Glancing at Viveca, he was about to bring the whole farce to a close when his body started to react to some yet unseen presence. Instinctively he turned to the open doorway in time to see Henna at the threshold, tucking a look of sheer fury behind that delicate mask of hers.
Curious.
Henna was surprised that she heard Viveca’s patentlyunwelcomegreeting above the high-pitched ringing in her ears.
‘Sister. You look...well.’
The pause indicated that her stepsister thought she looked anything but. Punctuated by an imperious eyebrow, it was her tone that hurt the most, as if Viveca was surprised Henna had the audacity to breathe the same air. Viveca lookedsvelte—there was no other word to describe her—and Henna suddenly felt invisible in the clothes that she had taken such pride in that morning.
‘Th-thank you,’ Henna replied, stuttering over the words and feeling embarrassed. Not because Viveca would notice. She was always stilted around her. But in front of Aleksander? ‘I just came to...’ In the infinitesimal moment it took for Henna to realise that she genuinely had no idea what she had come here to do, her sister rose to the occasion.
‘Oh, wonderful. I’ll have another tea. I’m sure you remember how I like it. Aleksander?’ Viveca turned, as if she had every right to offer the King a drink in his own home, a wide perfect smile on her face.
For a second Henna was caught—helpless, stuck in a childhood prism of anger, hurt and dismissal that made her body immobile but her heart rage with injustice. And Aleksander got to witness the whole thing.
Viveca had treated her like a servant from the moment her mother married Henna’s father six months before his death. But she hadn’t had to bow to her stepsister’s demands since she’d moved into the palace staff quarters. And Vivecaknewthat she did more than make tea and coffee. It was a dig, just like so many others, as if Viveca wanted to see how far she could be pushed before she broke.
That was what brought Henna back to earth. The memory that no matter what—no matter what—she never gave Viveca what she wanted. It might have taken Henna years, and one particularly brutal betrayal, but she’d learned and she knew how to play this game.
She steeled her spine. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, turning her attention to Aleksander, ‘if the staff have been remiss in providing refreshments to your guests, please allow me to take the matter to the Principal Private Secretary to the Royal Household.’
Not a single member of staff positioned discreetly around the room moved—knowing her threat was empty—but a collective breath was held while Viveca squirmed and a battle of wills commenced between Henna and Aleksander.
Would he side with his guest and sacrifice his staff, or would he reveal Viveca’s spoiled behaviour?
‘Did you resolve things with the French Ambassador?’
Anger, hot and heady, bubbled up from a well so deep she hadn’t known it was there. It stained her cheeks and stole her breath, slicked her palms with sweat andburned.Henna told herself that it was because he had side-stepped her challenge and not because he was considering Viveca as a fiancée...not at all.
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
He narrowed his gaze on hers and, just a second too late, Henna realised that she had revealed her emotions in her tone. Unfolding from the chair, he stood to his full height. ‘Miss Olin?’ he asked before making his way across the room and gesturing for her to precede him through the door which he held open.
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted and a shiver stole through her as she passed the King of Svardia and left the drawing room. An apology was on her lips but he held up his finger to silence her, as if trying to sort through his thoughts. She’d never been sharp with a member of the royal family before and had never been warned over her behaviour. In fact, the only people to have ever found fault with her were her stepmother and stepsister.
Lazy. Selfish. Rude, they’d called her. And it had hurt because she genuinely hadn’t thought she had been. Bewildered, she’d spent hours thinking over her actions and tone. She’d doubted herself terribly. So she had worked harder, been nicer, become more selfless but it had only seemed to make things worse. But this time she had not only been rude, but she’d been rude in front of staff and his guest.
She opened her mouth once more to try to apologise, but he raised his eyebrow as if reminding her that she wasn’t to speak until she was told to. She bit her lip and wished, so much, in that moment that his arrogance didn’t look so good on him. The arch of his eyebrow added even more power to an already imperious visage and a flex of muscle drew her attention to a jawline that had its own Pinterest page.
Thick and carelessly sexy, his tawny-coloured hair was the perfect blend of his sisters’, and served to draw attention to eyes the colour of molasses. Only there was nothing sweet about this man, despite his rich, complex colouring, which had garnered an impressive amount of attention from the international press.
Henna was convinced Aleksander purposely cultivated the enigmatic persona that was world-renowned, but she’d discovered that she could decipher him when she needed to. Yes, his control over his temper, features and body language was legendary, but his eyes were the one thing that betrayed him.
Perhaps if she hadn’t known him since his mid-teens, if she hadn’t known him before he’d changed, it might have been harder. But she still remembered the charming, laughing, teasing boy who she had met fourteen years ago and who had brought her to his sister, given her a friend, and eventually a job and a home. But now the King’s eyes sparked warnings like fireworks, snapping her back to the present.
‘You can’t marry her,’ she blurted out, ignoring the threat of danger. ‘You just can’t.’
That he’d been thinking exactly the same thing was neither here nor there. No one dared to tell him what to do. Not usually anyway. But Henna was different. She always had been, he thought, before veering away from the thought.
‘Why would you think I might be considering—?’
‘I’m not stupid, Your Majesty,’ she interrupted, not helping herself one bit. Red slashed across pale cheekbones as if she realised the same thing.
If he’d had less control he might have reacted to her tone, but he didn’t. Despite that, Henna stepped back and bowed her head as if she had sensed his shock.
‘Explain,’ he commanded. Because if Henna knew then...
‘Even though in the last few weeks you’ve taken every measure to ensure that Freya is the most loved of the Svardian Royals, it will only go so far when the press discover her diagnosis. Marit’s engagement will also help somewhat, but only your marriage would provide the stability needed to ease the release of information regarding Freya’s fertility.’