Page 43 of A Problem Princess

“Your Highness, if something is wrong, then—”

“I have been acting exactly like myself,” Cordelia interrupted. Andthatwas the problem Marie had with her, because down deep, Cordelia didn’t feel at all like a princess.

Marie pursed her lips together, knowing not to argue. They were all in an uneasy mood tonight, and the comtesse wouldn’t dare stir up trouble, especially since gossip about the garden party was finally quieting throughout the palace. The easiest path forward for Cordelia was simply to push through tonight’s dinner and then retire early, smiling brightly all the way.

But when the carriage stopped in front of the grand town house, which was lit as brightly as a Christmas pudding, she didn’t feel like smiling.

The tiger opened the door to help her to the ground. She froze as she looked up at the house, her toe poised on the step.

Clayton waited at the bottom of the front steps, arms crossed over his broad chest and his legs wide. It wasn’t the way he looked in his evening finery that made her catch her breath, although his black kerseymere jacket and breeches paired with a snow-white cravat and waistcoat were certainly arresting. No, it was the harshness of his narrowed gaze and the tight clench of his jaw that pulled her up short. Stiff, solid, grim-faced…not at all happy to see her.

Oh, this could not be good.

She fixed on a smile, finished stepping to the ground, and breezed toward him. “General Elliott, good evening.”

“Your Serene Highness,” he bit out and bowed deeply.

She halted in midstep. What on earth had happened since last night to anger him? She’d not seen him all day, being under the careful watch of Marie and the palace guards. Unless…unless itwaslast night that upset him.

Notat allgood.

Cordelia lingered long enough at the front steps and portico that the comtesse and the rest of the Monrovian escorts in the following carriage went ahead into the house, leaving her behind with Clayton. Without a word, he placed her hand on his arm and led her slowly inside. She could feel the tension in his muscles beneath her fingertips even through his thick sleeve.

Instead of following the others, he stopped in the entrance hall. “Princess, a word about your security detail.” He reached past her and pushed open the door of a small reception room. “If you please.”

She swallowed nervously. “Of course.”

She swept past him into the room. Warm flames glowed from the fireplace, as did those from several oil lamps placed around the room. A silver tray covered with glasses and decanters sat on the low table between two gold brocade sofas, ready for the guests to help themselves after dinner. But for now, the room was all theirs.

Clayton left the door halfway open for propriety’s sake, but someone would have to stride completely into the room in order to see them.

“You’re upset,” she preemptively commented, hoping to minimize any arguments. Or wounded feelings. They hadn’t had the chance to talk alone since they kissed at the opera, and she dreaded whatever rationalization of his behavior was coming.

“Damn right I am,” he shot back, his voice just as low as hers.

No welcoming smile for her, no soft or kind words—she would have said he was furious with her, but what reason did he have? It was only a kiss…or a dozen or so of them, actually. When she’d been in his arms, she’d been so light-headed that she’d been unable to count, and then when his hands caressed her, she’d been unable to think at all.

“I didn’t force you to kiss me.” She lifted her chin to appear as imperial as possible, yet she couldn’t stop the quiver in her soft voice. “You enjoyed it as much as I did, wanted it as much as I did. There’s no reason to—”

“Your father.” He closed the distance between them. “And please don’t insult either of us by pretending you don’t understand what I mean.”

The world tilted beneath her, and her body flashed numb. She reached out for the back of a nearby chair to keep her knees from buckling and crashing her to the floor. As she dug her fingernails into the chair back so hard a dull ache shot up her wounded forearm, she could barely breathe.Breathe! Just keep breathing!Clayton knew… Oh heavens, heknew!

“Tell me the truth,” he ordered. “Allof it.”

Guilt and shame pounded through her veins with every fierce heartbeat, and a pain-filled sob escaped her. All the damage her father had done, all the lying and secrets…all the men who had been killed because of it. They were supposed to have looked to her father as a protector and guardian who should have put their lives and safety far above his own. Instead, he’d betrayed them.

So had she for keeping it secret.Dear God, what they’d done! How could either of them ever be forgiven?

“What did your father do?” Clayton demanded.

Her eyes blurred with hot tears, and she admitted, barely able to put a trembling voice to it, “Terrible things.”

“Things that someone would kill to avenge?”

She rapidly shook her head and choked out, “Things that could end a monarchy.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and took deep breaths, but her shoulders had slumped forward until she could barely find the strength to hold herself upright. All her nightmares were coming true. Everything would be destroyed—the royal family, the crown, perhaps even Monrovia.