Chapter 21 #2
Her gaze lifted slowly from the portrait to Prince Ryden’s face, then back again. The resemblance was … undeniable. The shape of the nose, the slant of the brows, something about the expressiveness of the mouth—all of it echoed between the portrait and the prince sitting before her.
“Yes,” Prince Ryden said softly, watching her with an expression that suggested he’d expected precisely this reaction. Perhaps even wanted it. “Your supposition is correct.”
“This man,” Aurelise whispered, her voice barely audible as she stared at the portrait, “is your … father?”
“Yes. The man who held the title of Crown Consort was not. He was … not a good man, as I’ve mentioned before. There was never any affection between him and my mother.”
He paused, his gaze dropping to his clasped hands.
“I was twelve when I accidentally discovered the truth about my mother’s relationship with Ellian.
It had been … ongoing for many years. Once I knew to look for it, the truth of my own parentage became rather obvious.
” A bitter smile touched his lips. “It took me somewhat longer to realize that nearly everyone else in our palace there already knew—or guessed, at least. As you’ve noticed, the resemblance is rather striking. ”
“Everyone knew?” Aurelise breathed.
“Everyone except the Crown Consort himself. Or at least … I believe he knew but chose to live in denial.”
Aurelise’s fingers tightened slightly on the frame. “Were you angry with your mother?”
“At first, yes. A little. I understood that a wife was expected to keep her vows. And I did not wish to think of myself as … illegitimate. But the anger faded quickly. I had never harbored any affection for the Crown Consort, and he had treated my mother abominably behind closed doors. Ellian, meanwhile, had always been everything a father should be to me. Kind, patient, endlessly encouraging. It did not take long for me to make peace with the truth.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment before Aurelise ventured, “What happened to him? To Master Glendale?”
The prince’s expression shuttered. “There was an accident. In his workshop. It was ruled a tragedy. An unfortunate mishap.”
“Oh,” Aurelise breathed, her heart constricting. “I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thank you. It was years ago now. The grief has mellowed. Though I believe my mother still mourns him far more deeply than I. They truly loved one another.”
Several moments passed in contemplative quiet, the only sound the distant trill of birds beyond the windows. Finally, Aurelise found her voice again. “Why are you telling me this?”
The question hung in the air between them like a held breath.
“Because,” he said softly, his eyes finding hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken, “I want you to know.” He paused. Then: “I want you to know me.”
She felt it then—that sensation of something vast and overwhelming approaching, like a wave gathering strength far out at sea.
Her breath grew shallow as she met his gaze, unable to look away despite every instinct screaming at her to flee.
The feeling rose higher, threatening to crash over her, to pull her under into depths from which she might never surface—
No. She couldn’t. She would not allow it.
She turned abruptly back to the pianoforte, her movement so sudden that the portrait frame nearly slipped from her lap. Her fingers gripped it tighter as she drew in a steadying breath.
But then she paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
He had just entrusted her with something of great consequence.
She could not let him think she was rejecting him for it, that she thought less of him for being illegitimate.
It wasn’t him she was turning from—it was the terrifying depth of feeling he stirred within her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes. “For telling me. That cannot have been easy to share.”
A small, genuine smile curved his lips. “Surprisingly, it was not as difficult as I anticipated. I find myself wanting to tell you things. Many things.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she quickly faced forward again. “Would you—that is—might I play something for you?”
“I would like that.” His voice carried that familiar thread of mischief now. “But only if you’ll permit me to play alongside you.”
Surprise made her turn again, though only slightly, as he was now standing beside the pianoforte. “You play?” she asked.
“I do, though not nearly as well as you. My grandmother taught me. Or should I say … attempted to teach me.”
“But—in all the times we’ve been in here together, you’ve never once mentioned this.”
He smiled down at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You did not ask.”
She hesitated, her pulse fluttering. Why did she keep finding it so difficult to look away from those very blue eyes? “I … I suppose that is true.”
“So then,” he said lightly, “may I sit beside you?”
He seemed to be asking for more than that.
