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Actual laughter, not its dark and bitter shadow.
He had the urge to laugh, out loud, and that was disconcerting in the extreme.
Obviously he repressed it. “This is the kingdom of Ilonia,” he told her.
“And here I thought I was in London. I did think it seemed a bit more rustic than I remembered.”
“You are American, are you not? It is never clear what an American might know of the world.”
Her gray eyes gleamed. “One thing Americans are usually pretty clear on is the irrelevance of kings.”
Again, that urge to laugh. He remembered that too well. Again, Paris Apollo repressed it. That was new. “It is tradition that when an Ilonian king dies, his successor retreats from public life for a year out of respect. And, if we’re being less high-minded, because there is often a great deal of tutoring of the new monarch that everyone prefers remaining unseen by the general public. The same is true when an Ilonian queen dies. Perhaps you are unaware that both the King and Queen died. At once. Therefore, a two-year retreat from public life was the appropriate response, no matter what my ministers might think.”
She paused then, looking away from him. “I’m sorry, Paris Apollo. I think it’s easy to speak of kings and queens in the abstract, but they were your parents. I can’t imagine how you feel.”
He steeled himself against the concerning part of him that wanted to believe her. When she was only here as a part of one more political game—one more gambit on the part of his ministers to make him do things their way, not his. “I do not wish you to imagine it. I do not need anyone else to imagine it.”
Because he lived it. And he had taken the things he felt and made them stone. Just like the Hermitage here on this mountain, he’d carved that stone to suit his aims.
For Paris Apollo would have his vengeance. He would weed out everyone responsible for his parents’ demise, and he would make them pay. By his own hand, if necessary.
“I don’t require condolences,” he growled when her forehead creased, her gray eyes grew somber, and she seemed inclined to offer a few. “All I wish is to be left alone to conduct the traditional grieving period allocated to every Ilonian monarch in history. It does not seem like too much to ask, and yet here you are. The last in a long line of those who wish to drag me back to the palace, tradition be damned.”
Her arms were still folded. Her gray gaze grew...opaque.
Paris Apollo could not understand why that gnawed at him. Why he felt that she should be open, melting, easily read instead—when that girl was as much a construction as any other story he’d ever told himself.
This woman might as well be a stranger. That was why he was treating her like one.
“My understanding is that your two years are up,” she said after a moment. “Or about to be up, more accurately. Should you not appear in three days’ time, it will trigger a constitutional crisis and your cousin, the Honorable Lord Konos, will take the throne.”
As if he had somehow missed that little detail. As if he needed her, imported from her carefree American life, to share these things with him.
He did not choose to focus on that part, lest his temper exceed his control. “There is nothing honorable about Lord Konos.”
“I’m not an expert on Ilonian politics and can only repeat what I’ve been told, but apparently, you are not the only person who thinks King Konos would be a bad idea.”
Paris Apollo did not react to that. Not outwardly. For his treacherous, murderous cousin Konos would take that throne over Paris Apollo’s dead body.
Something his cousin would no doubt take great pleasure in producing for the country, but Paris Apollo was ready for Konos and his machinations. He had done nothing these last two years but prepare for the day he would come down from this mountain and clean up the mess Konos had made.
“The throne is not in jeopardy,” he said now. “I’ve told Angelique and all the rest of my ministers this myself. The Hermitage might look ancient, but I assure you, it is sufficiently wired to carry the concerns of my country to my ears at all times of the day and night. Ilonia is not running itself. I am removed from the palace, but I have not abdicated my responsibilities.”
Only after he said that did he realize that he...was justifying himself to Madelyn Jones, who had already walked away from him twice. As if he was not the King. As if she had some power over him.
The important thing was that he didn’t know why she had been sent here to him. Why should Angelique Silvestri imagine that one of the many women Paris Apollo had sampled in his day might sway him one way or another?
“Terrific,” Madelyn replied dryly, her gaze moving over his face in a way he could not say he liked. “Now that we’ve settled that, I’ll just head on back down the mountain, let your friend know, and be on my way.”
He was shaking his head before he knew he meant to move, much less betray a reaction.
“I think not,” Paris Apollo said, and not because she was apretty light. But because Angelique was a canny politician who did nothing without a reason, and he didn’t want Madelyn wandering off until he figured out what that reason was.
That she still held such power over him was yet one more cross to bear.
Paris Apollo told himself he would ignore it like all the rest.
For her part, Madelyn frowned. “You couldn’t wait to be rid of me a few minutes ago. I was far too unsophisticated for your taste. Too beneath you to even rate a conversation. Now, suddenly, you’ve changed your mind?”
