Page 42 of The Royal Art of Revenge

He rests his head on his hand, amusement twinkling in his deep blue eyes. “You said you’ve been back in Askurg—in St Peters—for two years. Why have you waited until now? Why not show yourself sooner?”

“Are you insinuating that I somehow orchestrated our first meeting?”

“You said yourself that Jasmine talks about me non-stop. It’s plausible that you might know my whereabouts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew my entire schedule.”

She does. It’s quite scary, actually.

“I can assure you it was nothing but coincidence. I’d just finished a job and, to be honest, I was delaying my return home. It’s not exactly a place I enjoy being,” I say dryly. “And before you bring up the fact I gave you my card; you asked for it, and you contacted me.”

“What about the hotel?”

“I had a studio rented in the area for some newborn shoots. I had no idea you were there. Even now, I couldn’t tell you what you were doing in Greenwood Bay.”

“Hm.” He stares at me for a moment. “I’ll take your word for it.”

How generous of him.

“Here’s what I don’t understand: if you were truly afraid of your family, you wouldn’t have done that little show with my mother earlier on. You wouldn’t have even allowed yourself to get closer to me and risk ending up in the palace. You’d have rejected my offer. So, why today? What makes today so different?”

I shrug a shoulder dismissively, reaching for the teacup on the coffee table between us. “You could say… the opportunity presented itself.”

Crown Prince Finley clicks his tongue and gets to his feet. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, Miss Sinclair, but I’m afraid I wish to have no part in it. You’ll get the assistance you need to move forwards with your life, but for now, I’ll have someone show you out.”

He walks to the door, and right before he can open it, I say, “I despise them. All of them.”

He pauses, turning his head so that he’s barely peeking over his shoulder, and I can see that my words have piqued his curiosity, so I continue.

“I didn’t reveal myself before because I couldn’t. I had no choice but to go along with their little scheme. It was the only way to make them trust me just enough to let their guards down.”

He turns, opening eyeing me this time. “What is it you want from me? Not from the Royal Family or my mother, but me. Aside from marriage, of course.”

“Want? I daren’t want anything,” I reply smoothly. “I would like it if you’d hear me out, but I shan’t force you. If you leave now, then so be it. I’ll send you good wishes for your miserable marriage to Jasmine and pray you don’t get too caught up in the mess when I rip the Sinclairs apart.”

“Good grief.” He sighs, running his hand through his hair, and comes back over. He drops himself on the sofa opposite me with a little ‘thud,’ rests one foot on his other knee, and stares at me. “You win. You’ve got my attention, Harriet. Why do you want to marry me?”

“Want to marry you?” I laugh, pushing my hair away from my face. “No offense, Your Royal Highness, but it’s not that I want to marry you. Rather, it’s that I don’t want Jasmine to.”

He blinks at me. “And you think this is the way to stop that from happening?”

“Of course. After all, isn’t this engagement mine to begin with?”

He opens his mouth to reply, then stops, frowning.

“I’m the one who saved you when you were kidnapped and escaped during the revolt,” I remind him. “The engagement was planned before I disappeared and while my mother was still alive. It was accepted between our families that you would marry Harriet Sinclair, and had I not gone missing, we’d be engaged now. Likely already married, in fact.”

“I suppose that is correct,” he replies in a low tone, rubbing his hand across his chin. “And even as children, I don’t remember either of us rejecting the idea.”

“Of course not. I was your saviour, and I was very cute as a child. As if you’d reject me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “And you didn’t reject me because?”

“I was seven years old, promised birthday parties in a palace, and was told I’d become a princess if I married you. What seven-year-old girl would say no to that?”

A chuckle, so like the one he let out when we first met, escapes him. “Good point. So, seven-year-old you wanted to be a princess. What does twenty-eight-year-old you feel about it?”

“Seems like more hassle than it’s worth, to be honest,” I admit, making him laugh again. “But I won’t let them steal from me anymore.”

His laugh dies at my words, his expression becoming stony once more. “Steal from you?”