Stepping out of the car, he looked up to take in the French apartment. It was the first time he had been here in at least three years, and when he tried to name the sensation drawing his heart down into his gut the word that came to mind wasregret.
That was absurd, however. Regret was a luxury a king could not afford. He did not regret. He merely wished he had brought Mina along, wondering how she would have received the opulent Parisian apartment, which was classic, traditional, and all things French.
Imagining her wonder brought a smile to lips as he rode the elegant antique elevator to the apartment. But a scowl replaced his smile just as the elevator doors opened, revealing the long hallway that led to the royal apartment. Striding down the hallway, he gave the door guards each a stormy nod before they opened the doors for him.
Inside, he headed straight for the study—and the liquor cabinet. Moving with all the deliberateness and yet none of the care he usually took, he selected a highball glass and rummaged through the assortment of crystal decanters available, all filled with glowing liquids in colors ranging from jewel-toned deep ambers to painfully clear.
He poured his drink rakishly and replaced the decanter with a clatter, uncaring of his lack of grace. There was no audience here. Unlike the kiss at the ball, and the brawl before dinner, there was no one here to bear witness to his absolute lack of decorum.
“Zayn!”
He didn’t turn around at once. He simply closed his eyes with a sigh, brought one hand to rub the bridge of his nose and set the glass down with the other. Then he turned around.
A woman stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other pointing toward him, her silhouette backlit by the bright living area behind her.
“Mother.”
The light flicked on. His mother no longer stood in the doorway but walked toward him, her silk pajamas flowing with her movements as she put the safety catch on the small pistol she held as she walked.
“This is unexpected,” she said.
Though it was four in the morning, she showed no sign of tiredness, no hint apart from her clothing that he’d woken her from sleep. As always, she was perfect. Elegance personified. It wasn’t on purpose. In fact, his memories of childhood were full of her eager efforts to disrupt her own natural grace—so at odds with the fire of her personality—to no avail. With her long white-blond hair, delicate bone structure, and wide violet stare, the blue of her blood had shown through even the thickest mud. And all of it had aged well.
“I didn’t know you were in residence,” he replied—because it was true. He had not thought to check her whereabouts in his eagerness to escape Mina.
“I only just arrived,” she said.
Silence stretched between them, two sets of matching eyes meeting each other across the gulf of the room.
Finally, she said, “You married.”
And as if the soft, sad words were the spark the dry tinder of his temper had been waiting for, and because tonight was apparently the night he lost all control, the words, “Did you know?” were ripped out of him, raw and acidic because they made him vulnerable.
Startled confusion replaced the look of hurt in her eyes and she demanded, in a stronger voice, “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Did you know about the betrothal?” he barked, willing to make his own demands.
“Young man. You may be the King of Cyrano, but I am your mother and you will speak to me with respect.”
“Like you and father respected me? What about my right to choose?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Zayn. There are worse things than finding yourself married to a beautiful, accomplished woman.”
“How do you know she’s any of those things?” he asked.
The hurt had returned to her voice when she responded. “I’ve been following the news.”
His attempt at censure might not have found their mark, but hers did. “We were married in private by the Archbishop. Not what you would call a wedding.”
“A mother still wants to witness such an event.”
“There was no event. I told you. Just the two of us and the Archbishop.”
His mother frowned. “Surely her parents were there?”
Zayn shook his head, a feeling of defensive shame growing in his gut at his mother’s expression. “No,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked, and a dangerous and growing note of suspicion entered her voice with each successive question.