He arched a brow but did not respond. Ophelia didn’t like silence, he knew. So if he speared her with it, she might let him know why in the world she was being so strange.
She pursed her lips. “I think I shall continue my stroll in the garden, and I do not wish to keep you from what I am certain is very important business. Kingly duty.” She was nodding now, her shifting increasing. “I’m certain I could never understand in the slightest.”
“Ophelia,” he said softly.
She froze and stared up at him. He realized that was the first time he had ever called her by her name without the honorific before it. Entirely inappropriate. And yet he did love the way her name tasted on his tongue.
She cleared her throat and huffed out a breath. “Fine, I cannot hide it any longer. You have caught me.”
“Caught you?” he repeated, confusion and interest mounting in equal measure. “What do you mean?”
The pink of her cheeks was darkening to red as she drew her hands from behind her back. One fist was clenched, and she turned it over and opened her fingers, revealing…
“Is that my finger?” he asked, staring at the marble digit she’d been gripping so tightly that it had left an indentation in her palm.
“Yes,” she grumbled. “Well, the statue’s finger, at any rate.”
He stared at it a moment more and then tilted his head back and laughed. He laughed harder than he had in years and it was like a world of worry and guilt rolled off of him in that moment. She didn’t join him, simply stared at him as he fought to regain control over his faculties.
“You have a very nice laugh, Your Majesty,” she said softly, when he had gotten himself back together.
“Thank you,” he said, shifting with slight discomfort that she had seen him in that state. “But do not think you can distract me from my interrogation with compliments, my lady.”
She arched a brow and a flutter of a smile tilted the corner of her lips. “Interrogation. Is that what this is?”
“There has been a crime, has there not?” he pressed. “Assault against the image of a king.”
He had not given his tone a playful edge in so long he feared he might not know how to do it anymore, but she seemed to understand because now she did flash one of those bright, glorious smiles, if only briefly.
“A serious charge, yes,” she agreed solemnly. “I wish you luck in finding the culprit.”
“Do you deny it was you?” he asked. “Despite holding the evidence in your very hand?”
She shrugged. “I suppose that is damning, yes.”
He realized he’d moved a little closer to her as they spoke. Not too close yet, but heading that way. He stopped himself and for a moment they merely stared at each other. Good God, but she was beautiful. It almost hurt to look at her.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to tell me how you came to be holding the finger from my statue?”
“No, I do not,” she said softly. “But since I’m certain you can have me cast out to sea or put on a rack for withholding the information, I will tell you. I was…examining the statue and I reached up to balance myself on the finger and it…broke…off.”
“How close were you to the statue that you had to balance yourself?” he asked, imagining her perched up close to his face. His real face, not the stone one behind her.
She pursed her lips, drawing his attention to them. “Close enough.”
“I see.”
There was another long silence, and she shook her head. “H-here, let me give you this,” she stammered.
He stepped toward her at the exact moment she moved in his direction, and they nearly collided in the middle. She brought herself up short and stared up at him, as close as she had been when he was dancing with her the previous night. Only right now they were alone and the distance would not be considered appropriate by chaperones. Not that there were any of those around.
She swallowed, her bright blue eyes so like the sea as she stared up at him that he lost his breath. Her hand trembled as she held out the broken piece of the statue, pressing it into his palm. He had foregone gloves for his walk. She also was not wearing any, so her skin brushed across his, warm and soft, far too intimate a gesture. The touch sent electric awareness up his arm, pleasure that settled in the most inopportune places.
“G-good afternoon, Your Majesty,” she whispered.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, watching as she pivoted and hustled away toward the house.
He stared at the broken statue piece in his hand and then carefully placed it in his jacket pocket where the weight of it served as a reminder of this encounter.
He drew in a deep breath and started back along his path through the garden. But he no longer felt frustrated by encounters with courtiers or decisions that had to be made in the government. For the first time in a very long time, he felt…free.
CHAPTER 5
Ophelia stood beside the mantel in the parlor, outside the circle of the royal family. They had shared a meal that night and she had been transfixed by their transformation. From formal hosts, they had become a family, laughing and joking with each other. Even Queen Giabella’s longtime secretary had joined them, and Ophelia could see how much he was loved and accepted as a member of their circle. She would have counted it as a fine time, except…
Well, except for Grantham. He had been quiet during the meal, not participating in the fun around him. And he’d gone back to his old habits: watching her, his expression frustratingly unreadable. Did he like her? Hate her? Want to kiss her?
“Oh, why do you have to bring that into it?” she chided herself softly, careful not to look at him across the room. She’d been doing far too much of that.
Priscilla caught her eye and smiled before she stepped away from the group and went to Ophelia, sliding an arm through hers. “How are you?”
Ophelia blinked. “Very well, thank you.”
“Are you certain? You have been a little…odd today,” Priscilla pressed. “I cannot tell if it is a bit of melancholy at the departure of Gilmore and Abigail or…or something else.”
She now glanced pointedly toward Grantham, and Ophelia huffed out a breath. The last thing she needed was Priscilla putting her nose in this. If she did, there was no doubt Prince Remington would follow, and Grantham would hate that. Ophelia would certainly be to blame for it in his mind.
“I’m perfectly well,” she insisted. “My oddness is all in your head.”
She said the words strenuously enough, but they were a lie. Of course she had been odd. She had been entirely thrown off guard by her encounter with Grantham in the garden. By that flutter she’d felt low in her belly when he laughed. She knew what the flutter was. And if she were honest with herself, it wasn’t the first time she’d felt it in the king’s company, either.
“I believe your soon-to-be husband is trying to call you to his side,” she said, motioning toward the settee where Remi was staring intently at Priscilla.
Her friend blushed, ducking her head. “I assume at some point he will be less obvious in his ardor.”
“I doubt it,” Ophelia said, turning her toward him. “Now go sit with him, chat with your future family. I am going to take a breath of air. Clear my head so I won’t be, as you put it, odd.”