Page 78 of Thrones We Steal

“Hardly.”

“After all, you are married—”

“In name only.”

“—and you’re living together—”

“Along with five hundred staff!”

“—and he really is a delicious specimen.”

“Are you done yet?”

She attempts to hide her smile, but she doesn’t try hard enough. “I’m sorry, poppet. It really is an unfortunate circumstance.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I mutter.

She gets up to stir the soup. “Why don’t you explain the whole thing to me?”

“Do I have to?”

“If I’m to give advice, I need to know the particulars of the situation. Besides, I’m not in the grave yet. Let an old lady live vicariously through your relationships.”

“You’re not old,” I say. She’s trained me well.

“Of course I’m not.” She waves the wooden spoon in the air. “Now out with it.”

I give her the CliffNotes version of my very short-lived, very injudicious fling with Henry.

“He’s a scoundrel,” she says when I’m done.

“Not exactly breaking news, that.”

“Damn. Why are the good-looking ones always evil bastards?” She grabs two handmade ceramic bowls from a cupboard and rummages around for spoons.

“What about Eduardo? You’ve told me plenty of times how dreamy he was.”

Without an expression on her face, she makes a noise that sounds remarkably like a snort. “He was an evil bastard.”

I feel the features on my face extend: my eyes widen, my jaw slackens, my mouth parts. “I thought you loved him madly.”

“I did. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a horrible husband.”

I’ve always idolized their marriage. I never had the opportunity to meet Eduardo. He died eight years before Adelaide and I met. Everything I know—or thought I knew—comes from Adelaide’s stories.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I strategically withheld information.” She nonchalantly ladles soup into the bowls like shaking the bedrock of our relationship is something she does every day.

I can’t stop gaping at her.

She finally notices when handing me a steaming bowl of soup. “Close your mouth, poppet. There are worse things than letting you believe I had a fairy-tale marriage.”

“But—I—”

She holds up her hand. “I will explain, if you promise to hold your tongue until I’m finished.”

I nod and take a bite of soup. It’s delicious. Maybe the real reason Adelaide doesn’t employ a chef is because she can out-cook them all.

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