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But he did not break vows. To himself, to others, or to his people.
That had to be the beginning and the end of it, or who was he?
Griffin rolled his eyes at his older brother and king as if he could read Orion’s mind. He likely could. He lifted a hand, then prowled his way out of Orion’s private office. No doubt off to despoil virgins, carouse, and enjoy the last days of the scandalous reputation he’d built for himself as possibly the most unrepentant playboy in the history of Europe.
Orion stood where he was, a muscle in his jaw flexing with a tension and fury he couldn’t control.
Youarecontrolling it,he told himself stoutly.Because, unlike your father, you are always in control. Always.
And always, always would be. That was one more promise he’d made himself.
He blew out a breath, there where even Griffin couldn’t see him.
And then there was nothing for it. Putting off his unpleasant duty wasn’t going to make it any better. It wasn’t going to save him from the unwelcome task he had no choice but to perform.
Like everything else in his life, he was simply going to have to do what must be done, no matter what.
His personal feelings were irrelevant and always had been.
He had learned that beyond any reasonable doubt when, at seventeen, he’d been the one to discover his mother, the queen, after she’d taken her own life. And when his father had proved unequal to the task of handling her funeral—preferring to decamp to the Caribbean with a brace of starlets on each arm—Orion had stepped in to handle it.
Not because he’d wanted to handle it. He’d been seventeen. Still considered a child by some. But despite his feelings and his youth, he’d handled it because it needed to be handled.
As the years passed, his father had increased his vile behavior, made ever more unhinged demands, and had shirked more and more of his royal duties. Orion had stepped in and shouldered the load, each and every time.
He’d been doing the lion’s share of the monarch’s actual work for a decade, but always with the knowledge that at any moment, on the slightest whim, his father could and likely would sweep in and undo all his work.
Today was an example of the old king’s machinations from beyond the grave, in point of fact, and it was the same as it ever had been. As if he was still alive to ruin lives. Orion would have to do what needed doing, not because hewantedto do it. But because it was for the good of Idylla.
He pushed away from the window and headed for his door, automatically checking his appearance in one of the mirrors as he passed. Not because he was vain, but because he was the crown. And in contrast to his father’s visible, heedless decline, he wished to look above reproach—and as much like the official photographs of himself—as possible.
Because that helped his people feel secure.
Everything Orion did was to make Idylla better. To convince his people that all was well, that he could be trusted, that the years of shame and scandal were behind them all. Part of that was presenting them with an image of a king they could believe in.
One that was as opposite his father’s slovenly appearance in his last years as possible.
Orion looked presentable enough, and left his office, moving swiftly now that he’d stopped stalling the inevitable.
He might not wish to be betrothed, but he was. And that meant he was getting married, because a broken betrothal was a broken promise—a scandal in the making—and he would allow neither.
No matter what happened.
The palace corridor outside his office was quieter than it had been while his father was alive, when Orion’s staff had always rushed to and fro, always in one crisis or another as they’d all done their best to anticipate and/or manage the king’s mercurial decisions. Becoming king had actually eased Orion’s duties in many ways, because he no longer had to spend 89 percent of his time conjuring up ways to handle the fallout of each and every one of King Max’s contradictory decrees.
Competent, reserved, and sane. Those were Orion’s goals as king.
Idylla had been the world’s punch line for far too long. It ended now.
His betrothed might not know it yet, she might have her own agenda, for all he knew—but despite who she was and what she represented, she would fall in line with the goals of his new regime.
One way or the other.
Or she would pay the price.
He headed toward his private salon, nodding at courtiers and staff as he went. No one approached him, which told him he probably ought to do something about his expression.
But he didn’t.
