Prince's Son of Scandal(14)

He knew what he had said. It had been true. He’d never experienced anything like what he’d felt with her that night. Despite his best efforts, the memory haunted him. He wasn’t a dependent person, but he was disturbingly gratified to be this close to her again. The animal inside him had finally stopped pacing with restless frustration.

He was loath to admit any of that, though. Her power to still affect him unnerved him. “It was my last night before I got engaged. We were both attributing significance for our own reasons.”

The light in her eyes dimmed with hurt. She withdrew, turning away again.

He closed his fist in the tangle of blanket across their hips, lungs turning to lead.

“Either way, it gave me hope that I could be normal. Maybe fall in love and get married, someday. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be normal. Now I never will be, because I’m carrying a royal baby and I was so happy to be pregnant, but I knew this was a disaster. You have your life and I’ve never had any life at all. I deserve a chance to be single and free. Free of this!”

Her tension returned in a contraction of her muscles that drew her in like a shrinking bloom, fists coming up to her clenched eyes.

“I told Gili I would run Maison des Jumeaux. When we were little, she was able to count on me. I want to be that person people can rely on, but I’m always going to be this pathetic—”

“Trella. You have to stop escalating.”

“Do you think I can control it?” Her hands went into her hair, clenching handfuls. “I try. I really try, but the fear grips me. Now we have to get married and you don’t want some crazy burden of a wife. You’ll hate me. I’m so scared of what will happen.”

“Stop.” He couldn’t stand it. He pressed his body heat around her, held her in sheltering arms and willed her back to calm. “Hatred is a wasted emotion. It closes all pathways to resolving a conflict. Our situation is difficult, but hating each other won’t make it easier.”

Her trembling continued, but he felt the moment his words penetrated. Her hands loosened in her hair.

“That sounds very wise,” she said on a sniff. “Do they teach you that in monarchy school?”

“Divorce class. My mother was a great believer in practical demonstrations.”

She unfolded a few increments more. “When we were in Paris, you said your mother was sent away by your grandmother because she wanted a divorce?”

He eased his embrace, regretting his loose lips. He had learned out of necessity to be comfortable with his own thoughts, never needing confidantes, but keeping her mind engaged seemed to forestall her emotional downtrends, so he answered.

“She made a commitment then didn’t accept her lot. Unhappy wives move into the dowager wing. They don’t reject royal life altogether. My mother tried separation, but my father and grandmother pressured her to have another baby. Since their marriage was over, she refused. She was granted a divorce on the grounds that she left Elazar. She had family in Germany so she moved there.”

“Exiled, you said. But you still saw her? How old were you?” She tried to twist enough to see him.

He used the weight of his arm to keep them spooned. Her hair tickled his lips while the scent of her went straight to the back of his brain, finding where she had imprinted herself in Paris and settling like a puzzle piece matched to its empty space.

He shook off the notion. “I was eight. At boarding school. My life wasn’t affected much. We exchanged a few letters, but what was there to say?”

“You didn’t see her at all?” She tried harder to twist, rolling onto her back and forcing him to meet her gaze. “Do you see her now?”

“We send Christmas cards.” He shrugged off the jabs of rejection that still came alive when he revisited the memory. “Chosen by our personal assistants. We’re not sentimental people.”

Her expression grew appalled. “What about your father? You said you were young when he abdicated?”

“Renounced,” he corrected, regretting this. It was becoming too intimate. Too uncomfortable.

“Do you see him?”

“It was best we didn’t communicate.” This communication ended here, he conveyed by drawing back.

“But—” She groaned and rolled to face him fully. He could see a fresh wave of emotion taking its grip on her. Her hand closed on the front of his shirt, catching at a few chest hairs, making him wince. “Now I’m worried you’ll drop out of our child’s life like that. Swear to me you won’t.”

