“You think I would steal some of their happiness,” he said softly.
She nodded. “And they wouldn’t understand why.”
“He would just see me as cruel,” he said slowly. “As bad as our father.”
She moved closer, and once again she caught his hand. He hated that she wore gloves. He wanted to feel her skin against his as he had when he kissed her.
“Despite our differences, I have said it once and I will say it again: you are not cruel. Stern. Unreadable. Frustrating.” His lips quirked at her directness. “But never cruel.”
He let out a long breath. “I won’t intrude upon their day.”
Her grip tightened on his hand. “Thank you, Grantham,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Thank you.”
He should have stepped away. Every reasonable part of him told him that he had to do so. To separate from this woman who was the most beautiful ball of chaos and sunshine he had ever met. The woman who could destroy all he had built, knock down his walls so effortlessly. That was danger.
And yet he didn’t step back. Instead he pulled her closer. Her breath hitched as she stared up at him, her gaze going a little unfocused as it trailed to his mouth and then swiftly back again. He felt her tremble. He trembled too as her skirt made a swish against his boots.
He lifted the hand she didn’t hold, opening the fist that had made his knuckles white and gliding the fingers along her impossibly soft cheek. She turned into his touch, the smallest sigh escaping her lips.
He leaned in, unable to stop now, the voice of reason fading to nothingness, replaced by raw and powerful desire. He felt her breath on his lips just before they touched, and it was like someone turned off control. He drowned in that sensation as he claimed her mouth for the second time in a handful of days.
She opened to him immediately and he delved into the pleasure of her taste: sweet like tea, warm like a bath, powerful like a wave on the ocean that could drag him out to sea. He welcomed it all, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her against him so that her curves molded against his and her whimper was lost on his tongue.
She met him stroke for stroke. There was no simpering or withdrawing or questioning in the way she kissed him back. She knew what she wanted. She knew what he wanted. Despite their often contentious relationship, she seemed more than willing to give and receive both. And it would be so fucking easy to take what he wanted. To push her back into the shadow of the palace wall. To run his hands all over her body until she was shaking, begging. To align their bodies and take until they were soaked in each other’s sweat and shaking with merged pleasure.
It would be too easy to do that. To forget himself.
That was her power.
He stepped away, releasing her gently so she wouldn’t lose her balance. He shook his head. “This cannot happen.”
She blinked at him, lips swollen and wet from his mouth. “It just did.”
He bent his head. “You…you like to play, Ophelia. You like to dance in the light and tempt the stars. And that’s wonderful. Infuriating, but wonderful.” He waved toward the garden in the distance, toward the sounds of those gathered there. “I can’t play. So this has to stop.”
He didn’t wait for her response, but turned away and started toward the garden instead. But as he walked, he heard her say one word. It echoed in the air and would echo in his mind for a long time to come.
“Coward.”
He froze and didn’t look back even as he said, “Probably.”
Then he kept walking back to his subjects, back to his life, back to the emptiness that was the only way for him to stay afloat in the storm.
CHAPTER 8
“I’m so sorry to intrude.”
Ophelia glanced up from the book she had been reading, curled up on a comfortable window seat in the glorious library. She was surprised to find the queen, herself, at the door, hands clasped as she awaited Ophelia’s response.
Queen Giabella was a beautiful woman, with dark hair and eyes that most of her children, save Remi, had inherited. She was sophisticated—no one who didn’t know her role would have ever been surprised to be told she was a queen—but she was also kind. There was a genuineness to her that permeated from every look and word.
Ophelia hustled to her feet and executed a small curtsey. “Not at all, Your Majesty. May I be of some service?”
Queen Giabella stepped into the room. “I was about to go into the garden and cut roses for some centerpieces for an event later in the day. My daughters are both busy with their husbands, as is Priscilla, so I realized it would offer me the perfect opportunity to make your acquaintance on a more personal level.”
Ophelia swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure that was the best of ideas. After all, it had been nearly two days since Grantham’s searing kiss after the wedding. The man had ignored and avoided her since. He probably wouldn’t want her any nearer his mother than he wanted her near him.
Defiance won over uncertainty, as well as the desire to know the queen better. “Of course, Your Majesty. Will I need a spencer, do you think?” She glanced down at her short-sleeved gown.
“No, it is unseasonably warm this afternoon.” The queen beckoned for her and they walked from the library and up the hallway together.
They exited the palace and down the veranda stairs into the garden. Two baskets and two pairs of cutters and gloves awaited them at the entrance to the garden, and Ophelia smiled as she tugged the gloves on. “You do prepare for everything.”
“Our staff is truly the best.” The queen’s smile fluttered slightly. “On the whole. Now, what do you think for centerpieces?”
“I suppose it depends on the event,” Ophelia said as they made their way to the rows of rose bushes.
“The king is hosting a few of his ministers and a handful of aristocrats from various parts of the island. Save Jonah, of course, as he and Ilaria have gone to visit his new seat in the south for a few days. You are welcome to join us, of course. The dignitaries will probably welcome a fresh face and not all of them are terrible bores.”
There was something about the queen’s tone that made Ophelia examine her more carefully. Though she hid it under smiles and calm rather than Grantham’s frowns and storms, she looked as concerned as the king. Best to proceed carefully, it seemed.
“Of course I will join if you’d like, Your Majesty. It sounds as though the gathering is great importance. I think the bold red, to make a statement of strength, don’t you think?” Ophelia asked, beckoning to the roses.
“I agree. But perhaps with some hints of white, for peace,” the queen suggested.
“Perfect.”
The queen gave some instruction on approximate numbers and then they stepped up to the bushes together, each carefully choosing blooms for the purpose. It was quiet for a short while, with both of them focusing on the task at hand. However, Ophelia felt the queen’s gaze shift to her from time to time, felt the questions bubbling up in her.
And since she wasn’t sure how she could answer certain of those questions, she decided to take the reins herself. “You are from Everlay, are you not, Your Majesty?”
The queen arched a brow, as if she realized Ophelia was making the first move in a chess game. But she nodded. “I am. A very small nation, but then again, so is Athawick. But our locations on trade routes have made both counties important. Important enough to link our nations through marriage.”