did not cry. She put duty to her country, to Genovia, before all else.

Rupert let go of her arms and wiped away the tear with his thumb. "How can you think that this doesn't break my heart? To ask you to do this?" he whispered. "Clarisse, my darling, I love you—you know I do. You're my best friend—I'd never do anything willingly to hurt you." He leaned slowly down and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

Then, stepping back and squaring his shoulders, he added almost coldly, "But I have a duty to Genovia. And so do you."

Clarisse closed her eyes and fought down the shiver threatening to overwhelm her despite the warmth from the fire.

Visibly, she collected herself and reassembled the mask she wore, as she stood tall, tilting her chin slightly in the air.

"You didn't answer my question," she said calmly and clearly, tucking a lock of errant golden hair behind her ear. "Who is it to be?"

"I've given it a lot of thought . . . and really only one person comes to mind, only one person we could trust enough to ask . . ."

"Who?"

The angry pink flush that moments ago colored her porcelain cheeks, drained from Clarisse's face as the name passed his lips.

"Joe."