The only time she’d felt any power over the odd sensations that crowded her chest when she was near him was when she had toyed with him at the ball. Flummoxing him kept him from coming too near. He hated that about her, after all. So perhaps it would be best to keep doing just that during her remaining time in Athawick.
That and avoiding him entirely. Even though this was his country, his palace, his kingdom.
CHAPTER 4
As soon as Priscilla had finished with her fitting, she flitted off to meet with Remi. Oh, her friend claimed they were going over wedding arrangements, but the brightness of her eyes had made Ophelia believe that they were doing something far more pleasurable and wicked with their afternoon.
A twinge of jealousy worked through her as she stepped out into the garden and drew a long breath of cool late summer air. Pleasure was not something she’d had a great deal of experience with, at least not physically. She knew what it felt like, of course. She had touched herself in the night, twisting in her sheets as she reached for that little blinding explosion deep inside of her.
But when it came to men…well, that was more complicated. A lady, at least a lady in England, was meant to be chaste. That was currency in her country. If one squandered it…
She shivered and pushed those thoughts away. They were meaningless, after all. Pleasure was not the in cards for her at present. Certainly not the kind that went along with love, like Priscilla had found. Ophelia had put her hopes for that kind of future away four long years before.
She strolled through the garden, trying to shift her focus onto the beauty around her. Normally that wasn’t such a difficult task. She liked to lose herself in her surroundings, let her mind go wild with ideas and hopes and dreams.
But today it kept going back to one place, one person. She huffed out a breath as she rounded a corner and came to a complete stop. A sculpture had been placed in the midst of a round of low bushes before her.
“Of course,” she muttered as she moved toward it and looked, reading the plaque aloud so she could hear it. “King Grantham, eighth of his line.”
She let her gaze slide up the stone figure, clad in what seemed to be traditional robes from generations ago. The body was not as big as the real thing, nor as toned. She could tell that even through the folds of stone fabric. Odd, really, since most of the time these sorts of statues were meant to idealize their subject rather than reflect or diminish him.
He had one hand on his hip, the other was extended, a finger pointing to some unknown horizon.
But the face…
She stepped close and lifted up on her tiptoes. The face was very good. It looked so much like him that she drank in the details that she normally kept herself from staring at when the real man stood before her. The angled jawline feathered here with an expertly sculpted beard. The full lips that seemed so perfect for kissing. The sharp gaze, only slightly muted by stone. She sucked in a breath and moved closer, resting a hand on the outstretched stone finger to balance herself as she leaned in.
Only to have the entire finger suddenly snap off in her hand, sending her stumbling away from the statue.
She froze, staring down at the detached digit, angled accusingly toward her, as if to proclaim that she was the culprit.
“Merde,” she muttered beneath her breath as her thumb brushed the rough stone. “Damn!”
She stepped up to the statue again and tried to press the broken piece of stone against the ragged edge left behind. Of course it would not reattach, not by the miracle of hope, at any rate.
She pondered her options. She could just…pocket the finger. Hope no one would notice. Or drop it on the grass, leaving it unclear who might have damaged it. Of course that might lead to trouble for some poor gardener. She didn’t think the royal family would be too harsh on someone, but who knew? And what if someone had seen her here, from the window or some other place in the garden?
She tried to push the finger back in place yet again when Grantham himself rushed past the little statuary, hands clenched at his sides, face stormy with emotion.
She squeaked in terror and shoved the broken piece of finger behind her back as he stopped dead in his tracks and pivoted back toward her. The storm in his gaze faded, but only a fraction, as he stared her up and down, then glanced over to his statue.
God’s teeth, did he notice the broken piece? She was about to find out because he moved her way in a few long steps and came to halt before her.
“Lady Ophelia,” Grantham said, smoothing his jacket as he came to a stop before her. “Good afternoon.”
She inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”
He hesitated, trying to find something to say. He’d been trying to escape news of unrest when he saw her standing in front of his statue in the garden. It had been quite the surprise, enough to draw him to her. And yet he had planned nothing for this encounter after that.
“Wonderful…er…weather we are having today,” she said.
He wrinkled his brow. She was shifting slightly, hands clasped behind her back as she looked anywhere but him. And though they always had a tension between them, this felt different somehow.
“Indeed,” he managed. “An Athawickian late summer is my favorite season, I admit. The air is still warm, but one may feel the bite of coolness in the breeze. The leaves are threatening to turn. It’s a season of possibility.”
Her eyes went wide and her attention shifted back to his face. “I think that may be the most words you have ever strung together when speaking to me.”
He blinked at the directness of her statement. Not that he expected anything less from her. Over the months they’d known each other she had often treated him not as a king, but as an adversary she sparred with.
“That…that is likely true. Unlike my brother, I am not unnecessarily verbose.”
She nodded slowly. “That seems reasonable, considering your position. If you had a long, drawn out conversation with everyone who crossed your path, you would get nothing done at all.” She shuffled slightly. She had not removed her hands from behind her back yet. “And I would not keep you now, sir.”
“You want me to go away,” Grantham said slowly, suspicion growing inside of him. Why was she being so odd? “Why?”
“Of course I don’t,” she protested, sputtering as if he had made far worse an accusation against her character. “Gracious, I care little for what you do. Go, stay, it is your palace. Your…your garden.”
“My statue?” he pressed, and watched pink enter her cheeks. A very fetching color, indeed.
“Is it?” she asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Hadn’t you?” he pressed, starting to enjoy himself a little. He rarely…played anymore. He didn’t tease, not even his siblings. He hadn’t for years. His father had wrung all that out of him, replacing it with cruel expectations of comportment and visions of perfection that could never be attained no matter how he tried then or now.
But this woman brought something out in him. Made him forget himself.
“Not at all,” she insisted. “I was only walking through the garden.” She cast a very quick look at the statue over her shoulder. Not long enough to really see it. “And so it is you. How lovely. Thank you for pointing it out. Your palace really is a wonder.”