“He kissed me,” she admitted.
And so much more than that, but she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t summon the strength to tell the woman who was like a sister to her that her future husband had asked Tansy to be his mistress. That for a wild moment, she had considered his offer until her conscience had banished all the lust fogging her mind and sent it on its way.
“He kissed you,” her friend repeated, sounding shocked. “He forced himself upon you?”
“No.” Tansy shook her head, remorse making her throat go tight as she thought of the role she had played in the wicked tableau earlier, of how she had welcomed the king’s every advance. “There was no force. Your Royal Highness, I am so sorry for what happened. I pray that you will forgive me and that I may regain your trust.”
Princess Anastasia stared at her wordlessly, her mouth dropping open.
“I never meant for it to happen, Your Royal Highness,” Tansy rushed to add into the silence, bowing her head, too afraid to look at her friend for fear of what she would see in her eyes. “I must beg you for mercy, which I do not deserve. I promise you that it will never occur again.”
“He did nothing to hurt you?” Princess Anastasia asked.
No, indeed. Everything the king had done had been exquisitely pleasant. Much to her shame.
“Nothing,” Tansy said, staring down at her fingers, laced together as if in prayer, so tightly that her knuckles stood out in stark white relief.
“You are forgiven,” the princess said quietly, without a hint of anger.
Tansy jerked her head up, tears stinging her eyes, gratitude pouring forth like a river bursting over its banks. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“Stasia, if you please,” the princess told her kindly. “You have always been like a sister to me, Tansy. That shall never change.”
More compassion she was not worthy of receiving.
“You are the only sister I’ve ever known,” she said thickly, emotion rising as she thought of the parents she had lost at such a tender young age, of the siblings she had longed to have as a girl and had been denied by the deaths of her mother and father.
Of how she had been raised alongside Princess Anastasia instead. She owed the princess her very life. But so much more than that as well. Tansy vowed to herself that she would never again so much as look upon King Maximilian, let alone touch him. If he paid another call at the town house, she would bar the door and deny him entrance. Heavens, she would climb out the window herself to escape him.
Anything to keep from falling back under the spell of desire. To keep from surrendering to the promise of sin and foregoing all she held dear. Tansy had always wondered why a womanwould lower herself to becoming a man’s mistress instead of demanding her place as a wife. But now she understood. How shockingly easy it was to be tempted by a man like the king.
The princess took her hand then, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We shall weather this storm as we always have. Together.”
Tansy nodded, still frowning as she thought of how unbearable the future seemed, her place in the king’s court rendering it all but impossible to avoid him when they reached Varros. And then she thought of all the perils facing Princess Anastasia as the king’s plan continued to unfold beneath her uncle’s nose.
“But you need to take greater care,” she warned the princess, fretting anew over all the mysterious hours her friend had spent in Archer Tierney’s care. About that blasted knot and the implications of it. “The danger grows stronger, and I am not certain how much longer we can continue to fool the guards or King Maximilian.”
“Just a bit more time,” Princess Anastasia said. “Soon, everything will fall into place, just as it is meant to be.”
Tansy continued her ministrations, wondering how the princess could be so stoically accepting of the knowledge that the man she was about to wed had been kissing another. The very thought of King Maximilian’s mouth on any woman’s but hers filled Tansy with jealousy that was as unwanted as it was unfounded.
There was one thing she was certain of—this madness had to cease.
CHAPTER 8
One dead body was inconvenient.
Two dead bodies were a problem.
Particularly when one of the men in question bore an uncanny resemblance to his uncle.
Maxim tapped the sole of one of the unfortunate fellow’s boot. “Who do you suspect was behind this latest attempt?”
Felix paused in the act of wiping the remnants of blood from his blade with a black handkerchief. “Lingering loyalists. These two aren’t Boritanian, though they took care to wear the Boritanian colors.”
“Charles has been beneath the dirt these last three years,” he reminded his bodyguard. “Why would his supporters come for me now, and why here in London?”
Felix resumed the cleaning of the vicious-looking blade, which he had recently removed from the body of the nearest man. “They want you dead, Your Majesty. You’re beyond the protection of your court here, and they know it. They likely believe the betrothal celebrations will distract you, make you vulnerable to attack. And if they further sow the seeds of discontent by wearing Boritanian colors, they cannot lose even if they give their lives to their cause.”
