It reminded her too much of her parents and the way they’d controlled every aspect of her existence when she’d been young. She hadn’t been a daughter to them, only currency. A way to buy themselves more social standing, not a person with hopes and dreams of her own.
Hurt buried itself inside her, making her ache. If she’d needed any more proof that he didn’t care about her, then this was it, wasn’t it?
What do you expect? He asked you if you were upset and you told him you weren’t.
It was true, and she had no one to blame for that but herself.
Inara opened her mouth to tell him that she would have appreciated being asked first, but he’d already moved past her and was issuing further orders to Carlo, leaving her standing there, gaping silently after him.
Cassius entered the small library and stopped, surveying it with some disapproval. The room bore the signs of recent cleaning, yet there were still stacks of papers and books scattered over various surfaces. The sideboard had on it some dead flowers in a vase and what appeared to be several tea cups with different levels of tea in them.
A woollen garment of some kind—a cardigan?—had been thrown carelessly onto one of the leather arm chairs that stood beside the fireplace, and now half of it was trailing on the floor. A single slipper had been kicked under the chair. A few pens sat on the mantelpiece above the fire, along with yet more tea cups.
A disgrace. Was his wife the culprit or did the fault lie with the staff for not cleaning properly? Not that he could blame the staff, given Henri and Joan were getting on in years. However, had Inara always been this untidy or had he never noticed? It had been six months since he’d last been here, after all.
A thread of something that he refused to call shame coiled through him. It was ridiculous to be ashamed that he hadn’t visited her. She might legally be his wife, but there was nothing between them beyond that. He visited her out of a sense of duty, that was all, and, although she was always pleased to see him, she’d never said that she wished she saw more of him. In fact, the few times her presence had been required for any kind of state function in Katara, she’d appeared uncomfortable, awkward and downright miserable, which had led him to believe she only liked to see him when he was scheduled to visit.
Certainly her obvious displeasure with him today had confirmed that theory. True, initiating divorce proceedings wasn’t a happy subject, but he hadn’t thought she’d be quite so upset. And he definitely hadn’t thought she’d care about him staying.
Apparently, he’d been wrong about both of those things.
Cassius stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, going over to the arm chair that didn’t have the cardigan draped over it and sitting down. A large glass of brandy had been set on the table beside the chair—good brandy too, from the smell of it.
He stared at the glass for a long moment.
Alcohol was something he only touched sparingly these days, as he did with most of his old indulgences. He wasn’t twenty any more and he had a country to run. His days of drinking in bars and partying in nightclubs were over.
Perhaps he should have asked Henri for some tea instead. Yet the chair was comfortable and he was tired, and the last couple of months discussing budgets and taxes had taken it out of him. Numbers weren’t his thing. In fact, being a king in general wasn’t his thing—he’d been brought up as the spare, not the heir—and it had taken him a good two years of hard work to get a decent grasp of what was expected of him.
Caspian should have been King, not you.
Yes, he should. But Caspian was dead and Cassius was all Aveiras had left.
The silence of the house settled around him like a balm. He was rarely alone these days. There were always people wanting something from him—a signature, an opinion, an order or even simply to be in his presence.
He found it tiring.
‘Are you sure you don’t want the crown, little brother?’ Caspian had asked him one day. ‘It’s not too bad once you get used to carrying the weight of an entire country.’
Cassius had shuddered with distaste. ‘I’ll stick with carrying the weight of my own reputation, thank you very much. Which, luckily, is exceedingly light.’
He hadn’t known then he’d end up stepping into his brother’s shoes. Or that he’d end up carrying the weight of that crown, and all alone. But he hadn’t had a choice, and he wouldn’t let his family down—not again.
Cassius picked up the brandy glass and had already taken a few sips before being fully conscious of having done so. The alcohol sat warmly in his stomach, the taste rich and heavy on his tongue. He shouldn’t indulge—control in all things was important—yet it seemed a shame to waste such a good vintage.
He only had time for a couple more sips before the library door opened suddenly and he looked up to find his wife standing in the doorway, staring at him.
It was late and he hadn’t seen her all afternoon. She’d vanished after he’d finished sorting out the arrangements for himself and his staff for the night, and she hadn’t been around when Henri had served dinner in the little dining room.
He’d made some enquiries as to her whereabouts, but Henri had only shaken his head and said he didn’t know where Her Majesty was.
Cassius had told himself it didn’t matter where she was, that he didn’t care, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he’d upset her.
She hadn’t received the news of the divorce well. No matter that she’d told him she wasn’t upset, he’d seen the shock in her eyes, and the hurt too.
She didn’t look pleased to see him now, her pretty mouth firming as she spotted him sitting in the armchair.
She’d grown up into a lovely woman, which wasn’t something he’d wanted to notice in his visits over the years, yet he’d noticed all the same. Once he’d been a connoisseur of women, and adult Inara was definitely a woman he’d have made time for.