Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage. Кейт Хьюит

Leo.

      ‘I’m sorry for your uncle’s loss,’ she finally said, keeping her voice stiff with dignity. ‘For everyone’s. But as I said before, it has little to do with me.’

      ‘But you see,’ Leo countered softly, ‘it does. Or perhaps not with you, but at least with your son.’ He paused, his words seeming to echo in the oppressive heaviness of the room, of the moment. ‘The king’s grandchild.’

      Phoebe did not reply. She couldn’t think of anything to say, to think, so she turned away to the window once more, as if she could find answers there. She blinked, trying to focus on the shapes of passing cars, but she couldn’t see. Everything was blurred, and for a second she thought it was because of the rain. Then she realised it was because of the tears clouding her vision.

      She took a breath, willed the tears to recede, to feel strong again. The last thing she wanted was for Leo to see her weakness, for surely if he was aware of it, he would use it.

      Yet standing there, the lump of emotion still lodged in her throat, she realised she wasn’t even very surprised. Of course the royal family of Amarnes wouldn’t leave her alone. Leave Christian alone. For while they may have professed no interest in her son while Anders was alive, now that he was dead …?

      Her child was all they had of him. And that was what she had to remember, Phoebe told herself, stiffening her shoulders, her spine. He was her child … in every way that mattered.

      She swallowed again, meaning to turn to face Leo, but suddenly he was there, his presence behind her, like a looming shadow. It was an unwelcome surprise, as was the hand that rested briefly, heavily on her shoulder, the warmth of his fingers burning her even through the layers of her sweater and coat.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      It was the last thing she expected, the words, and, even more so, the raw compassion underneath them. She didn’t trust it, didn’t allow herself to. How could she? She’d trusted Anders, she wasn’t about to trust his cousin, and most of all she wasn’t about to trust herself, as much as she wanted to. For in that moment she wanted to believe Leo was sorry, she wanted to believe he could be—what? A friend?

      The idea was so laughable as to be offensive. Phoebe turned around, shrugging Leo’s hand off her shoulder, and he stepped away, his expression bland once more.

      ‘What exactly are you sorry for, Leo?’ she asked coolly. ‘Bringing me here? Upsetting my son? Thinking you have some kind of control over me just because you’re a prince?’

      Leo shrugged, his tone matching hers. ‘None of the above. I’m sorry because you obviously loved Anders, and now he’s dead.’

      It was such a flat, matter-of-fact statement; it hardly could be called a condolence. Phoebe inclined her head in acknowledgement.

      ‘Thank you. But anything I felt for Anders ended six years ago. I’m sorry he died in such a tragic way, but …’ She drew in a breath. ‘What I had with him is far, far in the past. I have a life here now, and so does Christian, regardless of what the king of Amarnes thinks or feels. He has not tried to contact us once in the last six years. What is my son to think, to learn he suddenly has a grandfather who cared nothing for him before?’

      ‘I imagine he’d be grateful to learn he has some family,’ Leo replied, his tone still cool.

      ‘He has my mother—’

      ‘On his father’s side. But you’ve never even told Christian about Anders, have you? He doesn’t even know that his father is—was—a prince.’

      ‘And why should he?’ Phoebe flashed. ‘Anders abdicated the throne and had no interest in being a father to Christian. We’re far better here in New York with our friends and family. My mother has been a doting grandmother to Christian, and he’s wanted for nothing.’

      Leo merely arched one eyebrow in silent scepticism, making Phoebe fume. ‘You don’t need to live in a palace or ride in a Rolls-Royce to be considered cared for, you know,’ she snapped. ‘Christian has had a perfectly acceptable and happy childhood—’

      ‘He is the son of a prince, descended from royalty,’ Leo said quietly. ‘And you don’t think he should know?’

      ‘None of you wanted to know,’ Phoebe returned. ‘Not once—’

      ‘Ah, but you see, we didn’t know about Christian,’ Leo told her softly. ‘By the time he’d made an appearance, you’d already separated from Anders—or should I say he separated from you? Either way, you disappeared from his life. And the royal family had no interest in you … until we learned you had a child. How old is he, Phoebe? Five, six?’

      ‘Five.’ Almost six, but she wasn’t about to tell that to Leo. Let him draw whatever conclusions he wanted.

      Leo paused, took a step closer. ‘You must have fallen pregnant right away. Or did it happen after he left you? You were together for how long? A few weeks?’

      ‘A little over a month,’ she answered tightly.

      ‘What happened, Phoebe?’ Leo asked, his voice as soft as a caress. ‘Did Anders smile and say sorry as he always did? Did he make it up to you?’ Another step and she could feel his breath on her cheek, felt his hand touch her shoulder, trailing his fingers, and even now she felt a sharp, unwanted pang of need—desire—at the simple touch. She shrugged away. ‘Is that how Christian came about?’

      ‘It’s absolutely no concern of yours,’ she said coldly. The last thing she wanted Leo to know was the truth of Christian’s birth. Let him believe she’d, however briefly, made up with Anders. The idea was repellent, but so was the alternative … Leo knowing the truth.

      ‘Perhaps not,’ Leo agreed, ‘but the fact remains that Christian is my concern, or at least my uncle, the king’s.’

      ‘No.’ The word was torn from her, and Phoebe turned to see Leo looking at her again with a strange compassion that rested oddly on the harshly beautiful features of his face. She wasn’t used to seeing a gentler emotion softening his mouth, lighting his eyes. She didn’t like it and she didn’t trust it.

      ‘Yes,’ he corrected her softly, spreading his hands for a moment before dropping them again, ‘and I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it.’

      The words buzzed like flies in Phoebe’s brain and she tasted bile. She wasn’t ready for this, she realised. She didn’t have the strength for a second round with Leo. She drew in a shaky breath. ‘I’d like to check on Christian,’ she said, and was glad her voice was steady. ‘Alone. And then we can continue this conversation.’

      Something sparked in Leo’s eyes, something almost like admiration or at least a certain grudging respect, and he inclined his head. ‘Very well.’ He moved to the door and pressed an unseen button. Within seconds a dark-suited official entered almost soundlessly. Leo spoke to the official in Danish, and Phoebe could only make out a few words.

      ‘Sven will take you upstairs,’ Leo told her. ‘When you are satisfied Christian is comfortable, we will continue.’

      Phoebe nodded, turning to follow Sven. Leo had turned his back on her and was pouring himself another drink, staring out at the black night as if he too was seeking answers in the darkness.

      The door clicked softly shut behind him and Leo took a strong swallow of his drink, the alcohol burning all the way to his gut. He needed the sensation, the sedation from feeling. Remembering.

      Regretting.

      Anders was dead. That was enough to damn him. Dead. A wasted, reckless life, and not once had Leo tried to rein him in, teach him control. No, that hadn’t been his job. His job, Leo acknowledged sourly, had been to stay out of the way, to be the unneeded spare, and of course to keep Anders happy. Entertained.

      It hadn’t been very much of a job.

      Even now Leo remembered the slow burn of constant