Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ We separated a month after we married, Your Highness, and were practically divorced—’

      ‘Practically?’ Leo interrupted. ‘Had you consulted with a solicitor? Filed papers?’

      Phoebe felt yet another telltale blush staining her cheeks with damning colour even as an inexplicable dread settled coldly in her stomach. ‘No, I hadn’t, but …’ She stopped, suddenly, the silence worse than any words she could say, explanations—excuses—she could give.

      ‘But?’ Leo filled in, his eyes, nearly the same colour as the brandy in the glass he held, glittering for a moment with—what? Mockery? Contempt? Anger? ‘Couldn’t bear to make that final cut?’ he continued in that awful, soft voice. ‘Couldn’t stand to walk away from a man like Anders?’ He took a step closer to her and Phoebe found she couldn’t move. She was mesmerised, strangely drawn by his words and yet chilled too by that unfathomable darkness in his eyes and voice, that depth of some unknowable emotion she’d sensed in him at their first meeting. Leo took another step, and then another, so he was standing only a few inches away, and she was reminded forcefully of when he’d stood so close to her before, when his fingers had brushed her in that faint, damning caress and he’d asked her, ‘What would have happened … if you’d met me first?’ Now he asked another mocking question. ‘Were you hoping he’d come back to you, Phoebe?’

      Phoebe blinked, forced herself to react. His assessment was so far from the truth, and yet the truth was something she could not bring herself to tell. She stepped away and drew a breath. ‘No, I most certainly was not. And whether Anders and I divorced or even considered divorcing is of no concern to you—’

      ‘Actually,’ Leo corrected, taking a sip of his brandy, ‘it is.’ He watched, smiling faintly, enjoying her shock and discomfiture. Phoebe felt her hands curl into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She knew Leo was waiting for her to ask why, and she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to know.

      ‘It wasn’t anyone’s concern whether we married or not,’ she finally said, striving to keep her voice cool, ‘so I hardly see why it matters if we divorced or not.’ She drew herself up, throwing her shoulders back. ‘Now frankly I’ve had enough of these power games, Your Highness. You may find it amusing to keep me here like a mouse with a cat, but my son is undoubtedly unsettled and afraid and I have nothing more to say to you or anyone from Amarnes. So—’

      ‘Oh, Phoebe.’ Leo shook his head, and for a moment Phoebe thought he genuinely felt sorry for her, and that realisation scared her more than anything else.

      ‘Don’t call me—’

      ‘Your name? But we are relatives, of a sort.’

      ‘Of a sort,’ Phoebe agreed coldly. ‘The sort that have nothing to do with each other.’

      ‘That,’ Leo informed her, setting his glass down in a careful, deliberate movement, ‘is about to change.’

      He was trying to scare her, Phoebe decided. Hoped, even. It was about power, about Leo feeling as if he was in control, and she wouldn’t let him. He might be a prince, he might have all the money and power and knowledge, but she had her courage and her child. She had her memories, her own knowledge of how the last six years had shaped and strengthened her, and she wouldn’t back down now, especially not to Leo. He’d intimidated and bullied her before; she wouldn’t let him now.

      ‘Why don’t you just spit it out, Leo,’ she asked, glad her voice matched his own for strength, ‘instead of giving me all these insidious little hints? Are you trying to frighten me? Because it’s not working.’ Well, it was, a bit, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Leo merely arched an eyebrow, and Phoebe continued, her voice raw, demanding, and a little desperate. ‘What do you want? Why did your damn agents bring me here?’

      ‘Because the king wishes it,’ Leo replied simply. He gave her a little smile, and Phoebe pressed a fist to her lips before dropping it.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I told you, King Nicholas regrets his separation from Anders. I suppose he always did, but he didn’t realise it until too late.’ Leo’s lips twisted in something close to a smile, and Phoebe wondered what kind of man could actually smile at such a moment, at the explanation of such a futile tragedy. Well, she knew the answer … a man like Leo.

      ‘I’m sorry for your uncle’s loss,’ she finally said, keeping her voice stiff with dignity. ‘For everyone’s. But as I said before, it has little to do with me.’

      ‘But you see,’ Leo countered softly, ‘it does. Or perhaps not with you, but at least with your son.’ He paused, his words seeming to echo in the oppressive heaviness of the room, of the moment. ‘The king’s grandchild.’

      Phoebe did not reply. She couldn’t think of anything to say, to think, so she turned away to the window once more, as if she could find answers there. She blinked, trying to focus on the shapes of passing cars, but she couldn’t see. Everything was blurred, and for a second she thought it was because of the rain. Then she realised it was because of the tears clouding her vision.

      She took a breath, willed the tears to recede, to feel strong again. The last thing she wanted was for Leo to see her weakness, for surely if he was aware of it, he would use it.

      Yet standing there, the lump of emotion still lodged in her throat, she realised she wasn’t even very surprised. Of course the royal family of Amarnes wouldn’t leave her alone. Leave Christian alone. For while they may have professed no interest in her son while Anders was alive, now that he was dead …?

      Her child was all they had of him. And that was what she had to remember, Phoebe told herself, stiffening her shoulders, her spine. He was her child … in every way that mattered.

      She swallowed again, meaning to turn to face Leo, but suddenly he was there, his presence behind her, like a looming shadow. It was an unwelcome surprise, as was the hand that rested briefly, heavily on her shoulder, the warmth of his fingers burning her even through the layers of her sweater and coat.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      It was the last thing she expected, the words, and, even more so, the raw compassion underneath them. She didn’t trust it, didn’t allow herself to. How could she? She’d trusted Anders, she wasn’t about to trust his cousin, and most of all she wasn’t about to trust herself, as much as she wanted to. For in that moment she wanted to believe Leo was sorry, she wanted to believe he could be—what? A friend?

      The idea was so laughable as to be offensive. Phoebe turned around, shrugging Leo’s hand off her shoulder, and he stepped away, his expression bland once more.

      ‘What exactly are you sorry for, Leo?’ she asked coolly. ‘Bringing me here? Upsetting my son? Thinking you have some kind of control over me just because you’re a prince?’

      Leo shrugged, his tone matching hers. ‘None of the above. I’m sorry because you obviously loved Anders, and now he’s dead.’

      It was such a flat, matter-of-fact statement; it hardly could be called a condolence. Phoebe inclined her head in acknowledgement.

      ‘Thank you. But anything I felt for Anders ended six years ago. I’m sorry he died in such a tragic way, but …’ She drew in a breath. ‘What I had with him is far, far in the past. I have a life here now, and so does Christian, regardless of what the king of Amarnes thinks or feels. He has not tried СКАЧАТЬ