by Elise Marion
At the very bottom rested a miniature portrait in a gilded frame, his hardened countenance staring back at her. She sobbed, touching the image and remembering how even though he’d always looked so stoic in the presence of others, he’d always had a smile stashed away just for her.
She realized now what her dream had meant, and it brought her no end of pain. She was losing him, piece by piece and with mounting speed now that she’d begun to move on with her life. The shame that washed over her at the realization was enough to weigh her down until her face was buried in the carpet. A pool of her own tears wet the floor beneath her cheek as she lay there, clutching Lionus’ portrait against her chest.
Isabelle had promised him she would always carry him in her heart, but now she was forgetting him. She had taken another husband—his own brother for Heaven’s sake—and allowed herself to start becoming whole again. In the process, she was giving away the parts of herself that had been his, that she had promised would always belong to him and only him. Her wedding vows to him had stated ‘until death do us part’, yet watching him die had not made her love for him any less real. It had not freed her from her promise, nor had getting married again severed the bond they’d shared.
“Forgive me, Lionus,” she whispered, her voice gone hoarse.
She remained on the floor that way for nearly half an hour, sniffling and sobbing and clinging to Lionus’ portrait. When Gayle entered the dressing room looking for her mistress, she found her in a tearful heap on the floor.
“Goodness, child!” she exclaimed, falling to her knees beside Isabelle. “What on earth has happened?”
She pushed herself into a seated position before falling into the arms of her maid, hysterical sobs tearing from deep within her and spilling out, uncontrolled.
* * *
Serge walked toward Isabelle’s chambers with a spring in his step, despite the ache in his leg. He was still sore from the day before, and had asked Damien to take over training for the day so he could rest. He would not be idle, however, and planned to join in taking an inventory of all of the supplies that had arrived from Cardenas, before dividing them up evenly to be distributed to the surrounding villages.
First, he thought as he glanced down at the bouquet in his hand, a visit with his wife. He had left her sleeping soundly this morning, loath to wake her so early. His wife, he had learned, did not care to rise before a certain hour and would grumble and groan when duty required it of her. In the hours he’d already been awake, he found he already missed her—thus the reason for his spontaneous return to the bedchamber and the flowers he’d sent for from the garden.
He smiled as he thought of Isabelle’s passionate response to his lovemaking the night before, his blood flaring hot when he contemplated repeating the experience again. There was time before he had to get down to business. If she were still abed, he’d awaken her with a kiss, slipping a hand beneath her night gown and coaxing her into readiness for him.
His smile faded when he crossed the threshold to find the bed empty, though the bedclothes remained mussed. Her breakfast tray sat untouched on the bedside table, the teacup still steaming. She had to have just risen, though she typically did not leave her bed until after finishing her breakfast.
Where had she gone?
He noticed the door to her dressing room hanging open and realized she was probably in there with Gayle, putting the finishing touches on her formal court attire for the coronation. He would stop in for a moment, give Isabelle the flowers and leave them to it, saving his amorous intentions for later.
As he neared the dressing room, the sound of soft sobs reached his ears. He paused and frowned, cocking his head to ensure he heard things correctly. Sure enough, his wife was weeping as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. Concerned and already angry at whoever had upset her, Serge charged toward the dressing room, prepared to demand she tell him who had done it so he could break their neck.
Gayle’s crooning voice stopped him in his tracks, and he realized someone had already begun the business of comforting her. Why had the maid not sent for him if something were wrong with Isabelle? Instead of pushing the door open, curiosity had him leaning against the frame, falling silent and still so he could listen.
“I don’t understand,” Gayle said over Isabelle’s muffled sniffles. “I thought you were happy with Prince Serge.”
“Oh, Gayle, I was! I was happy, but then he told me he loved me, and I …”
Serge’s blood ran cold and his fist tightened around the flowers, but he remained silent. He had a feeling she’d never speak this way if she knew he could hear.
“And what is wrong with that?” Gayle asked. “I know women who would be ecstatic to have the love of a man like him. This can only mean you’ve made the right choice. Here is your chance to move forward and be happy.”
Isabelle sniffled, then drew in a deep breath. “I am afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake in marrying him. Don’t you see, Gayle? I can never love him back.”
“You could in time, if you would just open your heart to him. I hate to see you doing this—tormenting yourself with guilt over things that are beyond your control. Your first husband died and it was a grave tragedy. We all felt his loss. And perhaps you and Serge feel it in a way others did not. Now you have each other to lean upon as you move on. You must try, Isabelle … try to be happy.”
“How can I? It feels so wrong being happy again when Lionus is dead. By marrying Serge, I have given up the last part of me that belonged only to him. How could I betray him that way after the way he loved me, the way I loved him?”
“Why would you marry Prince Serge if you feel this way? It sounds to me as if you were not ready at all.”
“Because Barony needed a king! I had to marry someone, and Serge seemed like the logical choice. Now I’m not certain I wasn’t using him to cling to what little bit of Lionus is left. Sometimes I look into his eyes and … oh, Gayle, they’re so much like Lionus’!”
