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Rupert hadn’t been certain how Princess Aria would react to his presence. He hadn’t been even certain what he would say to her. In the end, he’d decided to go for brevity.
After all, the princess would have to flee the castle at once.
The princess stared at him. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes flashed.
Rupert had the vague impression he should have phrased his opening line to her better.
“What are you saying?” the princess asked icily, as if she’d personally packed huge blocks of snow from Sweden in her trunk and was tossing them at him.
“I’m speaking about your life,” Rupert said.
“You are insulting my husband. You are not a good cousin.”
“He is an even worse one.”
She continued to glare and glanced toward the bell pull. Rupert hastily narrowed the distance between them, nearly toppling over an oriental carpet.
“You should not be here.” The princess raised her upturned nose and sniffed. Rupert may as well have been an unpleasant scent wafting from a cow-filled pasture.
“And you should not be murdered.”
She fixed her eyes on him. Unlike her demeanor, which was cold, as if she’d been raised by glaciers and polar bears, her eyes were a warm honey color. Something in Rupert’s heart clenched, but he shook the emotion away.
In her letters, she’d been warm and playful, but now when he was speaking with her, her demeanor was frosty. His very presence repulsed her, and his throat tightened.
He was not going to muse about her undeniable beauty. He was absolutely not going to ponder her golden skin, her large dark eyes, or her upturned nose. He was not going to think about her curly dark hair, and he certainly was not going to ponder the glossiness of her strands. He had the definite sense that touching her hair would be wonderful indeed.
But Rupert was not going to think about that. She was a princess, a duchess, and worse—his cousin’s wife. It didn’t matter how curved her waist was, how alluring her long delicate neck was, how intriguing her collarbone and sloped shoulders. He forced himself not to gaze at the ruby pendant that hung from her neck. Thinking about her ruby pendant might draw his attention to her beautiful face, or worse, it might draw his attention to her deliciously curved bosom. That generous slope was most intriguing.
But Rupert wasn’t going to think of her breasts, and he wasn’t going to ponder their shape, and he certainly wasn’t going to muse about what they might feel like in his hands. He wasn’t going to imagine trailing kisses to her waist, and he wasn’t going to imagine stroking her flat belly. He absolutely was not going to imagine any of her lower region, even though her legs were long, and even though they might feel quite good wrapped around him.
No, Rupert wasn’t going to think of those things, no matter how much his heart hammered, and no matter how appealing her jasmine and violet scent was.
He was going to stop her from being murdered.
“Look,” Rupert said hastily, “I know this sounds mad.”
“Mad?” She huffed. “Even asylum dwellers would find it challenging to say something of equal absurdity.”
“I know,” Rupert said. “I know. But it’s true. Absolutely true.”
For a moment, the princess hesitated. She had to believe him. She’d spent the day married to his cousin—that might be sufficient reason to believe.
“Why are you saying this?” she asked finally.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He glanced at the window. “Or more accurately, I don’t want to see you get flung from the balcony, and I don’t want to hear my cousin tell others that you slipped in an unfamiliar environment.”
Her face paled. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“He said he would do that this very afternoon.”
She stared at him, and her jaw wobbled. Then she inhaled sharply and shook her head. “No. I don’t believe that. He wouldn’t do that. He’s my husband. He loves me.”
“He doesn’t.”
Her jaw tightened, and she averted her gaze suddenly. “You should leave.”
“I know about the letters,” Rupert said. “I think that’s why you think he loves you.”
She turned back to him slowly, as if she thought she should still dash through the corridor, but couldn’t quite bear to do that. “I don’t understand.”
“He paid someone else to do it,” Rupert said.
She turned to him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “The task didn’t interest him.”
He waited for her to ask him who had written the letters, but she was silent. Perhaps he’d overemphasized the importance of the letters in his mind. Perhaps they’d always mattered more to him than they had to her. Perhaps there was a reason the duke had been happy to delegate them to him and had scoffed at the care he took in composing them.
A sour taste invaded Rupert’s throat.
Finally, the princess turned away. “You’re prevaricating. People don’t murder people. Only in the most lurid broadsheets.”
“People will think you had an accident. They won’t know it’s murder. They’ll all be shocked and not take midnight walks on their balconies for the next few months.”
She was silent.
“The duke will tell everyone he’s devastated,” he pressed.
She flinched. “Why are you telling me this?”
Rupert paused. This was the moment when he should tell her that he’d written the letters. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want her to think ill of him. He didn’t want her to think he’d misjudged his cousin so poorly. “I was present when he told his mistress of his plan. I couldn’t refrain from telling you.”
“Mistress?” Her large eyes widened, and she rested her hand upon her bodice, as if to quell her heart from leaping from her chest.
“Yes,” he said. “Greta van Konigsberg.”
“The woman with the blonde hair and the big bosom,” the princess said faintly.
“Indeed.” He nodded gravely, then halted his head movements. “Not, of course, that your bosom is not sizeable.”
The princess widened her eyes and stepped backward.
“Forgive me,” he said hastily. “I only meant...” He swallowed hard. “I only meant you’re worth more than Miss van Konigsberg.”
She gave a wry smile. “Well, I probably have more jewels and a larger dowry.”
“He wants to marry her after you’re dead. He promised her. It doesn’t matter how wealthy your coffers are.”
“I’ll never be her,” she said faintly.
He nodded.
“I suppose he is loyal,” she said with that wry smile again.
“I’m sorry,” Rupert said.
She nodded. “I am too.” She bit her lip. “But what am I to do? I’m by myself.”
“You need to leave.”
She shook her head slowly. “I can’t. I’m sorry, but it’s simply impossible.”
“I see.”
“He’s my husband,” the princess explained. “And I don’t know you. I can’t abscond with you late at night. From a pure risk weighting perspective—”
Rupert heaved a huge sigh. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “In that case,” Rupert said, picking up a particularly hideous vase, “you leave me no choice.”