Читать книгу Royal Christmas: Royal Love-Child, Forbidden Marriage - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 12

PHOEBE awoke to a pearly pink sky and dawn streaking its pale fingers along the floor. Next to her Christian lay sprawled across the bed. He’d had a restless night and sometime between midnight and dawn Phoebe had brought him into bed with her.

Now she lay still, enjoying a moment of peaceful solitude even as the memories and implications of yesterday trickled slowly through her.

They were in Amarnes. Nicholas might very well want custody of her son. Leo had kissed her.

She rolled off the bed, carefully extracting herself from the rumpled covers so as not to wake Christian. The sun was rising now, a pale sliver of yellow above the mountains, turning their snow-capped peaks to the colour of cream. A glance at the clock told her it was already after eight o’clock; in November the sun didn’t rise until quite late in this part of the world.

Hurriedly, Phoebe washed and dressed. Today they were going ice-skating with Leo. And despite all her fears and anxieties, the terror that Nicholas would find a way to take Christian from her and, even worse, that Leo might aid him, she found herself looking forward to the outing with absurd excitement.

An hour later they were leaving the palace, just the three of them, bundled against the chilly wind blowing in from the sea.

‘What, no entourage?’ Phoebe asked as they simply strolled through the palace gates. ‘No guards?’

‘Amarnes is a small country,’ Leo replied with a shrug. ‘Very safe. And I think I can take on any comers.’ His wry smile as he flexed one arm made Phoebe laugh aloud. She needed this, she realised. She needed to laugh, to let go, to enjoy a day apart, a day just for pleasure … with Leo.

Next to her, Christian was practically dancing in excitement. So much for the Rockefeller Center, Phoebe thought wryly. He obviously thought this was much more fun.

She’d certainly agree with that.

The sun was just emerging behind some ribbony white clouds as they entered the city’s main square. Phoebe’s last visit to Njardvik had been such a blur that she now found herself looking around in genuine interest. The square was surrounded by tall, narrow townhouses painted in varying pastel shades, elegant and colourful.

In the middle of the square, now strung with fairy lights, an ice rink had been formed, sparkling with sunlight. A Christmas tree decorated in red and gold, at least forty feet high, towered over the rink. Even Christian was impressed by its size, and declared it better than the tree at the Rockefeller Center.

‘I’m so relieved,’ Leo told him with a little smile.

They fetched skates from a hut erected near the rink, and then sat on a rough wooden bench to put them on. Phoebe saw the way the people—the man who rented them the skates, the red-cheeked woman who sold pebber nodder, the little shortbread cookies flavoured with cinnamon—looked at him. Spoke to him. She saw and heard respect, admiration, even affection. Leo, Phoebe realised, had won his people over.

The thought made her glad.

‘Have you skated much?’ Leo asked with an arched brow, and Phoebe smiled, suddenly mischievous.

‘A bit.’ She tightened the laces on her skates. ‘What about you?’

‘A bit as well,’ Leo replied.

‘I fall a lot,’ Christian confided. He stretched out his legs for Leo to lace up his skates. Phoebe watched the simple sight of Leo doing up her son’s skates and felt her heart both constrict and expand all at once. There was something so right about this, and it scared her. It was all too easy to imagine them as a family, to imagine this was more than just a day’s outing. To imagine—and want—this to be real.

‘There.’ Leo stood up, reaching a hand down to Christian, which the little boy took with easy trust. He held out his other hand to Phoebe, and after the briefest of hesitations she took it. They both wore gloves, yet even so it felt all too good—too right and too wonderful—for his hand to clasp hers.

They walked awkwardly on their skates to the rink and Christian’s bravado faltered at the sight of the sheer ice. Skating backwards with long, gliding movements, Leo took the boy’s hands and helped him move along. Phoebe watched from the side as they skated around the rink. Leo had skated more than a bit, she thought wryly. He skated backwards with effortless ease, helping Christian along, encouraging him with ready smiles and praise. Christian beamed back, delighted when he was finally able to let go of Leo’s hands and skate for a few wobbly feet by himself.

Leo skated towards Phoebe, who remained leaning against the rink wall.

‘You’re good,’ she said and he gave a modest shrug.

‘Growing up in Amarnes … all children learn to skate.’ He gave her a little smile. ‘Are you going to get out on the ice?’ His eyes glinted with humour. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

‘Me? Afraid?’

