She tried not to stare at the newly revealed skin and failed. “It is opulent and large.”
Not as opulent and large as his apartments, which were cavernous. But he was the king, and she was nothing more than a lowly lady-in-waiting.
“You may choose another.”
“I’ve already settled in it.”
“Stubborn wench,” he said.
There was such tenderness in those words that she tensed beneath the stunning weight of it. His impassive countenance shifted, rather in the fashion of a mask being lifted, and what she saw there made her knees go weak.
“Why did you send for me?” she asked desperately, already perilously close to abandoning her resolve to resist him.
“Need there be a reason?” He unclasped his hands at his back, allowing them to fall to his sides. “I am king.”
The mask was back in place.
She should have been relieved, but she was not.
“Whatever His Majesty desires,” she mocked.
“You,” he said.
Tansy blinked.
“I desire you,” he elaborated, stopping before her. “Surely you know that by now.”
“You’re marrying another, and you’ve made it abundantly clear that your past is none of my concern. Indeed, you’ve scarcely spoken more than a handful of words to me since that day in the gardens.”
“I’m sorry.”
His apology took her aback. Tansy had expected more imperial magnificence, more ice and harsh aloofness.
The fight seeped from her. “You’re sorry,” she repeated.
“Yes, spitfire. I’m sorry.” He extended his hand to her, palm up. “Will you sit with me and allow me to explain?”
She eyed his hand, remembering how wonderful it felt on her bare skin, caressing her. Holding her. Pleasuring her. She should leave. She should tell him to go to the devil and flee his apartments, never to return. Sever all ties.
Yes, she should do all those things.
Tansy settled her hand atop his.
But she couldn’t.
Tansy tentatively placedher hand in Maxim’s. So small and delicate. She made him feel like the beast he was. He tightenedhis fingers on hers, lest she have a change of heart and think to slip away.
He had been waiting weeks to have her alone.
Weeks of torture.
Weeks of endless agony.
Desperate, terrible fucking weeks.
Wordlessly, he guided her to the sitting room, where a servant had laid out a tray of sweets and fresh lemonade was poured and awaiting their delectation.
“Sit,” he invited, reluctant to release her now that he was touching her again, and yet knowing he must.
