“Such as the time or attention your parents might give you...”
“Such as whether your parents notice you at all; where you live; what you learn from tutors; later, what you study at university. For a male, military service is mandatory, whether you wish it or not. You must align yourself with people who annoy you; and feign affection for people you despise. You cannot go to a pub, or browse in a shop, or walk down the street. You have every luxury but no freedom. Control of your life is ceded to the Crown.”
“Including control over who you marry,” she said, speaking on a sigh.
“Especially who you marry,” he enthused, looking at her again.
Ryan closed her eyes, blinking back another wave of ridiculous tears.
“Hold on,” he said, sliding a hand across her shoulders. He flattened his palm in the center of her back.“Is this what’s upset you? My spouting off about having the Crown choose my wife?”
“I’m not upset,” she lied. “I’m... exhausted. I came here to locate the real Prince d’Orleans and instead I’m fabricating a fake courtship.” She swiped up the parchment and waved it in the air.
“I don’t believe you,” he said lowly. He gave a little tug to her shoulders, trying to pull her to him but she didn’t move.
“You know,” he began gently, “I came to these conclusions about the royal family years later. When, after years of fear and anger, I could think of my father’s execution—which, despite his detachment as a parent, was still very traumatic. And after I’d read editorials about the Revolution, and the history of France—the history of all of Europe. Only when I could reflect on these and also had the opportunity to live as a normal man did I understand the lack of basic freedoms afforded to those ‘divinely chosen.’ That is to say, I didn’t begrudge any of it when I met you, nor when I wrote to you.”
“Yes,” she said, “when our betrothal was acceptable to you, you were still under the influence of the ‘indoctrination,’ of your family. And you were a child.”
“Make no mistake, Ryan, my resentment is with the control exerted by my parents, not the girl they chose for me.”
Ryan failed to suppress a bitter laugh. Faint praise, indeed.
Gabriel swore and shoved from the desk. He moved behind her and tugged gently at her shoulders until she pivoted. Now she faced him but she didn’t look up.Gabriel bent at the waist, like he was looking through the slats of a fence, trying to meet her eyes.
“I’ve offended you by suggesting that I did not want the betrothal,” he said.
“I am not offended,” she corrected. “And not wanting the betrothal makes perfect sense. Who wants their marriage decided in infancy? No one would choose this if they didn’t have to. As I said, I’m—”
He cut her off by grabbing her around the waist, lifting her, and plopping her down on the desktop.
Ryan yelped and threw out her hands. “Gabriel,” she gasped.
“I value control over my own life above all,” he said, looking her in the eye, “but that doesn’t mean I resent being pledged to you, Lady Ryan Daventry. Not ever. I enjoyed you from our very first meeting, I lived to receive your letters—obviously, they were the only thing I took when I fled France—and I have relished reuniting with you as a grown woman. My opposition to being a prince and my fondness for you are two entirely separate things.”
“Stop,” she rasped. The tears came rushing back. She hadn’t meant to make him declare all of this—truths, lies, excuses, whatever it was. She’d wanted it too much, and he’d said it too perfectly. She didn’t dare to believe.
“Stop crying, please,” he cajoled, nudging closer, bumping into her knees. He’d loosened his hands on her waist but hadn’t let her go.
She nodded, but the tears continued to come.
“Ryan?” he called softly. “Ryan? If you don’t stop crying, I’ll kiss you.”
She let out a tearful snort.
“Don’t test me,” he threatened. “I’m capable of many things, feats of strength and skill, but managing a crying woman is not one of—”
She kissed him. Not only did it end the conversation, it was what she’d wanted to do all morning.
Gabriel froze when she did it, eyes open, hands reclasping her waist. But then he gave in—he always gave in... she bloodyloved itwhen he gave in—and kissed her back.
And why shouldn’t she kiss him? It was preferable to weeping when he claimed resentment and weeping again when he claimed fondness. And really what did he expect after he’d plopped her on the table and essentially issued a dare?
Don’t think of it, she thought.Relish it while you can.
Relishingseemed to be the most effective thing to curtail the tears. He leaned over her, devouring her mouth. One hand cupped her hip, the other palmed the heavy, aching contour of her breast. Who could find dissent in this?
“Are you still crying?” he breathed, moving from her mouth to her throat. His beard scraped the skin of her neck. And wasn’t this one of her favorite sensations in all the world? His beard created a full-body thrum that made her nipples tighten and her belly clench. She dropped her head back and arched, offering herself up.
