Page 59 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

He grinned. “A prince must always be prepared.”

I laughed then and closed the distance between us.

“Please, won’t you sit?” He gestured towards the bench, and I took a seat beside him.

“This is probably extremely improper,” I pointed out. “Being alone like this.”

“Ah, but I won’t tell if you don’t,” Stefan said.

“It will be our secret.”

We sat quietly side by side, appreciating the view that the garden presented. I found his warm, solid presence beside me peaceful, and I enjoyed the fact that he felt no need to make small talk. The feeble warmth from the sun wrapped itself around us as the walled garden kept the chill breeze away.

After another moment, Stefan spoke. “I think – forgive me, Miss Fox, if I am wrong – but I think, like me, you are perhaps finding the amount of company overwhelming.”

I glanced at him, surprised. I had been given to understand that the prince was an extremely sociable sort of man, one who enjoyed the press and clamour of society life.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I am. I suppose I am used to a quiet life. I’m having a lovely time,” I hastened to add. “It is only sometimes the lack of solitude that can be…” I trailed off.

Stefan nodded in understanding. “I feel this too,” he said. “When I am in England it is like one long party.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Most of the time it is not. But no one wants to go to a party that does not end.”

“I suppose not.”

“When I am at home, in Saxe-Illyris, my life is a much more solitary one. I walk a lot, and I ride, and” – here his mouth lifted up in an adorably shy half-smile – “I write.”

“You write?” I asked.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small notebook, handing it to me. Flicking through the pages I saw lines written in a language I didn’t understand. The handwriting was neat and uniform.

“What is this?” I asked. “I was only joking when I asked if you prepared all your compliments in advance, but now I’m not so sure.”

Stefan puffed out his cheeks, exhaling a sound like a nervous laugh. “It is poetry, Miss Fox, or my poor attempt at it, at least.”

“You’re a poet!” I exclaimed. I don’t know why I was so surprised; I suppose it didn’t go with my image of the man.

He shrugged. “I try to be.”

“Will you read me one of your poems?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” Stefan took the book from me. “I read it to no one, not even you.” His eyes softened. “But, perhaps, one day.”

It was as if I had landed right in the middle of one of my romance novels. If I was a proper heroine then this would be the moment that I would surely melt into his arms and we would profess our undying love for one another. I even felt myself swaying ever so slightly towards him, as though it was inevitable that it should end this way. Our hands were side by side on the bench, our fingers lightly touching.

Only then, the truth hit me. We were not in a romance novel, and I was not in love with Stefan. I pulled away.

“We’d better get back to the house before anyone misses us,” I said.

“Of course.” I let him guide me away from the romantic setting, from the enchanted garden where prince and princess meet.

Because, of course, I wasn’t the heroine in his story.

I was the villain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR