She was speaking politely, with such grace and poise, her voice even and sweet. It was a pleasant voice that Lady Tansy had. As pleasant as her face. His own stare dipped to the swell of her breasts beneath her modest gown. And the rest of her too.
But he didn’t like the way she saidof course, as if he had just proven some notion about himself that she had already decided before he had revealed his lack of interest in the woman he was marrying.
“You still haven’t told me how oldyouare, Lady Tansy,” he reminded her pointedly, jealous of the wall over his shoulder for holding her rapt attention.
He was accustomed to everyone looking at him.
Being in awe of him, whether for his size or his throne or his wealth. He was King of Varros.
“Five-and-twenty,” she answered, her eyes still averted.
He wanted those eyes on him, curse it.
He was fifteen years her senior, and he felt every one of his forty years, compared to her youth and beauty.
“Look at me when you speak, my lady,” he demanded.
At last, those gray orbs returned to him, but whatever she was feeling and thinking remained hidden. It was then he realized there was a hint of palest blue circling her irises, rather like a sea in the midst of a storm.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Her unflappable poise commanded a reaction in him that he couldn’t contain. Maxim wanted to ruffle her feathers.
“Better,” he allowed grudgingly. “Now come and sit with me while we await the princess’s arrival.”
Lady Tansy’s eyebrows rose. “Sit with you?”
She repeated his request in the manner he imagined she might if he had announced that she must throw herself from the window.
He gave her his most feral grin. “Yes, Lady Tansy. Sit with me.”
As he offered her his arm, he knew she had no choice but to take it and allow him to escort her the handful of paces to the sitting area arranged by the fireplace. Her hand settled on his sleeve as lightly as a bird. He placed his hand atop it, keeping her neatly trapped, the warmth of her soft skin a subtle, delicious temptation.
And Maxim had never been adept at denying himself what he wanted, whether a woman or a kingdom.
CHAPTER 2
King Maximilian’s hand was incredibly large.
So large that it covered hers entirely on his shot-silk coat sleeve.
And it was hot.
Not as smooth as she would have supposed a king’s hand to be. Not that she had spent any time at all considering King Maximilian’s hands. No, indeed. The flip in her belly at his touch was a product of her nerves and nothing more.
She was overset, awaiting Princess Anastasia’s return. Fearing for her welfare. Yes, that was all. Nervous about the necessity of keeping further company with the king. About the lies she had been telling on the princess’s behalf.
King Maximilian guided her to the seating area as politely as if they were at court with the watchful gazes of a hundred courtiers looking on. He was perfectly mannerly. Surprisingly elegant for a man whose barbarous acts on the battlefield and beyond were legendary.
But she wouldn’t think of any of those things now, not with him so near, for fear that her countenance would give her away.
“Sit, my lady.” His low voice was perilously near to her ear.
With a jolt, she realized he had lowered his head toward hers. Swallowing hard against an odd rush of some unfamiliar emotion, she seated herself with more force than necessary. The impact of her bottom colliding with the cushion made her breasts jostle beneath her gown. To her horror, she saw the king’s dark, glittering gaze dip and linger.
An answering fluttering took up residence low in her belly.
Ignoring the unwanted reaction, Tansy made a show of arranging the drapery of her gown around her, flustered beyond measure by his nearness, his voice, his probing stare, his scent. King Maximilian smelled like a Boritanian summer—citrus with a hint of bay. And the more she studied him, the more she was forced to admit just how disturbingly handsome he was.
