Page 76 of A Queen's Match
May smiled at that. “Fair enough.”
Sir John had thrown a drop cloth over the canvas. May came to stand behind it; then together, she and George pulled back the fabric.
May’s first thought was that the woman on the paper didn’t look like her. This was only a pencil sketch, of course, but this woman was a cipher: a graven image pressed into a backdrop of furs and jewels. And really, it didn’t matter who she was, only that she was a future queen.
She had expected Sir John to capture some of her personality, the clever curve of her mouth or the impatience in her eyes. But that would have been a personal portrait, not an official one.
“You look beautiful, of course.” George’s voice was gruff. “As for me…”
That was when May looked at the left side of the painting. Where George had been standing, Sir John had sketched a male-shaped figure, George’s body filling out the robes and jewels and chains of state. The man in the portrait was slightly taller than George, and slimmer—because, of course, this was actually a portrait of Eddy.
“I’m glad I could make a small contribution to the Crown,” George joked, but something in his tone betrayed his hurt.
She swallowed. “George…”
“I mean, this is the closest I’ll ever be to becoming king. To actually mattering.”
What reply could she possibly make? George was right. He was a second son; in the eyes of history, he didn’t matter. He would be forgotten.
Then May found the right reply.
“You matter to me,” she said quietly.
Somehow her hand found his. She was wearing leather gloves, but the sensation of their clasped palms still sent a shiver down her spine. His shoulder nudged against hers as they stood there, studying the sketch together; or perhaps she nudged him in silent support. May was no longer sure of anything.
Certainly, she wasn’t sure how her face tipped up. How her lips were hovering so dangerously close to George’s.
Then her hands slipped up around his shoulders, tangling on the chain of state, and she brushed it impatiently aside to settle her grip around the back of his neck. May felt dizzy and delirious and rather like she might stumble, but it didn’t matter. George was warm and solid and she could hold tight to him.
This kiss had hovered between them for months, for years. And now, finally, it would happen.
George stumbled back, a horrified expression on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped.
“No.” May stepped toward him, desperate. She didn’t want him to be sorry; she wanted him to kiss her.
“I take full responsibility for all lines that were crossed,” he said swiftly. “Please, let’s act as if this never happened.”
Pretend it never happened? May shook her head. “ButI—”
But I love you. But I did everything wrong. But I can still fix things, if you’ll let me.
If only May had known that George didn’t want to marry Missy. If only she hadn’t thrown herself so ruthlessly into this campaign for Eddy. If, if…Her entire existence seemed to hinge on so many chances, so many possibilities that May had—through sheer willpower—forced into reality.
“Please, George…”
Before May could say anything more, the door flung open.
Prince Eddy stood there, looking handsome and tall and so acutely at ease with himself. Somehow he made George—in the full trappings of state, the robe and chain and gold brocade waistcoat—seem vaguely ridiculous.
Once upon a time May would have been drawn to Eddy for this. Now she resented him on George’s behalf. He was handsome, yes, but distant and cold and utterly unlike George, who was gentle and endearing and loving. How had she ever thought she wanted to marry Eddy?
Still, an engagement was not a marriage. There might be a way out of this, a chance for her and George to find happiness after all.
Surely May wasn’t the first woman to have gotten engaged to the wrong brother.
“May. Here you are,” Eddy said curtly. As if this wasn’t the place they were both supposed to be all morning. Apparently, he was oblivious to the aching tension between his fiancée and his brother.
