‘Actually, yes, it was,’ he said, but the devastating charm she had become so used to was gone. In its place was something studied and deliberate, almost as if he were trying to deflect the conversation. ‘I’m becoming rather tired of going through the motions of this visit, without ever talking about the particulars. And I’m even more bored of sharing you with all these people.’
His gaze dipped to her mouth.
Her heart bobbled in her throat. And the hot spot between her thighs pulsed, as it always did when he looked at her mouth like that... As if he wanted to devour it in a few quick bites.
She stared right back at him. ‘What happened back there? You looked...’ she swallowed, the compassion making her throat hurt ‘...so sad.’
He blinked and then frowned. But she knew she’d hit the mark when he turned back to the view of the streets as the limousine headed back towards the palace grounds.
‘Just an inconvenient moment of déjà vu,’ he said, his voice rough, as if he’d had to wrench the words from his throat.
The deep frown as he continued to stare out of the car window made it obvious he wasn’t seeing the huddle of traditional shops—their mullioned windows alight with Christmas lights—he was back in that moment of déjà vu.
She reached across the car and placed her hand over the fingers he had fisted on the seat between them.
He jerked round—the contact like a lightning bolt.
‘If you want to talk about it, I can listen,’ she said.
The furrow on his brow deepened, and for a moment she was sure she’d overstepped. But as she lifted her hand, he released the fist and captured her fingers.
‘Don’t...’ he murmured.
His thumb stroked her knuckles, absently, as he contemplated their joined hands.
‘What was it about? The moment of déjà vu?’ she coaxed gently.
‘Stupid really, it was so long ago. And I barely remember her.’
She squeezed his fingers, desperate to reassure, because she could hear the pain he was trying so hard to hide in the flat conversational tone of voice.
‘Who?’ she asked.
His gaze lifted to hers. The puzzled frown like a bear coming out of hibernation, unsure of where he was. Whatever dark place he had gone to during their walkabout, he had been back for a return trip.
‘Who do you barely remember?’ she asked again.
He sighed, then looked away, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
‘My mother,’ he said on a huff of breath, so soft, she could hardly hear him.
His mother?
Juno racked her brains, trying to remember what she knew about Leo’s mother. She’d met his father, as a very young child, during a state visit, and remembered she hadn’t liked him. Where her father had been detached, Leo’s father had been downright scary. A tall, muscular, darkly handsome man who wore his superiority like a shield and had been dismissive of her and her sister because they were girls.
But she had never met Leo’s mother, because she was pretty sure the Severene Queen had died before she and her sister had even been born—which would have made Leo a very young child when his mother passed.
‘She died, when you were little, didn’t she?’ she asked.
‘Yes, a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Her funeral procession was held in the old town a few days after Christmas.’ The frown on his forehead softened. ‘Perhaps that’s why today’s event reminded me of it?’
‘How old were you?’ she asked softly, not wanting to interrupt too much. The way he was talking, she wasn’t even sure he was aware of her presence.
He shrugged. ‘Five, I think. The stupid thing is... I didn’t know at the time, as we walked behind the casket, with the press taking photos, and the crowds staring at me, and weeping, that she was dead.’
‘They made you walk behind her casket?’ she said, shocked.
What kind of monster would make a child of five walk behind his own mother’s coffin? No wonder Leo had an issue with connecting with his own subjects. No wonder he treated the walkabouts and other chances to meet the crowds as a chore. No wonder he had no desire to let down the mask.