one eyebrow at her. “You got them the prize they wanted—worthless as it is.” Before she could protest, retract that piece of petty vindictiveness, she realized he was teasing. “Don’t tell me you’re letting it walk into their greedy hands unescorted?”
Seven
“Leandro, il mio figlio, sede benvenuta.”
Welcome home, my son.
Phoebe winced as King Benedetto’s words seemed to ripple in ever-expanding waves in the Throne Room.
He was underlining the significance and official nature of the meeting, his respect and appreciation of Leandro’s presence and position by receiving him there. Big mistake.
She wished he’d met Leandro in his private rooms. And she wished he’d made it a closed meeting. With her new insight into Leandro’s character and preferences—which was in absolute contrast to the opinion she’d previously held of both—King Benedetto would have put his best foot forward by approaching Leandro on a personal level. This man really didn’t know what he meant to Leandro, even after all the enmity and estrangement.
And then he had to complicate matters further. Welcome home my son was probably the worst thing he could have said in the presence of the Council, who didn’t have any measure of Leandro’s affection and respect, whose injury was untempered by entrenched hero worship and memories of much better times.
She found herself holding her breath, dreading Leandro’s response. What was he thinking? Feeling? She remembered his state eight years ago, the soul-permeating anguish at the amputation of his goals and identity. Would reinstatement, would welcome to what King Benedetto claimed to be Leandro’s home, the palace, the whole kingdom, be enough? Could anything be?
Leandro crossed hands over heart in that gesture that was quintessentially Castaldinian. “Grazie molto…” he wiggled his eyebrows, once “…King B.”
Gasps swept through the expansive hall, like a gale blowing through a forest of dying leaves. They couldn’t have been more shocked if Leandro had made an indecent gesture. Everyone except the king himself. It was difficult to read his skewed face from this distance, but she felt his reaction. Relief. He must have been prepared for far worse than Leandro’s irreverence.
Leandro gave her a sideways glance. Her throat closed. His eyes were eloquent, but she understood none of the things they were telling her. Were his wounds opening, his bitterness pouring out, overwhelming his restraint and his intentions to give the people who’d stripped him of too much a fair chance, the opportunity to atone? Was he deciding he’d made a mistake coming here…?
She gasped. He’d winked at her, slammed her with conspiring mischief and harsh-edged satisfaction—and the message that his desire was mounting, that nothing could take his mind away from it. Then he turned to King Benedetto.
“This place is stuffy. How about we reduce…” his gaze panned over the Council members “…carbon dioxide production?” More gasps ensued. He shook his head. “You’d better do something fast. Oxygen levels are plummeting with those spikes in consumption.”
This time Phoebe’s heart twittered with excitement. Enjoyment. All these years she’d loved and lusted after Leandro and she’d never suspected how deviously, deliciously witty he was.
She had eyes only for him as he stood in the middle of the massive space and extreme opulence, overshadowing it all, giving no outward reaction to the Council members’ displeasure as they obeyed their king’s silent gesture for them to leave.
When the doors closed behind the last grumbling member, he took her hand, walked them to the bottom of the crimson carpet-covered steps leading to the gilded, carved-wood throne and the man doing his best not to slump in it.
“You’re looking good,” Leandro murmured.
One of the king’s eyes closed. She knew both would have if the other had obeyed his emotions. When both were open, they were brighter than before. His voice reflected his agitation, too. “I don’t expect courtesy from you, Leandro. Certainly not kindness.”
“I’ve been called many things.” Leandro gave her a teasing look before looking back at the king. “Kind was never one of them. I expected you to be in bad shape, what with all the desperate cries for me to come back. Now I’m almost wondering why you brought me here. You look—hell, you feel vital enough to me. So what’s your game?”
“I may be guilty of many things, irreconcilable things where you’re concerned, Leandro, but if there’s one thing I never committed with you, it’s lying. I’m not well. You are here because I need you. Because Castaldini needs you.”
Leandro shrugged, dismissing that. “Castaldini can as easily need Durante. Or Ferruccio. I’m not your only choice.”
“You are our best one.”
Leandro raised a hand in a “don’t” gesture. “I have no ego to appeal to here anymore. I no longer subscribe to the letter of the ancient criteria. And it’s about time you sift through them and keep only what works. You’re just too afraid to propose them to the people, and the Council are a bunch of stuck-up snobs who can’t force themselves to look beyond the birth requirement and lineage crap.”
The king seemed to have trouble finding words. Then he rasped, “I have loved you since you were born, Leandro. Osvaldo would have been the proudest father had he lived to see you become who you are. But if I were unencumbered by the laws, by people’s expectations, don’t you think I would have wanted my own son to succeed me?”
“Sure. If you dared approach him. Which you don’t.”
“You judge our choice harshly. Won’t you even consider another point of view of why we made it?”
“You mean there are reasons, apart from Durante’s hatred, and considering me the lesser evil, even when I was once considered public enemy number one? And you haven’t even mentioned Ferruccio. His stigma is the worst in your eyes, eh?”
“There are factors that make you, if not the best, then the most logical choice. You’re the one who once believed it his destiny to be king, the one who worked not just to succeed but to succeed me. You were also a diplomat.”
“Again…total crap. It’s just easier to reinstate an errant prince who has all criteria ticked off, rather than to recruit a prodigal prince, or—God forbid—an illegitimate one.”
Silence fell. Phoebe could almost hear incredulity whistling long and loud in her head. And puzzle pieces clinking into place.
She’d been scratching her head, thinking of a Ferruccio who fit the incredibly demanding bill of succession criteria. There wasn’t one. Not a D’Agostino. The only man she’d seen on Castaldini who was on par with Leandro’s demigodliness and who happened to be named Ferruccio was a Selvaggio. And now she knew he was a D’Agostino as well.
“No convenient rationalizations?” Leandro asked. “But let’s say I give you the benefit of the doubt, that you do believe I’m the best man for the right reasons—”
The king interrupted, his voice the very sound of desolation. “Durante didn’t even call when I had my stroke. He didn’t care if I lived or died. He would never agree to be my crown prince.” He brought himself under control with obvious difficulty. “And yes, Ferruccio’s parentage makes him very…problematic. I don’t know how you come to know about him being a d’Agostino—”
“Ferruccio sought me out and told me in confidence. He didn’t say exactly who his parents are. I’ve been wondering if you would have the guts to send the laws to hell and ask him or Durante to be your crown prince. But you’re taking the easy way out.”
“It’s not that at all, Leandro. It’s one thing for it to be whispered that Ferruccio is a D’Agostino, another to validate it so that he can take the crown. It might be imperative to divulge his parentage for people to accept him.