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“Morning, Nathan,” Isadora says in a voice that could bring me to my knees. Just that sweet, pure sound is like warm honey from her mouth and down my throat. I want to taste her now, kiss her, but her mother is on me.
The queen runs her hand right down my ass.
“Yes, good morning, Nathan,” Queen Illeana says, almost purring at me. The woman isn’t trying to hide this at all, and it’s just gross at this point. I am betrothed to her daughter. This is not the kind of behavior the princess should expect from her mother. Isadora is smart, but I can tell by the knitted eyebrows she has now that she’s confused as to why her mother is acting this way. I don’t think Isadora wants to accept the truth. I understand that.
I want to jolt away from the queen’s touch, that’s how off-putting I find it. I could normally just play the game, just breathe and play the part, cast aside how much I don’t want the admittedly gorgeous queen to touch me. Instead, I seat myself across from Isadora.
Queen Illeana sits in the seat next to me, and she closes her hand over mine for a moment, meeting my eyes.
But my skin rejects the feel of anyone but Isadora’s touch, and I can’t just push back my reaction. My mind seems to slow down now. That’s not a problem I’ve experienced before. I look at Isadora’s dewy, gorgeous skin. That sweet, pure smile on her perfect lips. I forget that I’m here to figure out what the queen is up to every moment I look at Isadora. I want to taste the songs behind her eyes, swallow her sighs, and hold her in my arms. She brings out the part of me that I pull back when I’m alone and play music, or sketch in charcoal. I can’t be that bare in front of the rest of the world. I certainly can’t be now with the queen here, clearly up to something. As the foremost authority of people up to no good, yeah I know the queen is after something.
I inhale and pull my hand away, attempting my usual charming smile and look at Isadora. “You look radiant this morning. Did you sleep well, my love?” I want to touch her hand, but after the queen’s little display I’m not going to bother. I don’t want to draw any more attention to how I’m mishandling the situation.
“I did, though I stayed up too late reading that Locke you recommended me. That, and the Machiavelli—”
“My princess, apologies, your grapefruit was brought to the dining hall. I brought it here for you,” a handmaiden interrupts Isadora.
Isadora smiles graciously and touches the woman’s arm, taking the plate with the other hand. “That is so thoughtful of you, Elinor. Queen Mother wanted to have tea with one of my intendeds. I should have informed you but as I was saying to Nathan, I read too much last night and didn’t add the item to my phone calendar yet.”
The handmaid curtsies and smiles, and I can tell that Isadora is always kind and thoughtful. “Machiavelli doesn’t seem like your taste, my Princess,” Elinor says, her eyes darting toward the queen and back. “But I suppose the art of ruling requires all preparation.” She attempts to dial back what she implied, and I feel for poor Elinor.
The scorn on the queen’s face is enough to singe the hair off a bald cat, but I generally handle things like this very well when I’m not thinking about how I want each of Isadora’s slender fingers in my mouth instead of the tea I’m about to drink.
“Yes, the breadth of one’s reading can help them through near any situation.” I speak before the queen does and says something crushing to Isadora’s handmaiden. Doubtlessly, she doesn’t enjoy the familiarity and friendliness that Isadora offers the girl, but that’s because the queen treats people like pawns. I’m not so different…or at least, I wasn’t. So I understand this. Isadora makes me want to be better. “Next up, The Art of War?” I turn to Isadora.
“Oh, I’ve read that countless times. It has such clean advice, I think it helps us be direct in all matters.” Isadora smiles warmly at me, her eyes acknowledging that I kept the queen from saying something vile to Elinor.
“G’day, I’ll finish your linens,” Elinor says, scurrying off.
The queen clinks her sugar spoon down and lifts her cup, but speaks before taking a sip. “To think you’re marrying someone so innocent as Isadora, when you and I both know an ideal match for you would be versed and suited to Machiavelli.” She starts to take a dainty little sip of her tea.
I fight the urge to pull that cup from her hands in a dramatic gesture; I’m so frustrated at her bitchy iciness toward Isadora. “Let’s not pretend you know what I need beyond a political alliance, as far as matches go,” I say to the queen through gritted teeth. “Isadora is intelligent, passionate, and a woman I’m lucky to marry.”
