Chapter 8 Little Inclination #2
“Of course.” She twists out of the tight circle and aristocratic fingers fall from her arm. When the fabric of her dress hitches on her curves, she smooths it. I frown.
“What does she want?” Ella asks.
“Who?”
“Amma sent you,” she laughs.
“Did she?” I scoop an arm around her waist, shielding her from an enormous paper mache lion headdress, and half carry her out of the party. What sent me to her side was a consuming desire to break Neerheid Kaas’s fingers, but I can’t say so.
I don’t stop until I cross the hall and push through another door.
It’s a shock, going from the thumping intensity of the ballroom to the cozy warmth of the library.
The floor is scattered with well-worn rugs, and it’s quiet here, save for the gentle crackle of the fire and the rain beating on the glass.
Ella slips out of my grasp and wanders over to one of the Oppeger portraits of a young Renaissance vrouwheid, glowing under a gallery light.
I watch her with an expression that runs the entire emotional gamut between ravenous and starving.
Stultes es.
She glances at me over her shoulder and my face shutters. “Thanks. It was getting crowded in there.”
Silence settles between us, a thread of attraction pulling the easy weave out of shape.
“It’s raining,” she says, crossing to the window. She steps out of her heels, hitches her dress—sequins sparkling in curious waves—and plants a knee on the cushioned bench, trying to winch the old casement open a few centimeters.
The window sticks and I brush her hands aside, forcing it open.
Her scent mixes with the smell of rain, and she sinks back, a smile playing on her mouth. There is no sign that she is trying to tempt me, but the way I feel doesn’t need an invitation.
“Were you getting bored of playing the lord of the manor?” she asks.
I settle on the end of the narrow window seat, braced against shelves holding all the ancient wisdom of my ancestors.
I glance down, the string of beads shifting against my heart. “I am the lord of this manor.”
She leans forward, peering under the rim of my hat with eyes that narrow in silent laughter. “And I am a princess of Sondmark. That’s not all we are. What happens to Han Heyden if you devote your life to Lindenholm?”
“I might hand the reins to someone else.” I watch her reaction.
“Your baby? Please.”
I feel the hard, uncompromising shelf at my back. There’s no room to retreat. “I know what the title of Neerheid van Heyden means.”
“It means sacrificing a brilliant life on the altar of tradition.” She gives a puckish smile and tiny prismatic rainbows dance against the smooth wood paneling in a kind of halo. “The thing about hereditary titles is that everyone knows what they’re supposed to do, but no one is having fun.”
“You’re not having fun?” I ask, nudging her foot with the tip of my shoe. Even that much touching is a mistake.
She leans against the casement, catching a few raindrops in her hand. “This isn’t a vacation. I’m working on a new app,” she says. “I’ve binged a few dramas, gamed with internet strangers, trolled—”
She snaps her mouth closed, then covers it with the back of her hand and turns it into a yawn.
When her arms stretch wide, I imagine pulling her into my arms on the narrow bench and tasting her lips. Vede. I glare at the ornate strapwork on the ceiling. In another time, I would be drawn and quartered for these thoughts. Even so, I know what I heard. “What have you been up to?”
“Nothing.” She hops off the bench, scoops up the heels, and tries to run. In two long strides, I catch her hand. “Ella.”
My hold is loose but unyielding and she turns, tossing aside her shoes to peel my fingers back, one at a time. She makes no progress.
“Tell me you got rid of that Chirp handle,” I demand. “Tell me you’re not still trolling the prime minister’s posts.”
Her cheeks flush through the iridescent scales, and the set of her chin is obstinate. “What I do in my free time is none of your business.”
“Ella.” I shake our hands and her brilliant green eyes turn on me. Vede. My heart beats a hard, uneven rhythm. I cover it with worry and anger. “Is that what I told you when you wanted to help with Seong? That my business is not your business?”
“Many times.”
“Did you listen?”
She aims a blistering look at our hands. “No one knows it’s me.”
I tug her forward and she tips against my chest. “I know.”
If she surrenders here, her face tilted up to mine and her curls brushing against my skin, I am lost.
But she never surrenders. Instead, she twists away and traps my arm against her ribcage.
My hold is gentle but she tears at my fingers.
For the second time today, I cradle her against my chest, but this time I steady myself with a palm against her half-bare shoulder.
So much of this is childish but too much of it is not.
“It doesn’t matter if you know,” she grits out. “You won’t expose me to the press.”
“What about all those men back there in the ballroom?” I ask. The flash of jealousy, hot and uncontrollable, blazes through me. “What if you let it slip to one of the adel that you call the prime minister—”
Her back thumps into my chest. “Those guys are my friends as much as you are. There’s no difference.”
No difference? A new source of frustration erupts from me. “You can’t count on those bottom feeders. Unless you promise to give a man like that something that makes dating a princess worth it, you are radioactive.”
Ella bites my index finger and I release her with a manly yelp.
She rounds on me, her wide green eyes full of hurt. “Radioactive?” she whispers.
Dominanstid. What the hell did I just say? My finger throbs but I hardly register the pain. It’s not too late to beg for forgiveness.
No. No. I’m only doing what Noah charged me with—looking after her as I would my own sister. She needs to see the danger she’s in.
“This isn’t a joke,” I say. “If it leaks that there’s an actual royal behind @trashpandaprincess, it could damage your whole family.”
She shoves my chest and I tip off balance, taking her with me, cushioning her as we fall in a heap of silk and sequins.
The brimmed hat spins away but I am lost in the sensation of Ella in my arms, her mouth pressed into the crook of my neck.
It will take a month in a monastery to find myself again.
I feel the surprise in her exhale and her breath warms my skin.
Six months. Nothing less.
Ella scrambles upright, straightening her crown, and I wedge myself up on my elbows.
“I’m not any danger to my family,” she rages.
“I’m not throwing away a decades-long marriage like it’s nothing.
I’m not suing the press. I’m not running off to get married.
I didn’t fall in love with a stupid foreign prince.
I don’t go around with models when my only job is to secure the succession. ”
She gives me a swift kick and I rub the spot, watching as she scoops up her heels and balances her way into them.
“Everyone treats me like I’m a disaster waiting to happen,” her voice shakes. “I never thought I’d hear it from you.”