Serge’s grip loosened on the bouquet and it fell noiselessly to the carpet at his feet. His vision seemed hazy and he felt as if his jaw would break, he was clenching it so tight.
All his delusions of joy and hope disintegrated and evaporated into thin air, until he was left with nothing but despair. He had hoped she was starting to return his love; so optimistic that he had confessed his own feelings to her like a reckless idiot. He felt naked and utterly exposed for having admitted his feelings, and now scraped raw and cut to the quick to learn that she thought marrying him had been a mistake.
All the reservations he’d had in the beginning came hurtling back at him now, and he cursed himself for a fool. He had allowed other people to influence his thinking, to make him forget why Isabelle had been off limits to him in the first place. She belonged to Lionus, and it seemed she always would. She had just made it clear that he could never compete.
Gayle and Isabelle continued their conversation, but he didn’t register another word. He merely sank down onto the bed, head dropping into his hands, elbows rested on his knees. Every muscle in his body became tense and strained, and his head spun from the chaotic whirl of his thoughts.
I needed to marry someone … I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake … so much like Lionus …
Her words haunted him, echoing through his mind over and over until he thought he would scream from the cruelty of it. The pain of this … it affected him in a way he’d never have thought possible. He felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, leaving nothing but a gaping hole. An icy numbness spread through his veins, stealing the last vestiges of his warmth and light. Nothing remained but darkness, an ugliness that gripped him tight in its clutches and refused to let go.
A soft gasp from the doorway of the dressing room brought his head up. His eyes narrowed when he saw her standing there, holding a framed miniature against her chest.
“Serge,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Her eyes were red and puffy, cheeks blotchy
from crying. Even so, she was achingly beautiful, and that thought only stoked the anger welling in him. The pleasure and pain of seeing her, of still feeling that deep longing even after she’d hurt him made Serge sick to his stomach
She glanced down at the flowers he’d dropped, then bent to pick them up. “Are these for me?”
He did not respond, his gaze shifting to Gayle, who had come out from behind her and now looked as stricken and guilty as Isabelle did.
“Your Grace,” she mumbled with a curtsy. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Leave us,” he snapped.
She jumped to do his bidding, and was out the door in seconds. Still unable to look at his wife, he focused his gaze on the wallpaper and stood. His hands balled up tight at his sides and he straightened his spine, determined to stand strong in the face of this. What was done was done, and he had to find some way to move forward, putting all his energies into restoring Barony. It was his duty as king, after all.
“Serge, let me explain,” she pleaded, taking a step in his direction.
His sharp tone seemed to halt her in her tracks, and she stumbled to a stop when he replied.
“There really isn’t anything else to say, is there Isabelle? Nothing that has not already been stated. You’ve made yourself quite clear.”
“You weren’t supposed to hear any of that,” she said, taking another tentative step in his direction.
She stood close enough now that he could smell her, that accursed combination of lemon oil and roses that was now a torment to him. It made him want to crush her against him and show her all the reasons she should love him. It made him want nothing to do with her at all.
“No, but I did, didn’t I? Though not before I’d made a fool of myself.”
“No one thinks you’re a fool,” she said, raising a hand to touch his face.
He flinched away from her, his gaze finally connecting with hers. His cheek burned from where she had touched him, his stomach churning with the torment of both love and spite inside him. Whatever she saw in his eyes, it kept her from trying to touch him again, and she lowered her hand with her mournful gaze still connected with his.
“Especially not me,” she added.
He issued a harsh laugh. “What would you call a man who bares his soul to a woman who calls him a mistake?”
“That wasn’t how I meant it.”
“Don’t!” he bellowed, fairly shaking the walls and causing her to tremble. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to calm and lowered his voice. “Do not try to placate me with lies now that you look me in the eye. I heard what you said when you thought I would be none the wiser. I’ve learned the truth of how you really feel about me.’
“Serge, please …”
“All my life I have lived in Lionus’ and Damien’s shadows. Lionus was the Crown Prince, and everyone loved him, including you. Damien was the libertine, and every woman within a ten-mile radius would latch on to his scent and follow him around like a lovesick puppy. I have only ever been the middle son, the spare for the heir, not quite as handsome or charming as Damien, and not quite as smart or capable as Lionus. No one sees me!”
She lowered her gaze as if the truth of his words shamed her. There could be no arguing otherwise, because they both knew it to be true. Even when he’d nearly died, all anyone had been able to think of was replacing him, maneuvering Damien right into his place as king. He did not begrudge his brother for doing what was necessary, but a part of him would never forget the hurt of feeling interchangeable with someone else … forgettable.
“I thought you could see me. Even when we were just friends and you were married to my brother, I felt as if you understood me, as if you knew me in a way no one else did. But to know that you see my brother when you look into my eyes…”
He paused, fighting down the bile that rose in his throat as he repeated her words back to her. That had been the most hurtful part of all, knowing she saw him as some shadow of Lionus instead of a man in his own right … the man who loved her, at that.
