Page 45 of Wedding Night In The King's Bed

Gianluca merely raised a brow. He did not point out that his wishes superseded all others, always.

He did not have to. If he did have to, then perhaps it was time he abdicated.

But sure enough, all he needed to do was stare. The man let out a long sigh, the other one groaned, and they confessed.

And that was how Gianluca found himself stalking through the palace, then out into the rear gardens. He crossed the sprawling palace complex with what felt like murderous steps, hardly noticing the cold night, until he found himself at the door to the dower cottage once more.

He did not permit the guard to announce him.

Instead, he moved in a seething silence into the house, following the sound of voices he knew only too well.

And there he found them, sitting close together on the settee. With all those pictures on the mantel arrayed above them, another set of carefully curated lies.

His mother was dressed, suggesting this visit was no surprise though it was after midnight. And his own treacherous queen had not bothered to change from dinner, so it was tempting to imagine this was formal, the two of them talking the way that they were...

Except they were clasping each other’s hands as if they were friends, and Gianluca felt something in him tear open at the sight.

He told himself it was betrayal.

“What,” he bit out, and perhaps he enjoyed the way they both jolted a little too much at the sound of his voice, “in the name of all that is holy is going on here?”

His mother looked instantly defiant, but that was typical Elettra. He would deal with her later. He kept his gaze on Helene, expecting to see a look of guilt on her lovely, lying face.

But he did not.

Instead, if she was still startled by his sudden appearance, she didn’t show it. All she did was shift so she could train that gold-tipped gaze of hers on him.

“What does it look like?” she asked, with that unimpeachable serenity of hers that might very well be what put him in his grave, no abdication required. “I decided it was high time I met my mother-in-law.”

CHAPTER TEN

HELENE COULD FEEL the older woman’s hands trembling in hers, so she didn’t let go. Instead, she held on tight—but she didn’t take her eyes off her husband.

Who she thought was the most stubborn man she’d ever met, and she’d grown up under the foot of a man who had redefined the term single-minded.

“And before you tell me that I have nothing to talk about with my own mother-in-law,” she continued, because she by now could read the kinds of storms that moved through his gaze, “I’ll thank you to allow me to decide such things on my own. It isn’t up to you.”

“When will you understand?” Gianluca’s voice was almost soft, and she knew that meant he was at his most dangerous. “It is all up to me. This is my kingdom, Helene. I was born to rule it. My word is law. Which is likely to prove that to you?”

“Be cruel to me if you must, Gianluca,” his mother said then. She shifted so that she could put an arm around her daughter-in-law’s shoulders. “Don’t turn yourself into a bully. Hasn’t he already taken enough?”

Helene was absurdly touched by that. She had first come to see Elettra not long after she’d initially realized she was pregnant.

My dear, Elettra had said when Helene had snuck over to see her, you must not know my son very well if you think that there is any way to ingratiate yourself to him through me.

I’m trying to ingratiate myself to you, Your Majesty, Helene had replied, with a perfect curtsy. And much as I’d like to be friends, I have a deeper purpose.

She had not announced that she intended to get to the truth of things. Still, Elettra nodded as if she knew. And they had enjoyed an afternoon tea, which happened to be Helene’s most favorite meal of all.

The boarding school I went to took tea very seriously, she’d told Gianluca’s mother. We were in Switzerland, and the headmistress was quite ferociously German, but she told us all that a great deal of the world was arranged around a proper British tea service. The feminine part of the world, I mean. And it was a language she insisted we learn, if only because calling for a tea service during the middle of an unpleasant discussion gives everyone something to do. And therefore can shift the discussion to something more pleasant automatically.

There is a reason, Elettra had said with a murmur, that the British were so good at holding on to their empire for a time.

Helene did not think that colonialism was predicated on tea, but she also did not intend to argue with the Dowager Queen of Fiammetta.

So instead, she and this wary, watchful, beautiful woman whose son looked almost exactly like her, sipped at their Darjeeling. They nibbled at cunning petit fours and did not have to choose between scones and crumpets—the way Elettra suggested Gianluca had always done—for both were on offer.

And as she’d risen to leave, Elettra had studied her teacup as if it held all the wisdom of the world.