Free The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) by Marie Treanor Page A

father’s younger brother.”
    “What happened to your father?”
    Zsigmund shifted restlessly. “He died. Of a sudden heart failure.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Seven,” he said.
    I stroked his chest. “That is sad. When did your mother die? How old were you then?”
    “Seven,” he said again, pulling away from me to sit up. “I barely remember them. My grandfather is a difficult old devil, and I should warn you now, everyone takes second—or third or fourth!—place to the book he’s been writing forever. You’ll find István and Gizella kind enough but vague. They won’t interfere with us.”
    “And Cousin Gabor?” I asked.
    His lips twisted. “He may or may not help us.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He shrugged and lay back down again, pulling me under him almost distractedly. “I don’t want to stay long in the city. Just long enough.”
    For what? Before I could ask that, something else caught at my darting mind, and I frowned. “It doesn’t make sense, you know. If you are persona non grata, wouldn’t it be more sensible for the government to allow you to live on the country estate first? Isolated and out of trouble until you can be trusted to come to the capital?”
    Zsigmund, caressing my body with all of his, pressed his new erection between my thighs. “It’s all about control,” he said, entering my body. “My grandfather’s, mainly. Probably. We will go home to Orosháza, but maybe it’s right that I sort out loose ends in Pest first.”
    “What loose ends?” I asked faintly.
    He reared up, kneeling across my thighs, and quite deliberately pressed his fingers to the bud of pleasure I’d always imagined was hidden from men.
    I gasped.
    “Don’t you ever stop talking?” he asked, moving his hips and his fingers together. I clawed at the sheets, my body jerking involuntarily with the need to move. His weight prevented that, somehow turning every sensation inward, magnifying every blissful pang. Ecstasy shot through me, taking me by sudden, joyful surprise. “That works,” he whispered, his hot, avid eyes drinking me in. “Now, Countess, I require my own pleasure...”
    ****
    W hen we finally crossed into Austria, I had to stop him knocking down an officer who’d been blatantly rude about his name and his race.
    “You’d better get used to it,” I said grimly, “because you’re going home to a country essentially under occupation. If you really want to stay there—or even get there—learn to ignore fools like that.”
    His fists uncurled very slowly, but he did force them to stillness, albeit a very tense stillness.
    In Vienna, which seemed pretty much recovered from its own revolutionary violence, we met a few of his old friends, who were clearly delighted to see him back. As a result, he was much more cheerful as we boarded the Danube steamship for Buda-Pest. And it was a most romantic way to travel. The wide, graceful river wound around beautiful scenery and picturesque towns on either shore. We stood together by the rail and watched it all go by, occasionally crossing sides depending on what Zsigmund wished me to see most. Excitement seemed to hum within him, bubbling out in his eagerness to show me his world. I thought there was even relief in him that some of it hadn’t changed.
    But he was gentle and caring as he made love to me that night in our cabin. I fell asleep in his arms, as happy as he was. Although when I woke only half an hour later, I was alone. I knew he’d gone back up on deck, and I understood he wanted now to be alone, to prepare, perhaps, for his return to his defeated city. This would not be easy for him.
    Or for me. I was about to meet his no-doubt disapproving family, about whom he’d told me very little. His grandfather, an uncle and aunt, and some very distant cousin all living in the family house, which I gathered was large to the point of palatial.
    My task was to convince his grandfather how respectable he’d become, so that he’d allow