Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Blair
Aripple seems to pass through the room as they enter it.
While the wake of Princess Araminta could hardly be called a joyful affair, whatever ease existed a moment ago vanishes as Stelland’s king and queen join the mourners.
Conversations falter mid-word.
Drinks are lowered without being sipped.
Shoulders are dropped, chins lifted, and dresses smoothed flat.
I’m stationed against the far wall beside the refreshment table, as far from my family as possible, and watch at a distance as the royals enter, joining the crowd of black-clad guests filling Araminta’s sitting room.
Today is not the first time I’ve seen King Benedict.
My parents dragged me to more than a few parties and charity functions where he was in attendance, but it’s been ages since I laid eyes on him in person.
In that time, a great change seems to have settled over the man.
He’s still not the cheerful sort, but today, he seems more at ease than I can ever recall, and there is a softness in his expression when he glances at his wife.
“Your Royal Highnesses.” I wince as my father’s voice cuts through the low rumble of voices, and bring my wine to my lips, grateful to be hidden from his view by the hangers-on who drift toward the royals.
I’m ready to go back to Thornhurst.
When I woke up the morning after my fight with Damien, it was to about a dozen missed calls from Candice, my parents, sister, and even one from Ced. I hadn’t even had an opportunity to say goodbye to him before I was being swept off to Wyngate to “comfort” my mother during her time of “grief.”
In reality, my comfort was limited to when the cameras were pointing in our direction, and I had to endure several excruciatingly long press conferences with my arm looped through hers.
All the while, trying to appear appropriately sorrowful while my father droned on about how much Araminta had meant to our family.
As if the last time I saw the woman, she hadn’t called me Bella.
While not exactly grieving, the whole affair must have drained my limited supply of self-control, because days later, when Dad informed us over dinner that the circus had gained him two whole polling points, I’d been sent to my room for “making a face.”
I can tell my presence has been wearing on them, because nobody protested when I requested a car to return me to Thornhurst immediately following the funeral.
One more hour.
I can do this.
Taking another sip of wine, I survey the crowd as my mind returns—for about the tenth time in the past hour—to Damien.
He’d called me, the first evening I was in Wyngate. We hadn’t spoken long, but he’d promised we could talk when I got back and made sure to tell me—twice—that he didn’t like leaving things “unsettled” like this.
After hanging up, I stared at the wall of my bedroom for a full fifteen minutes, replaying the brief conversation in my head, and struggling to make sense of it all.
Not so long ago, Thornhurst was a battlefield.
There have been so many games, so many ups and downs, and it seems a little insane to hope for something good to come out of it.
I had to practically force the man to admit he wants me, but there’s no denying, now that he has, there has been another seismic shift in our relationship.
I’ve been clinging to the negatives, keeping my focus on the secrets he so clearly has, and our less-than-conventional history. But when I set all that aside and ask myself how he makes me feel, I can’t deny the truth.
Damien cares, and what’s worse, I care, too.
And caring is dangerous.
God, I’ve actually avoided it. For so long, people, places, and possessions have slipped in and out of my life. Everything was so fleeting, a moment to be enjoyed, but not held. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but I was temporary, too.
Then, suddenly, I had no choice but to stand still, and now… Now, I’ve found myself wanting to be more than a moment to Damien Mallory.
“I’m leaving.” At the words, I blink, looking around. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed my brother coming to stand beside me.
He hasn’t been around much in the past week, popping up here and there for press stuff, and we haven’t spoken more than a few words to each other.
Up close, I can see he looks even more weary than he did at James and Alba’s engagement party, and there’s a nearly empty tumbler of Scotch clutched in one of his hands.
Nothing has been published about the search warrant executed on Porter Capital, and none of my family members has mentioned anything.
I’m not sure what to make of that. Was the reporter at the gate lying to try to get a reaction out of me, or—more likely—is my father exercising his influence to stop anything from getting out and distracting from the election?
I frown, momentarily distracted from thoughts of my confusing relationship status. “Is everything okay, Ced?”
My brother casts a brief, weary glance at me before returning his gaze to the swarm of funeral-goers hovering around the King and Queen. “It’s fine, I just have things to do at the office. I can’t waste a full day on this.”
