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‘Friends in high places.’
This place was full of traitors. Rafe stood in front of one of the large mullioned windows. She squinted as the pain from all the bright light clawed inside her skull. The tablets she’d taken didn’t seem to be working. All she craved was to lie down and sleep away the next seventy-two hours. But no, she had ahoneymoonto participate in, and nothing about that would ease the pain she suffered.
‘I didn’t authorise it. Give me that key and scuttle back the way you came.’ She waved him out. His smile in response might have been mild as a spring day, but his eyes held all the tempest of a thunderstorm.
‘Marriage implies a certain level of...availability.’
Another flush of heat crept to her cheeks. ‘You can’t just barge in here.’
‘I didn’t barge. I strolled, with purpose. Next time, I’ll knock.’
‘There’ll be nonext time.’
‘It would be strange if I didn’t have access to all areas.’
Lise was about to object, but there was a knock at the proper door of her room. Could no one leave her and her aching head in peace? Lise hated knocks on the door now. She could never forget Albert, ashen-faced, walking through another doorway to deliver her the news...
‘Yes!’ She might have been a little sharp, but life was sharp. Every day held something designed to cut her. The well-oiled door eased open. One of the servants walked in carrying a tray containing a teapot and cups. She put it down on a small table.
‘There’s nothing more we require. Thank you,’ Rafe said with a glorious smile that made the girl blush as she curtsied and left the room.
He took the embossed silver teapot and poured out a pale golden liquid into two cups. The scent of it fresh and herbal.
‘What’s this?’ She nodded suspiciously at the beverage.
‘A family concoction. It can cure anything that ails you, so the legend goes.’ He held out a cup to her, took one himself and sat on a couch under the window. She sank into a spindly, straight-backed chair, as far away from him as possible. Rafe took a mouthful of his drink and Lise followed with a tiny sip from her own cup. The brew burst minty and sweet over her tongue; with undertones she couldn’t place.
‘What’s in it?’
‘The recipe’s a closely guarded secret. My mother knows the blend. She won’t give me the ingredients. Is afraid I might commercialise it. Shame. I suspect it would be quite popular.’
‘It tastes of things I can’t place.’ Somewhat medicinal, but pleasant and refreshing. It wasn’t the sort of thing she imagined Rafe drinking at all, if rumours of his love of single malt whisky were anything to go by.
‘I disliked the stuff as a child. It was forced down my throat every time I sneezed. As an adult, drinking it leaves me nostalgic,’ he said, taking a mouthful of his own. For a fleeting moment his gaze seemed distant, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening as if the memory was a happy one. ‘My mother sends me a regular supply. To help me sleep when my conscience gets the better of me from making too much money, so she says.’
‘How’s that going?’ Lise took a large gulp of the beverage. The quicker she finished, the faster she might encourage him to go. ‘Or let me guess. You don’t have a conscience.’
‘I have a large hoard of herbal tea, which is now in the palace kitchens hopefully being put to good use amongst the staff... And my conscience is clear.’ He chuckled, a warm throaty sound that rolled over her bright, hot and sweet, like the drink in her cup.
She dismissed the sensation, difficult though it was not to simply immerse herself in it and forget her own failings. How nice it would be not to have a conscience, whereas hers tore her to pieces.
‘Pleasant for some.’
Rafe cocked his head. ‘What could a twenty-two-year-old woman have on her conscience?’
If only he knew. Those hateful words she’d said a constant reminder of the final conversation with her father.
‘You can all go to hell. I wouldn’t cry if you died...’
But that was her cross to bear. She wouldn’t share it with him.‘What thirty-one-year-old man doesn’t have something plaguing his?’
‘Touché.’ He laughed, such a strangely cheerful sound in this space that had no happiness in it. ‘But the prickle of conscience suggests regret. That’s a wasted emotion. Make your decision, stick to it and accept the consequences.’
If only it were so easy. She’d live a life never accepting the consequences of her decisions. Now, Rafe posed a constant reminder of them.
‘So you have no regrets and nothing on your conscience? You sound more like an automaton than a human. Good for you.’
‘I’ve one regret.’ Rafe lounged on the floral chintz couch in his typical fashion. Too masculine for this room although he seemed to take ownership of it all the same. ‘A very human one. The regret for not kissing a beautiful woman.’
