The house settles into silence around me.
Miserable. She’s miserable.
I throw my napkin on the table and head for the garage, where I get into the black Range Rover and drive out onto the street.
I go the long way around, so I don’t pass Aubrey, not knowing what I’m intending, but just needing to see Wraye. I find a parking spot, two doors down from the café. It has tables and chairs in the fresh air and waiters in crisp white shirts and black aprons.
A blonde woman emerges from a side street and walks right past my car.
My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare hungrily at Wraye. She’s wearing a sundress and heels, and her golden hair is plaited over one shoulder. When she turns around to sit down, I see that her cheeks are thinner, and there are tired circles under her eyes.
Aubrey arrives, and they order. As they talk and eat, both of them are animated and smiling. I wish I knew how to make Aubrey laugh like that. Me merely walking into a room seems to make happiness drain from my daughter’s face.
Wraye doesn’t eat much, and when Aubrey goes inside to use the restroom, her face collapses, and her shoulders slump. She plays listlessly with her napkin, her head down.
I’m there for an hour and a half, unmoving, watching them. Trying to read their lips. Drinking in the sight of Wraye playing with her hair, crossing and recrossing her ankles, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.
Finally, the two women get up to leave; they hug and then walk in opposite directions.
I jump out of the car and jog down the side street, waiting in an alcove. When I hear the clicking of high heels, just a few feet away, I step out.
Wraye sucks in a breath when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”
I peer at her face, confirming what I suspected when I was watching her from afar. “You’re too thin. You look pale and tired.”
“Wow, thanks. Did you follow Aubrey? Wait, were you watching us the entire time? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I hate seeing you like this.”
“Then don’t look at me, Your Grace.”
She tries to move past me, but I slam my palm against the wall, blocking her way. Wraye glares up at me. “Don’t you soldiers have a code or something? Mama said that the King’s Guard are supposed to be gentlemen.”
“I’m worried about you.”
Wraye wraps her arms around herself and gazes off to one side. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
She’s proud. But something’s causing her sleepless nights, and I’m sure that something is me. “I’ve been trying with Aubrey.”
Her expression softens. “She says you’ve tried talking to her, but it’s confusing her. You’re so stiff and unhappy. She doesn’t know what you want.” She purses her lips, and then seems to change her mind about what she was going to say. “Can I please go? We’ve got nothing to say to one another.”
I step closer to her, wanting dearly to touch her, but keeping my hand on the wall. “I insulted you while we were dancing. That wasn’t my intention.”
She shrugs, as if she doesn’t care, but her fingers tighten on her upper arms. “You’ve been locked up half your life, and just when you think you’re finally going to get lucky, you’re interrupted. Twice.”
“Wraye,” I growl through my teeth. “That’s not why I’m frustrated.”
“No? Then what is it?”
I ball a fist and press it against the bricks. “Because I want you. Seeing your face and hearing your name is torture.”
“Don’t follow me to breakfast. Change the subject when Aubrey talks about me.”
I step closer again, just inches from her now, and her lips part. “What if I don’t want to?”
Her lower lip trembles as I lower my mouth to hers.
At the last second, she turns her face away. “It’s not in me to be someone’s dirty little secret. I want something real.”
Then I’ll give her what she wants. I haven’t got time to waste. “Don’t be a secret. Marry me.”
Wraye breathes in sharply. “You reckless idiot. You’ve been out of jail for five minutes.”
She can call me every name under the sun, as long as she promises to be mine. She opens her mouth, but I cover it with mine, claiming the kiss I’ve been craving from her. Wraye comes up on her toes and wraps her arms around me, kissing me as if her life depends on it.
Then she tears herself out of my arms and pushes me away. “You’re crazy. Being your wife would be worse than being your mistress.”
“Do you think I’d let anyone humiliate my wife?” I reach for her, again, but she steps back, turns and walks quickly away. Her chin is lifted, and her shoulders are squared, the effort she’s going to seeming painful. I watch her until she’s out of sight, then lean a shoulder against the wall and scrub a hand over my face.