Chapter 3 That Smile Is A Fraud

The King of Monteluce walked toward us with a smile. The bastard had the gall to smile at me as though the thought of him had not tormented me even in my dying breath. In my first life. Of course. This life was different. I was no longer Ophelia of House Valdieri, nor was I his wife. The thought should have comforted me. Instead, my stomach twisted hard enough that I wondered whether I might disgrace my naming day by emptying breakfast onto the courtyard stones. Ramiro's gaze remained fixed on me even after he came close enough to properly greet Father. "The Kingdom of Valdoren welcomes His Majesty Ramiro of House Ardelune, King of Monteluce," the herald announced. Father cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, welcome to our humble kingdom." He bowed, then gestured toward us. "My daughters. Ophelia, whom you seem rather familiar with already, and Elizabeth, my youngest. It is an honor that you accepted our invitation." That finally made Ramiro look at him. "Please, Your Majesty. The pleasure is mine." The King before me was becoming less and less like the Ramiro I remembered. My Ramiro -- no, not mine anymore -- had never enjoyed theatrics. Nor would he have stared at an unmarried woman in front of her father as though considering a marriage proposal before even exchanging courtesies. Perhaps eighteen years had turned him into a philanderer. That would be fitting. "Your Majesty," Ramiro said, "may I greet Princess Ophelia?" Perhaps this was the right time to faint. Before I could invent a convincing illness, Father answered for me. "Of course. Your Majesty need not ask." Ramiro stepped toward me with a confidence I did not remember, but his stride was painfully familiar. "Princess Ophelia." He reached for my left hand. The moment his skin touched mine, my breath caught. The same callouses roughened his palm. His thumb passed slowly across the back of my hand, and the familiarity of the gesture was almost worse than seeing his face again. My body remembered him too easily. I could feel something warm in my belly with just that act alone. No. This man had forsaken me. Whatever warmth remained in my heart had apparently not been informed. Ramiro bowed and brushed his lips against my fingers. The very fingers that, in another life, had worn the ring he gave me. I wanted to tear my hand away. I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to demand whether he had known what would happen to that carriage. Instead, I stood still. I was no longer the Second Prince's wife. "I am glad your dear mother gifted you to this world, Ophelia." My heart stopped. He had said those exact words to me at my first debutante's ball. For one absurd moment, I wondered if he knew. Then reason returned. Of course he did not. Apparently the years had simply transformed my traitor of a husband into the sort of man who reused old courtship lines on young women. I would have pitied Isolde if I did not loathe her. "I thank you, Your Majesty." I pulled my hand free before my resolve melted beneath his gaze. Father, mercifully, stepped in. "Your Majesty, you must be weary from the journey. Please, come inside. I shall escort you and your entourage." He turned to me. "Ophelia, see that your guests feel our hospitality." "Of course, Father." Ramiro looked between Father and me as though he wished to object, but Father had already begun leading him away. Good. Let him go. I turned toward the arriving guests before I did something foolish, like forgive a man I believed had arranged my death simply because his hand still felt familiar around mine. I was Princess Ophelia Kastark now. I was not his wife. I was not his responsibility. I was not his mate. At least, I did not think I was. "Sister." Beth tugged at my hand. "You are staring again." "I am greeting our guests." "You are staring at the King." Children were dreadful creatures. "I am making certain our most important guest is comfortable." Beth looked unconvinced, but Catherine chose that moment to dart across the courtyard between two servants carrying flower garlands. "Catherine!" Beth ran after her. I nearly laughed. Perhaps that was what I needed. Something ordinary. Something belonging entirely to this life. For the next hour, I did my duty. I welcomed minor lords, smiled at ladies I had known since childhood, and accepted more compliments about my gown than any one woman should reasonably endure. Still, my attention kept drifting toward the great hall. I told myself it was sensible curiosity. After all, I knew almost nothing of what had happened in Monteluce after my death. Why was Ramiro king? Where was Tristan? And where was Bernan, who once followed Ramiro like a second shadow? By midday, curiosity defeated good sense. Lady Marcella Deyne gave me my opportunity. Her husband served as Valdoren's envoy to Monteluce, and she possessed the useful habit of knowing everything before anyone thought to ask. "You are staring toward His Majesty again," she said as we stood beside the long tables being prepared for the feast. "Everyone is staring at him." "Not quite the way you are." I ignored that. "Lady Marcella, may I ask you something?" Her smile sharpened at once. She adored questions. "How long has King Ramiro ruled Monteluce?" She blinked. "Nearly twelve years." Twelve. Then Tristan had inherited after all. I kept my expression pleasant, though today has proved it will be increasingly difficult. "And before him?" "His brother, of course. King Tristan." Of course. My mouth went dry. "What happened to him?" Lady Marcella's expression changed. For the first time all morning, she seemed uncertain whether she wanted to gossip. That frightened me more than any answer could have. "You truly do not know?" "Valdoren is far from Monteluce." "That it is." She lowered her voice. "King Tristan's reign ended in rebellion." I stared at her. "Rebellion?" "A dreadful business. The brothers had once been close, or so the old stories say. Then Prince Ramiro raised his banners against the Crown." That could not be right. Ramiro had never wanted Tristan's throne. Maybe others had wanted it for him but Ramiro had despised them for it. "Who won?" I asked, though the answer stood somewhere inside my father's hall wearing a crown. Lady Marcella studied my face. "Ramiro did." "And Tristan?" She hesitated. Then she leaned close enough that no one else could hear. "They say King Ramiro killed his brother with his own hands." For a moment, the courtyard vanished. I saw only Ramiro as I had known him: standing beside Tristan at council, arguing with him, laughing with him, defying him on my behalf, but always returning. Brothers. Then another memory intruded. Isolde. The woman who had loved Ramiro despite being Tristan's mate. I turned toward the great hall. Through the open doors, I could see Ramiro speaking with Father. He smiled at something Father said. That same fraudulent smile. My husband had sent me away. I had died in the carriage he arranged, and then he had killed his brother and taken his crown. Isolde. I could only make the most reasonable assumption.