“I…I should speak to her,” he admitted slowly. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen that I am taking advice from you.”
Remi grinned. “I know. I’m shocked at it, myself.” He nudged Grantham lightly. “Good on you, mate.”
Grantham rolled his eyes at his brother’s enthusiasm for his shockingly bad behavior. “Please don’t act like this was a good thing.”
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Grantham blinked, memories of the sweetness of Ophelia’s flavor, the clench of her thighs around him, the way she’d gasped out pleasure against his tongue all bombarded him. “Yes.”
“And did she?”
Once again, he thought of how her body had flexed against him, the powerful waves of orgasm rocking him down to his very core. “Yes.”
“Then it wasn’t a bad thing, at the very least,” Remi said.
Grantham sighed. He wasn’t certain Remi was entirely correct in that assessment. At least not yet. “I will let you get back to your wife.” He turned and moved toward the door, but stopped there and turned back. “I…I’m glad I spoke to you about this.”
Remi’s expression softened and it warmed Grantham. They had been so close as boys, but recent years had pulled them further and further apart. To the point that Remi had actually hit him just a few days before. But in this moment, he felt their bond of brotherhood strengthen once again.
“So am I,” Remi said.
Grantham nodded and then left the room. After he shut the door, he leaned against it briefly, trying to calm his racing heart and find his breath again. This was clearly not the right moment to find Ophelia, not when he was still teetering on the edge of control.
So he would go work. And plan his next move with the woman who seemed to test his restraint without even trying.
Ophelia stared at her plate as she pushed the food on it around with the tines of her fork. She had hardly eaten any of the delicious delicacies, including lobster caught fresh that day by Athawickian fisherman.
But how could one eat when Grantham was sitting at the head of the table five places away, talking to one of the visiting counts as if nothing had happened between them just a few hours before? Did it mean nothing to him?
But no, she knew that wasn’t true. She glanced up and looked at him directly. He glanced her way like he felt her regard and his cheek twitched slightly, his pupils dilated. She moved him. What had happened moved him. He was simply better at hiding it.
Which left her wondering what the hell would come out of it? Would he simply never speak of it again? Never speak to her again? Would the moment be repeated, perhaps when the tension between them reached a boiling point again? Or would he avoid her so that his façade of control would never be cracked again?
“Ophelia?”
She jolted as Priscilla, who had been seated next to her, placed a gentle hand on hers. She forced a smile for her friend. “Yes?”
Priscilla’s brow wrinkled with worry. “Are you well?”
Ophelia cleared her throat and shifted to a straighter position in her chair. “Of course. I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Very believable when you start speaking in idioms.”
Ophelia barely resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at her friend. Priscilla did know her too well. And Ophelia wasn’t trying to keep what had happened a secret—she just had to think on it more before she confessed what she had done with Grantham. Ophelia couldn’t help but wonder if she would be censured, especially considering her troubled past. Her lapses in judgment.
“I see you aren’t going to beat around the bush,” Ophelia said.
Priscilla giggled. “Stop it now.”
“Better late than never,” Ophelia offered. It seemed the playfulness had distracted her friend and that was a good thing.
“You are terrible,” Priscilla said as she raised her napkin to control her laughter. “But I mean the question. You are pale and distracted.”
Ophelia pursed her lips. Damn. She hadn’t distracted Pris as much as she thought she had. “I’m fine,” she said, and felt the lie of it. “I promise.”
“You can talk to me,” Priscilla said softly, and there was a tone to her voice that made Ophelia look closer. Priscilla had never been very good at covering up her thoughts or feelings. Her expressive face revealed all, and in that moment it seemed like she…she knew. She knew something had happened.
Ophelia caught her breath. How would Pris know? Unless…unless Grantham had said something to Remi, and Remi had told her. Could that be true?
“Ophelia,” Priscilla said, and squeezed her hand tighter.
“I will talk to you,” Ophelia promised, and meant it. “I will. I’m just not ready yet.”
“I understand that,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “Just…be careful.”
Ophelia nodded, and then they were distracted as one of the counts turned his attention to them. She pushed her thoughts away and spoke politely to the man about her time in Athawick. The interruption was a relief, really, and the rest of the supper she found herself able to concentrate a bit better. As long as she didn’t look at Grantham and ponder the heavenly feeling of his tongue against her body, it was fine. Everything was fine.
Eventually, the supper ended. Grantham escorted his mother to the parlor; his sister Sasha was taken by her husband, the Earl of Bramwell; Remi and Priscilla went together. The very count Ophelia had been talking to offered his arm. He was older than she by several years, but not an unpleasant man. He spoke of crops a bit too much, but she welcomed the benign topic when her mind raced so completely.
In the sitting room, Grantham’s distancing from her continued. After half an hour, she had all but accepted that he would not speak to her about what had happened.
As if he knew it, that was the moment Grantham chose to step away from the dignitary he had been speaking to and move toward her. She tensed as he reached her and inclined his head with all politeness and correctness.
“My lady,” he said.
She offered a brief curtsey. “Your Majesty.”
He stood beside her, and they were quiet a moment. There was no comfort to the silence, though, and she feared he could likely hear her heart pounding in her chest.
“I…I think we need to talk,” he said at last, turning toward her. “Alone.”
She stared up at him with his unreadable expression. God’s teeth, why did he make this so hard? Why couldn’t he give her some hint as to what he thought or felt?
“Of course,” she choked out, because she realized he was awaiting her response. “You are right.”
“There are too many eyes here,” he said, and motioned his head toward the others. She followed where he indicated and found that, indeed, several members of the royal family and all the dignitaries were watching them.
“They are always on you, it seems,” she said softly.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I cannot imagine the weight of that, Grantham.” His mouth tightened and she stiffened. “Your Majesty,” she corrected herself.
“I like when you call me by my name. Too much, perhaps.” He shook his head. “This lot will likely take to their beds by midnight. Will you meet me in the library tonight?”