I tap my nail on the side of my wine glass, biting the inside of my lip. “No, I meant… You look tired, that’s all.” Showing concern for one another’s well-being isn’t in the Porter offspring rulebook, and I can tell the question has surprised him.
Ced clears his throat, still not looking at me. “Our father’s political aspirations have put the family under very heavy scrutiny.”
He hasn’t told me anything, not really, but the vague statement still makes my heart drop. “What do you mean?” I ask carefully, trying not to sound too interested.
Lifting his drink to his lips, Cedric downs the remaining Scotch in a single gulp and, wincing, sets the tumbler down on the nearest table. “It’s none of your concern, Blair.”
Without another word, he retreats, moving briskly through the crowd toward the exit, his pace not faltering, even when he inclines his head toward James and Alba.
God, these people suck.
My temples throb, promising a headache is approaching, and I seize upon the excuse to slip out for a moment. Craning my neck to ensure neither of my parents is paying attention, I abandon my wine and drift toward a door I seem to remember leading to the powder room.
Nobody even glances at me as I drift through it and emerge into a carpeted hall.
There is a line of glossy white doors lining the wall to my left, and sunlight spills into the narrow space from the large windows opposite them.
At the very end of the space, an exit leads into the snow-covered garden.
The noise of the wake is muffled back here, and my shoulders sag with relief as I edge forward, trying to remember which of the doors is Araminta’s powder room. Before I can get far, however, the sound of a familiar male voice makes me still, my heart shooting into my throat.
“—I’ve been better.”
My first instinct is to deny it. Even if I would know that voice anywhere, the possibility of Damien being here, of all places… The most logical conclusion is that my mind is playing tricks on me. I want to hear him, I miss him and wish he were here, but that doesn’t mean he is.
Except, as I linger by the wall, straining my hearing, it quickly becomes clear that I am not hearing things.
“Still. It’s good of you to come, Dam,” says another male voice, smoother and more polished than Damien’s familiar rasp.
“Yeah,” Damien agrees, sounding weary and noticeably more subdued than usual.
Pulse thudding heavily, I edge forward, my eyes glued to the corner at the end of the hall, around which I suspect Damien and the unknown person are standing. My confusion only deepens when a cheerful, high-pitched squeal sounds, undoubtedly issued by a baby.
“Oh, damn, will you take her for a moment?”
“I’m not sure—” Damien’s words falter.
I can’t decide whether I should turn around and go back to the wake or continue on.
Surely he knew I would come here today, but didn’t say a word about being here himself.
That, and the fact he’s lurking in a back hall instead of attending the event, makes it quite clear Damien probably never intended for me to know.
More lies. More secrets.
I’m hurt, of course, and more than a little confused, but more than any of that, I’m absolutely furious with him. God, he makes it as difficult as possible for anyone close to him, doesn’t he?
Heat burns in my chest as, abandoning my sneaking, I push away from the wall, striding forward with a fierce sense of purpose. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find when I turn that corner, but my genuine shock when I do suggests I truly didn’t think I’d find this.
Damien is there, dressed in a suit, and holding a dark-haired baby in his arms. At his side, Prince Leopold is bent over and shuffling through the contents of a pink diaper bag, presumably searching for something to clean the white spit-up on his lapel.
I stop short, staring, as both men turn to look at me.
Damien’s face falls.
“Hello,” offers Prince Leopold politely, not quite meeting my eye as he straightens up, a wet wipe clutched in one hand.
My throat is so tight I can barely respond. “Hi,” I whisper, watching as the baby tries to grab Damien’s nose with her chubby hand.
“Blair—” begins Damien hoarsely, searching my face.
But before he can think of an excuse for this, I’m stepping back, shaking my head. “I’m sorry. I was just looking for the powder room.”
“Blair,” Damien says again, more insistently now, and there’s a hint of panic in his voice as he adjusts his hold of the baby in his arms.
It’s only then that I notice that the little girl is not just any baby. I’ve seen her face before, plenty of times, often accompanied by her very well-known parents in the news or online.
Damien is holding the future Queen of Stelland.
A quiet, disbelieving cry escapes from between my lips, and I take another step away.