Entwined(70)

“You’re a romantic?” said Mr. Bradford.

“No,” said Azalea. “Not. I think that’s what everyone wants. I mean, I would want someone like—”

She cut off abruptly, horrified that her mouth had run off before her mind had caught up with it. She had almost said “like you.”

And then she realized she had meant it.

She was in love!

The tea in her mug shook as she blinked at it. In love! Azalea had always smothered the thought—what was the point? Parliament would choose her husband. And yet here he was in front of her, the perfect king—even the King would admit that—and the perfect gentleman, with his soft, cinnamon bread eyes and his gentle touch, his quiet wit, rumpled hair, crooked, bashful smile. He was so lovable.

Blood flushed to Azalea’s cheeks as she suddenly became shy.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bradford. Even his voice was lovable. “I should think you are right.”

“Ha,” said Azalea, giddy. “Yes.”

“In fact, I feel a bit of pity for your older sister,” he said.

The ticking of the wall clocks cracked like whips.

Azalea slowly lowered her mug.

Oh…

That. She had forgotten about that! He thought she was Bramble! More unpleasant thoughts bubbled to the surface of her mind. They would probably never get his watch back. And—why the devil did he feel sorry for her?

“You pity her?” said Azalea slowly.

“Because she is the future queen consort. I expect a person can’t find genuine attachment in that.”

Azalea’s fingers tightened on her mug’s spoon.

“But…what if she…found someone who…perhaps…did love her?” said Azalea.

“Would he be a good king, though?” said Mr. Bradford. “I should think—”

“You would be a good king,” said Azalea.

Mr. Bradford looked unsettled. He turned his spoon in his mug.

“I think not,” he said.

“You would,” said Azalea, clutching her mug so tightly it burned her hands. “You’re sensible, and kind, and good with politics—”

“Well,” he said, coloring. “That is—kingship…I—I could never want it on my head.”

Azalea’s insides sank. Her heart, stomach, all the blood and curly insides that lay in a person’s torso fell hard to her feet. She blinked at the dregs in her mug.

“You really wouldn’t?” she said.

“It would…be ghastly, don’t you think?”

“Ghastly,” Azalea echoed. Beneath her smile, she wanted to cry.

“Your father does an excellent job,” said Mr. Bradford, seeming to sense a conversation gone awry. “He is a fine king—our best. What I mean to say is—”

“No, no,” said Azalea in a hollow voice. “You are quite right. Any gentleman with common sense wouldn’t want to be king. The Princess Royale shouldn’t possibly expect more.”

Azalea stood, took her mug to the glass counter, and set it next to the teakettle, placing the spoon beside it. She was finished.

“What I mean to say is,” said Mr. Bradford, finishing his thought. “Is—it is—Miss Bramble—” He stood, leaned in, then back, caught between going forward or retreating. In the end he remained by the cheery stove, holding his mug and nervously stirring with a clinkety clinkety clink.

“What I mean to say is,” he said, “Miss Bramble, I know you are in mourning. But I had a thought. Perhaps…to call on you? After mourning is through? If it is agreeable with you, of course. Naturally. And your father. Naturally.”

Clinkety clinkety clink clink.

Clinketyclinketyclinkclinkclinkclink—

“I need to go,” said Azalea.

Mr. Bradford’s entire countenance fell. He was far too bright a gentleman, Azalea knew, to misconstrue that for anything else.

“Naturally,” he said.

“They’ll miss me at breakfast,” said Azalea.

“Nat-naturally,” Mr. Bradford stuttered. He somehow regained his solemn composure and helped Azalea with her things. “If you want. I’ll call a cab and escort you back. Take this coat—it’s freezing out.”

“I don’t want a cab,” said Azalea, near tears. “I’ll walk back.”

“You will not,” said Mr. Bradford, with an edge Azalea had never heard before. “You’ll freeze. You will take a cab.”

Azalea whipped around to face him—

And Mr. Bradford said, “Please.”

She relented. She had to. He was only being kind, and she couldn’t blame him for that. Azalea was wrapped in an old-fashioned lady’s coat. Mr. Bradford hailed a cab, and moments later they trundled in awkward silence to the palace. Mr. Bradford, sitting across from her, focused on the riding whip in his lap. He twisted the end loop of it around his fingers, around and around, until surely it cut through his glove. Azalea miserably stared at it.

Oh, how could she be so stupid? She always knew it would be like this, she had just stupidly hoped that—

Azalea cried. Not the noisy sort, but the sort you could blink away if you were careful and didn’t think about how awful you felt. She turned her face to the window.