He covered her hand, loosening her fist and holding her slender fingers. He had to consciously overcome an urge to draw her hand to his mouth and kiss her bruised knuckles, even as he acknowledged she was far more likely to disappear than he was. Royal life was not easy, especially when shoved to the fringes as his mother had been. He didn’t blame his mother for extricating herself, and wouldn’t censure Trella when she did it, especially if the stress of life in the public eye put her in paroxysms like this.

“Duty may have skipped a generation, but it is firmly drilled into me. I will never forsake my obligation to our child.”

“Obligation.” Her brow furrowed. “What about love?”

He dried her cheek with his thumb. “Love is a problem not a solution.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s an observation. My mother loved my father, which is why she couldn’t bear his cheating. My father loved the woman who cost him his kingdom. Duty is more reliable.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t have to argue with you, bella. Time reveals all. Now, let’s stop talking about things that upset you. What did your sister say about counting oranges? Tell me why she said that.”

* * *

Xavier hadn’t had his backside handed to him on one of the palace’s sixteenth-century gold platters since his teen years. He refused to allow it today.

He had had plenty of time in the night, lying awake making decisions between comforting Trella through crying spells and nightmares, until she fell deeply asleep in the early hours.

He rose to put his plans into action and by the time the Queen summoned him, he was able to preempt a shredding of his character by proving what he had told Trella—he adhered to duty above all else.

“She has agreed to that?”

“She will.”

“And you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

The Queen cocked a skeptical brow. “You spent last night with her. That implies...preoccupation.”

“You think we were having sex? No.” Despite having few secrets from his grandmother, her intrusive remark grated. “She was upset.”

“Gunter said she’s fragile.” Her mouth pursed with disdain. Ruling required strength of every kind, especially emotional.

He frowned, annoyed that Gunter’s report had preceded his own, especially because it was off the mark. Trella was besieged. It was different.

“She held off telling me because her pregnancy is high-risk.”

“So, it would seem, is she.”

An urge to defend her stayed lodged in his throat. She was a threat—one he was mitigating to the best of his ability.

“When would you like to meet her?” he asked instead.

“Perhaps after the baby is born?”

He hadn’t slept. That’s why the snub struck him as unconscionably rude.

Before he could react, Mario entered. “Deepest apologies, your Majesty, but Ms. Sauveterre’s brother insists on seeing her. We’ve stalled him as long as possible.”

“He’s here?” Xavier’s heart lurched with protectiveness and a jolt of alarm. Trella was catching up on much-needed sleep. More importantly, “We both spoke to him yesterday. She told him she was staying for the foreseeable future.”

She couldn’t leave.

“I believe it’s the race-car driver. She has agreed to receive him. I thought you would wish to—”

“I would.” Xavier strode from the room. When he heard raised voices as he approached the apartment they now shared, his aggression increased. With a snap of his fingers, security personnel fell into step behind him. He pushed into what had once been his mother’s parlor.

Trella was red-faced as she confronted a man who looked like Henri but emanated a hot-tempered demeanor that was in complete contrast to his brother’s air of aloof control. “No, you shut up—” Ramon was saying to his sister.

“Leave quietly or I’ll have you removed.” Xavier would do it himself. He was in that kind of mood.

Ramon snorted as he gave Xavier a measuring once-over, hands on his hips, looking willing for the fight Xavier promised.

“Don’t.” Trella threw herself against her brother’s side, looping her arms tight around his waist. “I was saying things he didn’t want to hear.”

Despite the animosity that had been flaring between them seconds before, Ramon curled a shielding arm around his sister, even as he frowned at her, concern evident beneath his glare of impatience.

Trella looked as rough as the night she’d had. When Xavier had left her, she’d been subdued and exhausted, falling back asleep within seconds after he’d woken her to tell her he was leaving. She still had dark circles under red eyes and hadn’t changed out of the silk pajamas he’d given her to wear to bed. In fact, she’d raided his closet for a thick cardigan to belt over them.