The air shifted, subtle, invisible, but she felt it all the same.
That same tremor beneath her skin she kept sensing around him, as though something vast were drawing nearer.
It pressed against her ribs, stole her breath, filled her chest with that dangerous mixture of dread and delight.
She should say no. Now would be an excellent time to prove that dare number six was hardly insurmountable. And yet … she did not want to.
“Yes,” she heard herself say softly. “You may.”
He moved to sit beside her on the bench, positioning himself to her left where the bass accompaniment would naturally fall.
The bench, which had seemed perfectly adequate when she sat alone, now felt impossibly small.
His thigh pressed against hers through the layers of her dress, and she could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the warm steadiness of cedar and the freshness of a rain-drenched forest.
“Well then,” she managed, her voice only slightly breathless. “Shall we attempt something simple? Perhaps a traditional solstice duet?”
“Lead the way, my lady.”
She began with a familiar piece, one she’d learned years ago, her fingers finding the notes easily despite her heightened awareness of him beside her. The melody flowed forth, sweet and uncomplicated, perfect for a duet.
Prince Ryden studied her hands for a moment, then attempted to join in with what should have been a complementary bass line. What emerged instead was a series of notes that bore only the vaguest relationship to the proper key.
Aurelise bit her lip, trying desperately not to laugh as he fumbled through another measure, his timing completely at odds with hers. “That is …”
“Magnificent?” he suggested.
“Atrocious,” she corrected, finally allowing a giggle to escape as her hands stilled on the keys. “Truly, spectacularly terrible. Your poor grandmother must have possessed remarkable patience.”
“She did frequently invoke the stars for strength,” he admitted. “Shall I try again?”
“Please do. Though perhaps this time you might consider playing in the same key as I am?”
“Such rigid expectations,” he murmured, but he positioned his hands again, this time managing something that at least resembled the proper accompaniment for several measures before dissolving into chaos once more.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accused, though she was laughing properly now.
“I assure you, I am not nearly skilled enough to be deliberately this bad.” His fingers brushed against hers as they both moved toward the same octave, and she felt the contact like a spark. “Though I admit, there are certain … advantages to my lack of talent.”
He did it again—let his hand drift just close enough that their fingers tangled briefly before pulling away. Her breath caught, and she missed a note.
“You’re distracting me,” she said, heat flooding her cheeks.
“Am I?” His voice had dropped lower, taken on that particular quality that made her stomach flutter. “How unfortunate. Please, continue. Pretend I’m not here.”
She tried to focus, but he’d shifted closer somehow, his shoulder now pressing against hers. Every breath she took brought that intoxicating scent, every movement created friction that sent little shivers along her skin.
His attempts at accompaniment grew increasingly sporadic until finally, his hands stilled entirely on the keys. She felt him turn toward her, his body angling so that he was no longer facing the instrument but facing her instead.
“You know,” he said softly, “you always seem to disappear when you play. As though you’ve slipped into another world entirely.”
Her fingers continued their movement, though the tempo had slowed considerably.
“It’s true,” she admitted, though there was little chance of such a thing happening now, with him sitting so near.
“That’s why I love it so much. When I play, I feel …
transported. Nothing can reach me when I’m truly lost in the music.
No worries, no fears, no overwhelming feelings.
Just me and the instrument and perfect, blissful focus. ”
She closed her eyes, fingers tracing the familiar path of the keys.
The rhythm of it soothed her, the effortless slide and rise of each note, the whisper of touch and response.
For a moment, she could feel the promise of that tranquil focus hovering close, as though she might actually be able to grasp it if she kept her eyes closed long enough—even with him sitting so near.
“You cannot say something like that,” he murmured, “and not expect me to take it as a challenge.”
Her eyes flew open, that glimpse of perfect focus flittering away in an instant. “What do you—”
His fingertips touched the back of her hand, the lightest possible contact, barely there at all. Just a whisper of skin against skin as he traced the delicate bones beneath. Her playing faltered for a moment before she forced herself to continue.