Free How to Love a Princess by Claire Robyns Page A
Authors: Claire Robyns
deep
breath, then padded up behind him. “Nicolas?”
He spun about, knocking
over his whiskey glass. He looked at her in silence, haunted shadows carved on
his face, pain and bitterness and loneliness buried in his eyes.
Whatever he’d said,
whatever he’d done, in that moment, Catherine knew. The constant ache she’d learnt
to live with was reflected in his eyes.
He might have declared
that he was through with her.
He might have taken
pleasure in torturing her with almost kisses and cruel accusations.
He might have spent the
evening subtly flirting with Eleanor.
But she knew. “Nicolas.”
He disconnected his gaze
with a jerky motion and slid from the stool. When he looked at her again, his
eyes were blank and his expression hard. “I thought you were asleep.”
He was lying. He thought
Geoffrey had followed her into bed. She knew it as surely as she suddenly knew
that Nicolas had not yet released her from his heart. Her own heart threatened
to leap ten feet in the air. And in the very next moment, she remembered how
very bad this was.
Catherine took refuge in
the simple task of going behind the bar to find a cloth, needing the
distraction as she spoke. “Geoffrey and I are not lovers.”
She kept her head down,
dabbing at the spilt whiskey, swiping the ice cubes back into the empty glass.
When there was nothing more to do, she looked up to his shadowed face and deep,
searching gaze.
She was wrong.
So very wrong.
She’d thought her heart
had already shattered into as many pieces as it could, yet here it was,
breaking all over again. “Nicolas, I never meant to hurt you.”
“Empty words. I don’t need
your pity, Catherine.”
She slumped down on a
stool and threw her arms over the counter. “I never assumed you did. If you
want an explanation, however, I do have one.”
After an air-crackling
hesitation, he took his seat again, arms folded, his back ramrod straight.
Waiting.
“I have a duty to provide
the next heir to the throne,” she said quietly. “Geoffrey is as good a choice
as any other.”
“Better than me,
obviously.” His tone was laced with caustic sarcasm.
“Yes,” she agreed
honestly. Geoffrey would never care enough to try and assert any power over
Ophella or in their relationship. There’d never be any risk that she’d hurt or
destroy his self esteem, however unintentionally. In fact, if she could keep
Geoffrey in Ophella long enough at any one time to conceive that heir once they
were married, it would be a miracle.
If a soul could
spontaneously splinter, Nicolas thought his might just have done that.
“A better choice,” she
continued, “but not a better man.”
“I told you I don’t need
pity.”
“Which is why I’m simply
giving you the truth.”
A better choice, but
not a better man. Nicolas scrubbed at his jaw, shaking his suddenly thick head, feeling the axis
of his world spin out from under him again. “Am I supposed to even try and
understand what you’re saying?”
Her answer was a sad
little smile. Her hair was mussed, falling to her shoulders in lumps and
rat-tails and standing up a little on the one side. Her eyes shimmered an ocean
blue with unshed tears. His gaze went to her outstretched hands and caught. To
her ring finger, and held.
He’d tried hating her.
He’d tried despising her.
Enter Geoffrey.
Lust might have
temporarily seized control of him down by the stream this morning, but it was
cold, calculated jealousy that had made him taunt Catherine this evening. He’d
never known jealousy before and now he knew that it didn’t always come with a
flare of passionate rage.
And jealousy wasn’t the
only reaction he was ashamed of.
Faced with losing
Catherine irrevocably, not to death this time, but to another man, exposed all
his hating and despising these past weeks for what it was. Hurt pride. Leaving
behind a chasm of unrequited love.
Nicolas unfolded his arms,
took her left hand in his, his thumb and eyes grazing the finger
breath, then padded up behind him. “Nicolas?”
He spun about, knocking
over his whiskey glass. He looked at her in silence, haunted shadows carved on
his face, pain and bitterness and loneliness buried in his eyes.
Whatever he’d said,
whatever he’d done, in that moment, Catherine knew. The constant ache she’d learnt
to live with was reflected in his eyes.
He might have declared
that he was through with her.
He might have taken
pleasure in torturing her with almost kisses and cruel accusations.
He might have spent the
evening subtly flirting with Eleanor.
But she knew. “Nicolas.”
He disconnected his gaze
with a jerky motion and slid from the stool. When he looked at her again, his
eyes were blank and his expression hard. “I thought you were asleep.”
He was lying. He thought
Geoffrey had followed her into bed. She knew it as surely as she suddenly knew
that Nicolas had not yet released her from his heart. Her own heart threatened
to leap ten feet in the air. And in the very next moment, she remembered how
very bad this was.
Catherine took refuge in
the simple task of going behind the bar to find a cloth, needing the
distraction as she spoke. “Geoffrey and I are not lovers.”
She kept her head down,
dabbing at the spilt whiskey, swiping the ice cubes back into the empty glass.
When there was nothing more to do, she looked up to his shadowed face and deep,
searching gaze.
She was wrong.
So very wrong.
She’d thought her heart
had already shattered into as many pieces as it could, yet here it was,
breaking all over again. “Nicolas, I never meant to hurt you.”
“Empty words. I don’t need
your pity, Catherine.”
She slumped down on a
stool and threw her arms over the counter. “I never assumed you did. If you
want an explanation, however, I do have one.”
After an air-crackling
hesitation, he took his seat again, arms folded, his back ramrod straight.
Waiting.
“I have a duty to provide
the next heir to the throne,” she said quietly. “Geoffrey is as good a choice
as any other.”
“Better than me,
obviously.” His tone was laced with caustic sarcasm.
“Yes,” she agreed
honestly. Geoffrey would never care enough to try and assert any power over
Ophella or in their relationship. There’d never be any risk that she’d hurt or
destroy his self esteem, however unintentionally. In fact, if she could keep
Geoffrey in Ophella long enough at any one time to conceive that heir once they
were married, it would be a miracle.
If a soul could
spontaneously splinter, Nicolas thought his might just have done that.
“A better choice,” she
continued, “but not a better man.”
“I told you I don’t need
pity.”
“Which is why I’m simply
giving you the truth.”
A better choice, but
not a better man. Nicolas scrubbed at his jaw, shaking his suddenly thick head, feeling the axis
of his world spin out from under him again. “Am I supposed to even try and
understand what you’re saying?”
Her answer was a sad
little smile. Her hair was mussed, falling to her shoulders in lumps and
rat-tails and standing up a little on the one side. Her eyes shimmered an ocean
blue with unshed tears. His gaze went to her outstretched hands and caught. To
her ring finger, and held.
He’d tried hating her.
He’d tried despising her.
Enter Geoffrey.
Lust might have
temporarily seized control of him down by the stream this morning, but it was
cold, calculated jealousy that had made him taunt Catherine this evening. He’d
never known jealousy before and now he knew that it didn’t always come with a
flare of passionate rage.
And jealousy wasn’t the
only reaction he was ashamed of.
Faced with losing
Catherine irrevocably, not to death this time, but to another man, exposed all
his hating and despising these past weeks for what it was. Hurt pride. Leaving
behind a chasm of unrequited love.
Nicolas unfolded his arms,
took her left hand in his, his thumb and eyes grazing the finger