Grantham smiled at the warm connection between his brother and Priscilla, and looked back into the parlor toward Ophelia. He could see her there, smiling at the scene, all support for her friend. For him.
God, how he loved her even more.
His mother nudged him as Remi and Priscilla stepped back. He moved forward to do his own wave. The crowd still clapped, smiling faces greeting him. But then he heard it.
Boos. He searched the crowd and saw the frowns and glares on some of the faces. A man shouted out, “Freedom for Athawick!”
Grantham blinked at the words, which hit him like a punch. He’d seen them before, in the flyers put up all over the capital…but hearing them? That was another story. It felt so much more real. He could see the crowd stirring, confused, leaning toward the man. More than one man now, calling out the slogan over and over in a never-ending refrain.
One of the guards on the terrace turned. “I’ll signal to have them removed.”
Grantham shook his head. “No. These are my people. They are allowed to have a voice.”
The guard looked confused and Grantham understood why. His father would have had them tarred and feathered, likely. No one would have dared to oppose him.
Grantham didn’t want that. He lifted his hand one last time, hoping his feelings weren’t clear on his face, and then stepped back into the antechamber, the family following. His mother closed the terrace doors hurriedly, but the boos and hollers were still heard, even from the distance. Grantham stopped in the middle of the room, starting straight ahead but seeing nothing.
“Grantham,” Sasha said, stepping toward him.
He held up a hand. “No. Please. No.” He faced the guard who had spoken to him on the terrace and followed the family back inside. “Be sure the crowd disperses safely, but I want to make it clear that those who speak in protest against me are not to be harassed or harmed.”
The guard’s brow wrinkled and Grantham could see he wished to argue, but he did not. He only inclined his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll go down and spread the word amongst the division.”
He hustled from the room and Grantham let out a ragged sigh. His gaze flitted to Ophelia and their eyes met. He felt her support, her understanding, her sadness on his behalf and it was too much. He shook his head and strode from the room, away from her, away from the family, away from the still buzzing crowd below…away from everything but his duty and his failure, because those were the albatross he wore around his neck at all times.
Ophelia didn’t care how it looked to the others. When Grantham speared her with that gaze that was so broken, so devastated, so uncertain and then fled the room, she didn’t wait or ask permission. She followed him, racing behind him down the hallways. He didn’t go to his study, as she expected, but past it and into a parlor where she had never been before.
She entered the room and stopped. The furniture was all cleared away in here, save a settee placed against a far wall. There were fencing tools and dummies she assumed were meant to practice combat in every corner. A place for a man to fight. And yet Grantham stood in the middle of the room, his head bent.
“Go away,” he snapped without looking at her. “I don’t want you here, Ophelia.”
She heard the order, but also the deep pain behind it and she didn’t move.
He pivoted, dark eyes flashing. “I said get out.”
Instead, she turned and moved to shut the door. She saw Remi coming down the hallway. He stopped as he saw her. Their eyes met and held, and she made a decision. One that revealed far too much to Remi, she was certain. Far too much to herself.
She shook her head gently and shut the door.
Turning, she said nothing as she moved to Grantham. He stiffened as she touched his upper arm, and he felt so fragile in that moment. So breakable in his despair. But he was still fighting. Fighting her, fighting the future, fighting the pain and the fear.
“I said I don’t want you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I want to see Remi.”
“And you will,” she said. She reached for him, touching his cheek, then sliding her hand to the back of his head. Gently she guided him down until his forehead rested on her shoulder. Only then did she feel the fight go out of him. He slumped, his shoulders rolling forward, his breath becoming ragged. She wrapped her arms around him and held him through it, demanding nothing, saying nothing.
She was what he needed. She knew it in her soul. And she wasn’t going to be anything less than that right now. She drew him to the settee and they sat. He rested his head against her arm, and together they simply breathed.
Finally, he lifted his head and shook it. “I was raised never to let this kingdom fail,” he said.
She took his hands and rested them in her lap, cradling them between her own. “You aren’t.”
He shrugged. “That is uncertain. You see how far this rebellion has come. They are willing to come onto palace grounds and scream for my removal and their freedom. They were willing to follow our family to London and physically threaten and harm my sisters. This isn’t some disorganized group of two or three who are drunkenly screeching in a pub. This is…this is real desire for self-governance. A real request for the end of sovereign rule.”
She pursed her lips, focused entirely on him. And not just what he said and the tone he said it with. She saw every flicker in his stare, felt every nuance of his body language.
“Do you fear they’re…they’re in the right?” she asked.
He stiffened, and that was her answer. Written in brilliant color all over his handsome face before he sighed. “I don’t know. I have studied the representative governments that have grown up in the past few years. There is no doubt that there is merit to the idea.”
“Then…” She drew a deep breath because she knew full well she was overstepping. “Grantham, is there a way that you could do as they wished?”
He flinched slightly. “Surrender the throne, you mean? Destroy what my family has heralded and protected for centuries?”
She touched his cheek again. “I know you, Grantham. What you wish to herald and protect are your people. Perhaps your legacy is to do that in the best way possible to help them find success without the violence we saw when the colonies rebelled against English rule.”
He let out a shaky breath. “This country is so small. A war would devastate everyone who lives here and leave us open to invasion from those who wish to control the power our location provides.”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” she said softly. “This is not my country, nor my people. But I hate to see you paint the future with only one brush. With only what your father browbeat into you as the reference. You deserve better. And so do those you reign over.”
He sighed heavily before he cupped her cheeks. He leaned in and she breathed him in before he kissed her gently. “I value your opinion. And I will think about it.”
She watched as he rose and moved toward the door. She followed, smoothing her skirts. “I’m sure Remi is pacing the hallway, waiting for you.”
He nodded. “And I must speak to him. But…thank you.”
She opened the door and found Remi leaning against the wall. He straightened up and looked at her, searching her face for answers. Then he looked past her at his brother. His expression was a combination of understanding and worry. At least Grantham had support.