Royally Matched (Royally #2)(71)

He’s clapping heartily—with those strong hands that I adore. His gaze is alight with admiration and his smile . . . his smile is so tender my eyes prickle with wetness.

I blink and look away . . . and then I remember to be pissed off at him. Three. Weeks. Three fucking, awful weeks. I lied when I said they weren’t so bad—they were bloody hell. And he shows up now? Here? For what, exactly?

I don’t have to wonder long.

Because the moment Mr. Haverstrom calls for questions, Henry’s hand shoots up high and straight, like he’s a child in class who can’t wait a second more to use the lavatory.

I ignore him.

The only problem is, he’s the only one raising his hand.

“Questions? Anyone?” I look left and right, tilting my head to check all around. “Anyone at all?”

Henry clears his throat. Loudly. “Ahem.”

And several heads swivel toward him.

But I’m still ignoring him, shuffling my papers. “Well, since no one has any questions—”

“He has a question,” Willard says, clear and grinning like a traitorous Cheshire cat.

I’m going to smack him when this is over.

But, first I’m going to deal with Henry.

“Yes, you there in the back,” I say like I’ve never seen him before in my life. Like he isn’t our future king. “What is your question, sir?”

His eyebrow hitches, as if he’s saying, “So that’s how you’re going to play this?”

Murmurs of recognition ripple through the room, but Henry doesn’t seem to notice.

“My question is about Heathcliff.”

And his voice . . . I’ve missed his voice—strong and rough, but teasing and sweet. Oh balls, I’m melting like a cheap candle.

But I don’t let it show. I cross my arms.

“The fat orange cat, you mean?”

The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. “No. From Wuthering Heights.”

“Ah, I see. Go on.”

“My question is, why didn’t someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?”

My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! “No, firearms were used, but . . .”

“Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch.”

“Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That’s what redeems him.”

Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. “He didn’t deserve her.”

“Well,” I lift a shoulder, “Catherine wasn’t exactly a saint either. And I’m sure the debate over Heathcliff’s worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you.”

I turn to the rest of the room. “Other questions?”

Aaaaand up goes his hand. Quick and strong and, again, the only one raised.

I don’t try fighting it this time, but sigh dramatically. “Yes?”

“It’s about Mr. Darcy. He’s kind of a snob—he’s got a stick up his arse. A big one.”

My own eyebrows rise above my glasses. “You’ve got a thing for arses today, don’t you?”

He chuckles, totally unashamed. ““Well . . . tight bottoms are a few of my favorite things.”

And he can still make me blush like no one else.

“But that’s a discussion for another time. My point is, Mr. Darcy is a prat—I don’t get it.”

“Well, if you had read the book—”

“I did read the book.” His green eyes watch me intensely. “I read all of them.”

And butterflies go berserk in my stomach.

“Oh.”

I shake out of my stupor, and refocus. “Well, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are two sides of the same coin. He is painfully reserved and she is uninhibited but they both make their assumptions and end up getting it wrong. In the end, they must put aside their prejudices and their pride and be honest with themselves and each other to make it right.”

He gazes at me, soft and gentle, like he never wants to stop.

“Hence the title, I guess.”

“Yes.” I nod.

He rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “Now about Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility.”

And I smack my hands down on the podium. “No. You can say what you want about Darcy or bloody Heathcliff and hell, you can tear into every Dickens hero written—I never liked any of them. But you will not besmirch Colonel Brandon! I won’t allow it.”

Henry finds my outburst amusing. “I’m not going to besmirch him. I like Colonel Brandon.”

“Then what is your question?”

Slowly, stealthily, he drifts forward up the aisle.

“The way I see it, Marianne messed up. Brandon was there all along, but she let herself be distracted by the wrong things. It wasn’t written on the page, but I’m guessing she had to apologize and he had to forgive her.”

My throat is dry and my voice is like sand. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Closer and closer he comes.

“My question is, if their roles had been different—if Marianne had been the man and Brandon the woman—do you think she would have forgiven him? Taken another chance on him, trusted that this time, he wouldn’t mess it up?”