“Emilia?” Chloe prompts.
I’d forgotten she was even here, I’m so thoroughly trapped in the tractor-beam of Carter’s eyes. The moment drags, fraught with tension. Every breath feels jagged-edged inside my lungs. Every second passes like a year.
“I think you should go,” I finally say in a cracking voice. “But I really hope that you don’t.”
He holds my eyes — one, two, three unending seconds — before his head swings toward the wall. I study the sharp line of his jaw, where a muscle is ticking rhythmically. After a moment, his Adam’s apple bobs with a rough swallow.
“I have another meeting early in the morning.” His words are as stiff as his strides as he turns for the hallway. “I’ll say goodnight now.”
“Don’t forget the charity auction tomorrow!” Chloe calls after him as he shuts the door firmly. In the silence that follows, I take my first clear breath in minutes.
“He could’ve at least stayed for the rest of the movie,” Chloe grumbles. “Especially if he’s leaving the country.” She elbows me sharply in the side. “Hey, you don’t really think he’s serious about going, do you?”
“He sounded serious.”
“We need to convince him to stay. I’ll appeal to his emotional side — play theI’m-still-in-recovery-and-need-you-with-mecard. You can use logic. Maybe point out—”
“No.” I swallow. “I don’t think I’m the right person to convince your brother of anything, Chloe.”
She pauses for a long time. “Or… maybe you’re the only person who can. Maybe it’s not my love that he’ll stay for. Maybe it’s yours.”
I suck in a breath.
There it is.
She knows.
She definitely knows.
Tears fill my eyes as I reach out and grab the remote. Before she can say another word, I jam my finger against the play button. I’d rather watch gory chainsaw massacres than discuss the multitude of ways my heart is breaking right now.
“Let’s just watch the movie. Okay?”
If she hears how choked-up my voice is, she doesn’t comment on it. But a second later, her head lands on my shoulder and she snuggles against my side.
“Okay, E. Okay.”
Chapter Eight
I wakethe next morning with massive circles beneath my eyes. I didn’t sleep well. How could I, with thoughts of Chloe and Carter tumbling around inside my head?
A maid arrives with breakfast on a tray — fresh raspberry scones with jam and clotted cream, a double-strength cappuccino on the side. I sip it out on my terrace, the mug warming my hands against the chill air.
The castle grounds are still encased in a thin layer of ice. They seem to dazzle in the early-morning light, the frost turned to diamonds. There’s not a sound except the occasional thump of heavy snow falling from a weighted tree-bough, the sporadic crack of an icicle plummeting from the ornate stone awnings to the hard-packed earth far below.
I’m not looking forward to the day ahead. Six hours at the National Assembly, followed by an evening babysitting Chloe at a charity auction I had no intention of attending. I’ve never been to an auction in my life. Normally, I’d have Lady Morrell by my side to help me prepare, talking me through all thedosanddon’ts, describing proper bidding etiquette, consulting on royal protocol…
Am I supposed to donate some ancient relic from the palace vaults to be auctioned off? A collector’s item the highest bidder can tout around at cocktail parties to impress their wealthy friends?
This bronze cigar box belonged to King Xavier II, circa 1630! If you breathe deeply, you can almost smell the ghosts of all the peasants who starved to death during his reign while he sat in his castle smoking fine tobacco! Isn’t it simply divine?!
I snort out a breath, watching it fog the air in front of my face. I’m already exhausted and I haven’t even finished my cappuccino. Then again, I doubt my forthcoming agenda would sound appealing even after a solid eight hours of sleep. I doubt it would sound appealing after a full-frontal lobotomy.
I shiver as the wind picks up, whipping snowflakes around in tiny vortexes that pelt my cheeks. My shoulders hunch inward to ward off the cold. I know I should head back inside, but I’m loathe to exchange my favorite pajamas for the tailored pantsuit the seamstresses laid out for me last night: white with dual-breasted gold buttons and sharp shoulders. It makes me look like a military officer in an old Hollywood film.
The creak of a door opening startles me so much, I nearly spill what’s left of my cappuccino. I whirl around to see Carter stepping out of his suite onto the adjacent balcony. He’s wearing dark slacks and a hunter green peacoat — on his way to another meeting, no doubt, for his mysterious new project in Switzerland.
His hands are fisted around what appears to be a blanket, but I give it no more than a passing glance; I’m too distracted by the severe look on his face. I feel the breath snag in my throat at the intensity of his scowl as he stalks in my direction.