But all he could think about was where in the world Ophelia was going. And with a quick glance at the room, he followed her, even though he knew it was the wrong answer to a question he refused to acknowledge and yet couldn’t deny. Couldn’t escape.
A question that could destroy his kingdom, his future, and most of all…his heart.
CHAPTER 9
Ophelia drew her fingertips along the fine wallpaper as she moved up the hall away from the parlor. She hadn’t been able to spend one more moment in that stuffy room with those stuffy men. They were all sniffing after her. That was nothing new. Men had been seeking her since before she’d even come out in Society.
But they were also all watching Grantham, just as she had been. Only they wanted him to fail. She saw it on their faces, heard it in the tones of their voices and the knowing quality of their questions.
And oh, how she had wanted to rush to his defense. To tear those men to shreds. But it wasn’t her place. It would only cause more consternation for the very man she felt oddly compelled to protect.
If Grantham’s pained expression had been any indication, he didn’t need more of that. She knew she caused enough of it by her very existence in his home. She played it up, didn’t she? Making it all a game. Enticing him to play it, sometimes against his will.
She sighed as her fingers brushed against the tall double doors that led into the throne room. She paused. She had been here for Jonah Crawford’s investiture as count a few weeks before, but the room was not open usually. This was Grantham’s true domain, though. His seat of power.
And she found herself testing the large brass handles. To her surprise, the door creaked open and she held her breath as she stepped inside.
It was quiet in the cavernous room. The shades were almost all drawn, though one had been done so hastily, it seemed, for a shaft of bright sunshine tumbled across the room and landed, very artistically, on the throne which sat on low stage just up a short set of three shallow stairs.
She was drawn to it, but did not go to the throne instantly. Instead she made her way around the outside edge of the room, taking in all the details of the room. There were stern portraits of previous kings hung along the walls. Watching and judging their successors. She felt it just looking up at the paintings. She had to believe Grantham felt the same every time he entered this room.
Perhaps every time he entered any room.
In the corner of the chamber there was a huge cabinet with a glass face. Inside there were swords mounted—ceremonial, it seemed—and a very pompous crown with a high blue cloth cap with sewn bejeweled stars in the center. She couldn’t imagine Grantham wearing such a thing. He looked fine in the burnished silver crown he had worn today, but this ornamental one seemed too…too silly for such a serious and studious person.
She stepped aside, coming closer to the throne with each step. There was another small chair set behind the main throne. Someone had explained to her that it was for the queen. Not whoever Grantham would marry, for she would take a place right beside him, but for his mother.
Right now, though, his throne was the lonely center of the dais. She hesitated before she climbed the short stairs and stood before the chair. It was made from some kind of gray, weathered wood and carved intricately with the same animals that graced the Athawickian flag: swans and whales all turned toward an intricate sun across the top of the throne.
The seat was lined with a blue velvet cushion and it was twice as wide as a normal chair might be. Two people might be able to fit if they were small enough. Even for Grantham, who was a large man, there would be ample room around him to take any position, sprawled or formal.
The idea of him sprawled here made her heart throb a little faster.
She drew in an unsteady breath as she touched the armrests of the seat with both hands. She leaned over it, thinking of the many men who had taken this place. Of the one who took it now.
Her knees had begun to shake, and she turned and slowly sank into position in the throne. His seat, which felt like it engulfed her in that moment. The wave of responsibility washed over her and she gasped for breath at the feel of it. She folded her hands in her lap and stared out and the dozens of empty chairs, all that pomp and circumstance put away but only just below the surface. If this room were full, she could imagine this view of it would be more than intimidating.
She was about to get up again when the doors to the throne room burst open. She caught her breath and watched as Grantham, himself, stepped into the room. His gaze scanned across the room and finally settled on her.
Even across the room, even in the dim light, she saw the flicker of emotion move across his face. Frustration and anguish, envy and desire, all tangled in one ever-moving expression that was focused on her. Only on and only for her. The spark that had flashed between them, that she had denied and ignored and, if she were honest with herself, tried to flame, roared to life.
His nostrils flared slightly as he yanked the doors shut behind him, closing them in together in the huge, quiet, entirely private room. When he charged across the room toward her like a bull, she wasn’t afraid. Because she could see he wasn’t actually angry. No, he was something else entirely. Something heated and powerful and mesmerizing.
“Get up,” he said, soft but firm.
She ought to have done just that. Sitting in his throne was entirely inappropriate. And yet she just couldn’t stop…baiting him. That was the way to bring him close, after all. Bait and catch, catch and release, bait again…
She slowly shook her head no and stayed exactly where she was.
He skidded to a stop about three strides away from her and stared at her, almost comically confused that she would refuse him. “Ophelia.”
She said nothing in response, just continued to stare down at him from the dais. He crossed the three strides, came up one step and now his face was even with hers. He leaned in, bracing one hand on each of the throne’s armrests.
He was so close now. A breath away as he repeated, “Get up.”
This time he said it slowly, succinctly. Her heart was pounding and her palms actually itched in her lap. She wanted to touch him, wanting to rake her nails across his shoulders, wanted to make him break. What would he look like if he broke and all the constrained passion raged free?
She didn’t do it. Instead she arched a brow and was happy her voice didn’t tremble too much when she said, “Or what?”
His nostrils flared again, and oh, yes, she saw the frustration she provoked in him. She also saw so much more. His pupils had dilated, his breath was a little shorter, he couldn’t stop dropping his focused gaze to her mouth, so close and yet far too far.
But he was still the king. She saw the king there in his eyes, too. The part of him that would insist on keeping his distance. On stopping this storm that seemed to stir up the moment they were within any distance of each other.
She didn’t want the king. The king was an institution, a thought, a theory.
No, she wanted the man. Only the man. And a wicked, wicked thought passed through her mind. One she couldn’t deny, or didn’t choose to deny at any rate. She lifted her hand toward him. He tracked her fingers, shuddering slightly when she brushed just the tips of them across his cheek, reveling in the roughness of his short-trimmed beard.
She moved higher, tangling them into his thick hair where she caught the crown still perched on his head. Gently, careful not to yank any of that hair free, she lifted the crown away.