Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage. Кейт Хьюит
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But she didn’t need wine; she felt drunk already, dizzy and light and free. ‘All right,’ she whispered. She watched as he poured from the bottle already opened on the sideboard and then handed her a crystal glass, raising his own in a toast. ‘To tonight,’ he said, and the words were surely a promise of what was to come.
Phoebe drank, letting the rich liquid slide down her throat and fire her belly. She felt floaty and weightless, suspended in the moment, unable to think or care about anything else. She knew, absolutely knew, she shouldn’t feel this way. Wasn’t this evening meant to be about the future? About the king and his plans? About what Leo knew? Yet all the questions she’d meant to ask, all the answers she’d meant to demand, seemed to float away to nothing, meaningless in the face of the consuming desire she felt for this man.
‘Shall we eat?’ Leo asked, and Phoebe nodded, for, though she’d claimed to be hungry, surely the meal was simply something to be got through, to be endured before the rest of the evening began.
She moved to the table, her gown swishing sensuously against her bare legs, and sat down.
‘Please. Allow me.’ Leo set down his wine glass and took the heavy linen napkin from the table, unfolding it with a flourish and then spreading it on her lap, his fingers brushing and even lingering on her thighs. Phoebe closed her eyes, savouring the caress.
Leo moved to the other side of the table and sat down, and Phoebe forced herself to open her eyes, to act normal. To feel normal. His knee nudged hers under the table, a subtle, steady pressure that had fiery sensation flooding through her once more.
This had to stop. It had to begin.
‘Something smells delicious,’ Phoebe said.
‘Indeed.’ Leo lifted the lids on several silver chafing-dishes; a tantalising aroma of rosemary and lemon wafted from a dish of roasted chicken. Leo placed some on her plate, along with fresh asparagus and new potatoes. He handed her a basket of bread; the rolls were soft and flaky.
Yet Phoebe couldn’t taste it, or at least the taste was overwhelmed by her other senses. The feel of Leo’s knee against hers, the sight of him, the scent of him.
She couldn’t take any more, she thought almost frantically. She was burning up, her body aching and restless—
‘Phoebe,’ Leo said quietly, putting down his fork, ‘the king wishes to make Christian his heir.’
The words didn’t make sense. They penetrated Phoebe’s haze of desire like buzzing flies, circling in her fevered brain. The king wants to make Christian his heir . . . his heir . . . his heir . . .
‘But … that’s impossible.’ The words felt thick and clumsy on her tongue, and she blinked, struggling to find clarity amidst her body’s clamouring needs. ‘Anders abdicated. Christian has no right—’
‘The king has decided otherwise.’ Leo gazed at her directly, watched her carefully. Did he think she was going to throw a fit? To scream and shriek and cry?
For now the lovely fog of desire was burning off under the cruel light of dawning realisation. If Christian was the king’s heir, then he would be king one day. Of Amarnes. He would live his life here, his life would be forfeit to the crown, and Phoebe—what role would she have?
The answer was obvious. None. She rose from the table on legs made shaky now by fear. ‘This has been his plan?’ she asked sickly, though she knew, of course, it was. ‘All along?’
‘Yes … although I did not know it.’
She shot Leo a dark glance. ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you? If Christian is named heir, then you won’t be—’
‘King. No.’ Leo spoke with no intonation, no inflection, no emotion at all. Phoebe turned around to stare at him helplessly. What was he thinking right now? Feeling? She had no idea, no clue, and it scared her. The heady hope of the last twenty-four hours, brimming as they had been with possibility, suddenly seemed ludicrous. False. Who was this man?
‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked and Leo shrugged one shoulder.
‘I could hardly say I did not feel some disappointment at the news. But if the king wishes it, there is little I can say or do about the matter.’
‘And what can I do?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘I don’t want Christian to be king!’ She thought of her mother’s lawyer friend. How did you contest a line of succession? Was it even possible?
‘I wouldn’t go down that route, Phoebe,’ Leo said quietly, and she heard a raw note of compassion in his voice. ‘It won’t get you anywhere.’
‘But how can he …? This isn’t a dictatorship—don’t you have a parliament or something—?’
‘Yes, and I’m afraid they’ll do what Nicholas says. He is—and has been—a strong ruler.’
Just like that, Phoebe thought, too shocked and sick at heart even to feel angry. Just like that, Nicholas could change everything, everyone’s lives.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’ She finally asked brokenly. ‘Just … roll over? Accept this?’ Her voice rose and her hands fisted at her sides. ‘Leo, he can’t become king! Frances told me how awful the royal family—your family—is!’ she continued wildly, driven by desperation. ‘All the jealousies and rivalries—your own mother was sent away!’
Leo stilled, his face now utterly blank. ‘Yes, she was.’
‘And is that what’s going to happen to me?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘Is the king going to send me away, or will he just try to buy me off again?’
‘No,’ Leo replied calmly. ‘He wanted to buy you off in New York, but I never made the offer.’
‘What …?’ The single word came out in a hiss.
‘A million euros,’ Leo clarified dispassionately. ‘But I knew as soon as I saw you, Phoebe, that you would never take such an offer, and I would never make one.’ He paused, turning his head so his face was averted from her, cast in shadow. ‘You were right, my mother was sent away when I was six. When Anders was born. My father died the same year, and Nicholas couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Or at least put me in my proper place.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Of course, he couldn’t do so without first getting rid of my mother. She wasn’t needed any more, and Nicholas wanted a clear playing field.’ Leo let out a long, ragged breath. ‘He bought her off.’
Phoebe’s eyes widened in shock; she still couldn’t see Leo’s face, but she could feel the pain emanating from him in sorrowful waves. ‘Leo, I’m sorry.’
‘I saw her only a handful of times after that, and she died when I was sixteen. She had a weak chest.’ He turned his head, met her gaze. ‘So I could hardly let the same happen to you,’ he continued, and Phoebe saw the bleak honesty in his eyes. ‘Even though I was tempted.’
‘Tempted …?’
‘You were an inconvenience, remember?’ Leo gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘At least, I thought of you as one until I saw you again.’
Her heart bumped painfully against her ribs. She wanted to ask Leo what he meant, wanted to hope, needed to, but the future—Christian’s future—was too overwhelming. ‘So what can we do?’ she whispered. ‘We can’t—I can’t—’ She stopped, took a breath, and started again in a stronger voice. ‘I won’t be bought, and I won’t leave Christian.’
‘I know.’ Leo smiled, his mouth curling upwards in a way that made Phoebe’s insides tingle with awareness, with anticipation. ‘I have another solution.’ He paused, and in that second’s silence Phoebe felt as if the room—the whole world—became hushed in expectation, as if everything had led to this moment, this question, this possibility. As if she already knew. Leo took a step towards