She could see Priscilla wished to say more, but she laughed when Ophelia gave her a gentle shove away and didn’t resist, making her way to take her place beside Remi. Their hands tangled together before he lifted her knuckles to his lips for a brief kiss.
Ophelia turned away from the casual intimacy with a blush. Great God, she needed to get her mind back in order. She slipped across the room, to the double doors leading to the terrace. She stepped outside and shut them softly behind her, praying everyone had been so tangled up in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed her departure. She hadn’t dared to look at Grantham to see if he had still been watching her. Staring her down, more like it.
The terrace on the back side of the estate was remarkable. It covered the entire length of the palace, so one could step out from a great many rooms for air, walk the entire length of marble and even slip down to the garden. Not that she wanted to go to the garden any time soon.
Now it had memories and she was trying to pretend that wasn’t true.
She huffed out a breath and began to make her way from the parlor toward a more darkened corner of the parapet. She had only taken a few steps when the parlor door opened. She glanced back to see Grantham had exited behind her.
“Blast the man,” she muttered, and hurried toward the shadows more quickly. Perhaps his exit was not related to hers. Yes, that could be possible. And if he didn’t see her, she could escape here for a moment and not face—
“Lady Ophelia?” he called out.
She froze and turned back. She was half in the shadows now, but they offered her no protection. He was staring at her openly.
“What is it?” she snapped, harsher than she’d meant to sound.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She folded her arms. “I am trying to escape you, if you must know. It is unconscionable that you are refusing to allow it.”
He froze, his expression becoming wild for the briefest of moments before he corrected it back to his usual impassive one. “I apologize sincerely. I will go back inside the house.”
He was truly upset by the idea that he had done something untoward by following her. A unique reaction. How many men had simply stalked her across ballrooms or gardens even when she told them she wished to be alone?
She moved toward him. “Wait. You are here, Your Majesty, and you do not deserve my ire. I apologize. Of course you needn’t go back inside.”
He hesitated. “I was not trying to violate your privacy, but I did wish to discuss something with you, if you would allow it.” He cleared his throat. “Confess something.”
She caught her breath. Confess. That was a uniquely loaded word, wasn’t it? A person could confess a wrong or a secret…or a desire. And that he wished to direct this apparent confession toward her was intriguing.
She nodded. “If you would like.”
He motioned her to continue the way she had begun, away from the parlor, into the soft darkness on the outer edge of the terrace. He followed at a respectful distance, and when she stepped up to the stone railing and rested her hands there, he moved beside her and placed his own just a fraction down the way. She felt the warmth of them, even though that could not be actually possible.
“What is your confession?” she asked, breathless now.
He glanced toward her, then pivoted to face her. They were closer now, his body almost brushing hers. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath against her cheek as he whispered, “The statue in the garden is a strange thing.”
She wrinkled her brow. “I…don’t think so. There are statues of kings all over London.”
“Yes, but the one in the garden has been standing there for at least two hundred years,” he insisted.
She shook her head. “How would someone know two hundred years ago that you would be king someday?”
“They carved the statue for King Bartholomew, the first king to reside in this palace,” he explained. “Horrible man. One of the worst. I can direct you to a book if you’d like to know more about him, but it is not nighttime reading. It will give you nightmares.”
She blinked. He was certainly verbose all of a sudden. And she…liked it. She liked the warm tenor of his voice and the way he held her gaze as he spoke to her.
“And his son,” he continued, “who eventually became King David, despised him. When the father died, the son had his statue’s head…removed, and replaced with his own head.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“Yes. I suppose that petty action would have been the end of it, but David was killed during a naval battle he insisted on being part of. His death marked the end of a war and his brother, King Samuel, took over. There was to be a soiree and the head was hurriedly replaced with that of the new king. And hence, a tradition was born, and a dozen kings afterward would do the same. So you see, my lady, the finger you detached this afternoon in the garden…was not mine.”
“I see,” she breathed. “Well, that changes everything.” Another of those near-smiles tilted the corner of his lips and she felt herself wanting to lean closer. She fought the urge. “Was that what you wished to confess, sir?”
“No,” he said slowly. “Well…yes and no. You see, when I was fifteen and Remi twelve, we were roughhousing in the garden near what was then my father’s statue and, well…” He cleared his throat. “I broke that very same finger off.”
Her mouth dropped open, for she could see what was coming next.
“My father was not exactly an understanding sort, and he would have been enraged that I was behaving so poorly. Remi had the brilliant idea to use paste to repair it. And it has stayed fixed, somehow, through wind, rain and snow for fifteen long years. Until you, Lady Ophelia, created a storm that could not be resisted.” He inclined his head. “But you did not break the statue. I did. And I could not allow you to believe otherwise.”
She covered her mouth with one hand, but she could not contain the giggles that escaped around her fingers. They gave way to a belly laugh at the very idea of it all. She glanced up to see if he was also laughing, but he wasn’t. No, he was just standing there, watching her as always…only this time his expression was anything but unreadable.
His pupils were dilated, his expression lined with desire. Oh yes, that was desire, unmistakable and undeniable. She felt it too. Down to her bones, through every part of her body. And when he edged a tiny bit closer, when he lifted an ungloved hand to trace the line of her jaw, she couldn’t stop herself from shivering with pleasure.
He bent his head slowly, his fingers cupping her chin to tilt her toward him. She didn’t resist. If anything, she lifted on her tiptoes, trying to reach him faster. Needing to find his mouth with a desperation that shook her to her very core.
Their lips met and the world ceased to exist. It was only his mouth on hers, gentle for the briefest of moment, then more insistent as he placed a hand on her hip and drew her even closer. She wound her arms around his neck, lifting into his broad chest and parting her lips beneath his.
He made a rumbling sound deep down, one that called to her own sigh of pleasure and then he wasn’t gentle anymore. His tongue drove forward, plundering with a desperation that she matched. He tilted his head, probing deeper, tasting her, savoring her, and she was utterly lost.