Page 45 of A Problem Princess

She raised her chin. “I’d rather die.”

“You almost did.” He ran his fingers down her forearm to prove his point. “And you didn’t think any of this would be reason enough for someone to want to attack you?”

“Not in England, no.” Her own frustration mounted as much as his, and she gestured futilely with her empty hands. “I have no power and no control over anything political. My father has been dead for ten years, and killing me would bring no restitution for the men he hurt and their families. Besides, I had nothing to do with it. I was a child when it happened. I barely remember any of it.”

His face remained stony. “What do you remember, exactly?”

“Arguments mostly.” She shook her head in exasperation as she began to pace and tried to latch on to the memories that mostly eluded her. “My governess often fell asleep when we were at my studies, so I would sneak through the palace to visit my father. If he wasn’t busy, I could interrupt his schedule, and I would have him all to myself for a few precious minutes.” She trembled as the memories flooded back, and the roiling emotions in her belly twisted into teeming knots. “But sometimes when I went to find him, Uncle Ernest was already in his office with him, and there were raised voices, accusations, curses—I would press my ear against the crack between the doors, but I couldn’t hear enough to make out the matter between them. My mother would sometimes be inside, and I could hear her crying.” Anguish clenched a fist around her heart. “But whenever I asked about it, they said nothing was wrong.”

“Apparently, a great deal was wrong.”

She nodded and folded her arms to wrap them around herself as much as possible. “Right before Mama and Papa left for Italy, the arguments intensified, and tensions were so thick within our family that I could feel them before I even entered the room.” She bit her thumbnail and continued pacing, the movement the only thing that kept the sickening churning in her stomach at bay. “Uncle Ernest told me later that someone in the government had discovered what Papa had done, that it was only a matter of time until his crimes became public knowledge. Papa had planned on speaking to the Crown Council upon his return.”

“But he never returned.”

She shook her head and looked away. “Uncle Ernest somehow managed to keep it all hidden. The money was secretly returned to the military’s coffers, and the Crown Council never learned the truth. There have been dark rumblings ever since, but nothing that can be proven. We’re making amends as best we can.”

“Amends?” His voice lowered to a harsh rasp. “Men died because of your father’s greed. How can you ever make amends for that?”

She flinched. His words stabbed her with the same force of the knife that had cut her arm. Immediately, a flash of regret crossed his face.

But he wasn’t wrong, and she admitted somberly, her eyes boldly meeting his, “In any way I can.”

His eyes flared, and she knew he’d put all the pieces together. “That’s why you’re being offered to the royal dukes, isn’t it?” A biting curse left his lips, and he stalked toward her. “Why you’re not opposing marriage to selfish libertines twice your age.” He stopped in front of her, and his jaw clenched. “Marriage is your way of making reparations.”

She didn’t expect him to understand, yet she had to try anyway. “Marrying into the British royal family will strengthen the Monrovian monarchy by association.”

He asked sardonically, “A royal seal of approval?”

“In a way. News of a royal wedding and the promise of an heir will bring stability to both countries and to Europe as a whole.”

“That’s your plan—ruin your own life to save a throne?”

“Yes.” But the resolve she’d hoped to convey failed beneath the tremble in her voice. “If that is the only choice, then yes.”

He stared at her in disbelief, as if she were a stranger. “You would do that, just to keep your family in power?”

It was so much more than that! “Monrovia isn’t like England. If our monarchy dissolves, so does our country’s sovereignty. We will be subsumed by France and cease to exist.” That nightmare had haunted her since Ernest told her the truth about her father. That was why she’d stopped fighting her uncle’s wishes and dedicated herself to her duties.Everythingshe did now was for her country, not for herself. “To have the people I love stripped of their sovereignty and rights, of their nationality and identity—potentially all our people’s wealth and property stolen away to support a Bourbon king who—”

She cut herself off before her voice could break with sobs and glued her gaze to the floor.

“My duty is to Monrovia, first and always.” The frustration seeped out of her, and her shoulders slumped beneath the terrible truth. “Strategic marriage and the begetting of heirs—that’s the lot of a princess. What I want doesn’t matter.”

He said nothing for a long moment, then asked quietly, “And what do you want, Cordelia?”

Slowly, she lifted her eyes until they met his. “I want you.”

***

Clayton froze. She couldn’t have meant—Christ.

He was unable to put together a coherent response. His mind reeled in a way it never had before, not even when facing down the French at Waterloo.

Her lips curled faintly. “Stunned you, have I?”

“You could say that,” he muttered, finally catching back his senses enough to speak.

“Don’t worry.” She crossed to the low table and its tray of drinks. Most likely she needed a drink as much as he did, if the way she inhaled deeply to calm herself after the discussion about her father were any indication. So was the way her hands shook as she reached for two glasses. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”