Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

fourteen: of queens and questioning

Natasha paced the throne room, each step sounding louder than the next. They sounded to her like the tolling of a bell, signaling death and destruction--more than had already happened. She sucked in a ragged breath, fisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. The silk would wrinkle, she realized and forced herself to stop. The cause of her anxiety was not only that she had summoned the Baron of Abbotsford to court--it was also domestic struggles. Ones she had thought long past, but apparently not because her husband was missing. Once again.

This was the fourth time in as many days that he had left her side during a royal function or any event, really, where his presence had not been mandated. Connor had claimed headaches or bouts of illness, but she found in her heart suspicion and jealousy where concern for his health should have been. It didn't make sense, however, for him to have found another woman--every waking moment that he parted from her side, she found him at Grace's. Unless he had decided to have an affair with the nursemaid? But no, that was unlike him... Or was it?

Her heel snagged on the hem of her dress, and she felt her ankle wrench in pain. Natasha cried out. One of her ladies-in-waiting turned away from her quiet embroidery in the corner of the room and dashed over to help her onto the throne. She must have spoken, but Natasha could not hear it, could see only the woman's mouth moving and feel her own heart pounding as though seeking to escape. But she could not leave, could not be rid of any of it--not the pain, not the humiliation, and certainly not the baron standing at the entrance to the throne room, waiting to be let in.

She arranged her voluminous gown to cover the now-swelling ankle, dismissed her ladies' suggestion of calling in a physician, and sat with the hurt leg crossed over the other to minimize the ache that had faded slightly to a dull throb. Then Natasha called the guards to let him in.

But it was not Lord Huntington that appeared framed in that violet-tiled archway--it was Connor. And the relief that she felt at the sight of him was something she pushed away, as he had pushed her away this past week.

"The Prince Consort, Your Majesty," a guard spoke unnecessarily.

Her husband crossed the room in swift steps and sat on the throne next to hers, reaching for her hand. She jerked it away and flashed him a glare that was more smugness than any real indicator of her feelings. Connor was not the only one who could be distant, though the pained look he shot her gave her pause. But there was no time to dwell on anyone's emotions as Abel Huntington strode into the room.

"Baron," she greeted him.

He bowed stiffly, as though forced by a marionette's invisible strings. "Your Majesty."

"Guards, leave us," Connor ordered, waving a hand at them. He had read her mind, and she despised—though unfairly, she knew—that she could not see the contents of his, and had been unable to do so for over a week now since Grace had been attacked.

The guards exited noisily, armour clattering and weapons clanking. Their thudding footsteps echoed the anger beating steadily in her heart.

"Please, Huntington, there is no need for formality." She caught Connor's surprised glance in her peripheral vision, but ignored it, continuing. "In fact, why don't we hold a more casual conversation? We could have a lovely chat about the weather, your plans for spring. Are you staying at court, or returning to Town?"

He looked surprised at her words, as well as at the smile that she summoned through teeth gritted in agony. "Your Majesty, I—the weather seems rather dismal, if I may say so myself, with little hope of spring."

"How fitting." She continued smiling, though the expression was more genuine this time. "For that is how your life shall be, due to your betrayal of crown and country."