“No, Isabelle, I am the fool. I am the worst sort of fool for not recognizing what was in front of me all this time.”
Raising her head, she met his gaze again, one last tear rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away while still clinging to her miniature—one he’d be willing to bet held the likeness of Lionus.
“It was not my intention to hurt you,” she said. “Lionus was my husband and I loved him. That love did not die when he did, and I … I have struggled with how to move forward. But you are my friend, and I do care about you. I just … I had a moment this morning where I wondered if we weren’t too hasty in our decision to wed. I am so sorry, Serge.”
“Sorry for marrying me?” he challenged with a raised eyebrow. “Or sorry that I found out how you really feel about me?”
She cringed as if his words landed a physical blow, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry that I cannot love you. I wish that I could … this would be so much easier if I could.”
Her admission was the final blow, enough to destroy what was left of his heart. He could no longer bear to stand here and know that no matter how much he loved her, she’d always belong to a dead man. Turning for the door, he fled, but not fast enough to outrun his pain or the realization that she might have been right.
Marriage had been a terrible mistake.
Chapter 12
Every member of Barony’s royal court was in attendance for the coronation ceremony. As Serge stood before the altar in the chapel within the castle walls with Isabelle at his side, he scanned those gathered to bear witness. With bright, colorful light shining down on them through stained-glass windows, they would be declared king and queen in truth.
Many expressed their renewed sense of hope for the realm now that a king would once again rule over them alongside the long lost princess. No one seemed to care that their king was now Serge instead of Lionus, when it was common knowledge that the second son possessed the knowledge and training to fill his brother’s shoes. Aside from that minor skirmish with Primus, he’d been shown nothing but deference and respect. However, he still felt as if he had something to prove. These people were relying on him to make things right, and that he might commit some grievous error and make matters worse proved his greatest fear.
So far, things had been quiet. The rebels likely waited to see what the new king’s first move would be. Serge had yet to decide upon a plan of attack, determined to evaluate the situation from every possible angle. And, of course, the state of his marriage offered an unpleasant distraction.
As he and Isabelle knelt to receive the blessing of the priest, he could not help glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She looked regal in traditional court dress, though he supposed the heavy garments must also be uncomfortable. The style was centuries old, with a stiff, jeweled bodice boasting a square neckline and a high ruffled collar. The skirt splayed so wide and looked so heavy, Serge wondered if she would need assistance standing back up. The many layers of padding and petticoats adding shape to the gown made her look like she ought to be sitting atop a cake.
Her hair had been arranged to accommodate her high collar as well as the crown that would be placed atop her head. Across her torso from shoulder to hip, she wore a wide, red and gold sash held together with a jeweled pin—the same sash he wore over his military-style jacket.
Serge glanced down at his coat enhanced with epaulets, gold braid, and sword belt, and thanked the Heavens he was a man. Court attire wasn’t nearly so daunting for him.
He did not want to admit to himself how much he still wanted her. It had been too much to hope that his anger would be enough to cleanse him of his desires for her. If anything, because things had become so distant between them, he only wanted her all the more.
The night before, he had undressed for bed in his own bedchamber—the first time he had done so in the entirety of their short marriage. Her bed proved the most comfortable and he preferred to sleep with her
pressed against him. Nevertheless, he had stood at the connecting door knowing she must be awake by the light spilling under it, and wondered what was happening on the other side. Did she wonder where he was? Did she even care? Would she be relieved that he had left her alone and would now pass his nights in his own bed?
He’d stood seconds away from opening the door, but remembered the words that had been haunting him all day.
So much like Lionus…
He’d turned away, steeling himself for the lonely night to come. He could not bring himself to go into that room with her. He would not torment himself wondering if she thought of his brother while he took her to bed—if she were measuring him against Lionus in some way and finding him lacking.
The long night had passed with restlessness and loneliness, and he did not see his wife again until it was time for them to walk to the chapel for their coronation. Not a word had been exchanged between them.
He turned his attention back to the ceremony as the priest dipped his finger in holy water and drew the symbol of the cross on first his, then Isabelle’s forehead. After a prayer in Latin, the priest motioned for Primus to step forward. The grand vizier handed the man a red velvet cushion, upon which rested the crowns of the King and Queen of Barony. As they knelt, Primus crowned them both, the act a symbol of transitioning power from him to Serge and Isabelle. Once they had been crowned, the bishop bid them to rise. Gentle applause met them as Primus turned to the assembled court.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, it seems as if we have waited a lifetime for this day. It brings me great pride and honor to present to you King Serge and Queen Isabelle, your sovereign rulers.”
The court came to their feet and the applause grew louder, until it thundered from the rafters. It seemed to go on forever, but Serge stood in silence, allowing the people to revel in their joy. Their hope and happiness proved contagious, and he found himself forgetting his own troubles for the moment.
