“Yes, please,” she said, reaching for the flask, spurred by some hint of inner wickedness she hadn’t previously known she possessed.
His fault, she was sure.
A sudden smile kicked up the corners of King Maximilian’s lips. Not quite a true smile, she thought, but a hint that he was pleased by her capitulation.
“You surprise me,” he said, the low timbre of his voice undeniably pleasant.
He relinquished the whisky to her, and she brought it to her lips for a sip, feeling bold and defiant and free. The princess wouldn’t return for hours. Tansy had been trapped in the chamber for most of her days since arriving in London, supposedly tending to the invalid Princess Anastasia. Here was an opportunity for distraction, however unwise.
She took a hesitant sip of the whisky and then returned the flask to him, licking her lips. “Thank you.”
He brought the flask to his own lips, seemingly taking care to place them precisely where hers had been. The king took a long pull before swallowing, holding her gaze all the while. A flush crept up her throat, the heaviness of desire making her feel languid yet needy. It was a complex combination, and to her detriment, she couldn’t seem to banish the memory of his member, hard and firm and so very large, prodding her yesterday.
What did it mean? The king was a massive man. It stood to reason that he was also similarly sized in other portions of his anatomy that remained hidden. But she couldn’t shake a more intriguing possibility—that the king was attracted to her. That the length beneath her had been the result of his own pent-up desire, not so different from hers.
These were thoughts that were unworthy of her. Thoughts she had no right to entertain. For the king was going to marry her oldest and dearest friend. The woman who was like a sister to her. The princess she had sworn her loyalty and life to.
“Tell me, my lady, what is it that you do with your time when you are hidden away in this chamber?”
His request dashed her ruminations, bringing her back to the present with a jolt.
“I read,” she blurted before she could think better of it.
The king grunted. “I’m aware.”
“I also sew,” Tansy added, inwardly cursing herself for being so foolish as to mention reading, for it had clearly reminded him of the book she had gone to great pains to hide.
“You certainly possess the patience for such an art.” He took a small sip from his flask.
She didn’t know if he was offering her praise or insult, but she decided to believe it was the former. “Thank you.”
“What else do you do?” he asked next, as if reading and sewing were insufficient pastimes.
“I attend to my duties,” she answered honestly, surprised he would issue such a question.
She was a lady-in-waiting. It was her primary obligation to assist the princess in all matters.
His regard was solemn, his gaze probing and far too intimate, making her feel as if he saw her in a way no one before him had. “You’re adept at hiding your true self, I suspect. Who are you truly, Lady Tansy, beyond a lady-in-waiting?”
Once again, his question surprised her. Largely because she didn’t have an answer, and that was most shocking of all. She didn’t know who she was aside from Lady Tansy Francis, lady-in-waiting to Princess Anastasia St. George. Her life had been dedicated to the role. She hadn’t sufficient time to concern herself with anything else.
“I am as you see me,” she said faintly. “No more, and no less.”
“That’s hardly an answer, my lady,” the king observed shrewdly.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wishing she could escape his intensity, and then folded her hands primly in her lapto give herself a source of distraction. “It is the only answer you shall have.”
King Maximilian made a low sound. “What pleases you?”
“Solitude,” she answered pointedly. “Quiet.”
He bit out a bark of laughter, the sound undeniably pleasant to her ears.
Your laugh, she thought then.Your laugh pleases me greatly.
For there was no denying the effect it had upon her. She felt his levity as acutely as if he had brushed his hand along her bare spine. Better still, she had earned it. He struck her as a man who had little use for humor.
“Touché, spitfire,” he said, giving her a smile that made her stomach perform an odd little flip as he raised his flask as if in salute before sliding it back inside the pocket in his coat.