‘You said you’d only skated a bit …’

‘So I did,’ Phoebe agreed, and then pushed off the wall. She wasn’t able to see the expression on Leo’s face as she glided to the centre of the rink, did a graceful figure-of-eight before spinning in a dizzying circle, one leg stretched out in a perfect right angle.

‘Way to go, Mom!’ Christian crowed, then turned to Leo. ‘She used to skate a lot.’

‘So it would appear,’ Leo murmured, and Phoebe, skating back, couldn’t help but grin.

‘I took figure-skating lessons for five years. I had dreams of being the next big star, actually.’

‘And what happened?’

Phoebe smiled wryly. ‘I wasn’t that good.’

‘Better than me,’ Leo told her. ‘And you don’t need to look so smug,’ he added as she leaned against the wall once more. ‘I was looking forward to giving you lessons.’

‘Perhaps it should be the other way round,’ Phoebe replied, and he laughed aloud.

‘Or perhaps,’ he murmured for only her ears, ‘we should have lessons in some other … field of interest.’

Suddenly Phoebe was breathless, the camaraderie of the moment replaced by something deeper, needier and more elemental.

She wanted him. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, to feel every bit of his skin, his hair, his mouth and eyes—his body. She wanted his body inside her, wanted to feel him move against her—

She turned away, afraid her thoughts—her need—would be reflected in her eyes. Leo was so adept at reading her emotions, and she wasn’t ready for him to know this.

Although perhaps he already did. Perhaps he’d always known it, from the moment he’d first touched her all those years ago, and she’d felt as if he’d reached right inside to her soul. Perhaps he had … perhaps her ill-fated marriage had never had a chance from that moment.

Perhaps, Phoebe thought hazily, it had always been Leo.

‘Aren’t we going to skate some more?’ Christian demanded, and Leo reached for his hands.

‘Yes, we are,’ he said as he started skating backwards again, Christian following him. ‘And then we’re going to get some hot chocolate.’

They skated for another half-hour before the cold defeated them, and they returned their skates.

‘There’s a café near here,’ Leo said, ‘with the most delicious hot chocolate.’ He smiled at Christian. ‘With whipped cream.’

The air was sharp with brine and damp with cold as they left the rink, even though the sun was shining.

They walked in easy silence down the narrow streets to the promised café, a small, wood-panelled room in the front of a townhouse, its scarred oak tables and chairs relics from another century.

The owner hurried towards them, all welcoming smiles and excited chatter, which Leo, looking almost discomfited, waved away. Within seconds they were seated at a more private table in the back, scarves and mittens shed, and coats hung over their chairs.

One of the waiters brought Christian a colouring book and some crayons, and he was soon hard at work. Phoebe took the opportunity to study Leo, her heart—and something else—lurching at the sight of him. A few stray snowflakes glittered in his hair, and his cheeks were bright with cold. She could see the glint of stubble on his jaw, and it made her ache to reach out and touch the bristles, compare the feel of it to the softness of his lips …

On the table she curled her hand into a fist, determined—for the moment—to resist the impulse. Leo glanced at her, amusement quirking his mouth.

‘You look as if you’re deep in thought,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps working out a difficult maths problem. What are you thinking about?’

Phoebe had no intention of telling him the nature of her thoughts. She smiled and began to shrug, surprising them both when she suddenly said, ‘You have changed.’

Leo stilled, his long, brown fingers flat on the table. He didn’t quite look at her as he asked lightly, ‘Have I?’

‘Yes,’ Phoebe said more forcefully. ‘You’re not … you’re not …’

‘A reckless, womanising playboy any more?’ he asked, his voice still light, but she heard—felt—the darkness underneath. The same emotion she’d felt from him all those years ago, a kind of pain or sorrow.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s more than that.’

Leo opened his menu and scanned the pages. ‘How intriguing,’ he murmured, but Phoebe could tell he wanted to deflect the conversation from himself, and she wondered why.

A waiter returned with mugs of creamy cocoa, and Phoebe dipped her spoon in the frothy confection. ‘So did you put your partying days behind you when you realised you’d become king?’

Something flashed in Leo’s eyes—something bleak and angry—and then he shrugged. ‘Something like that. I told you before, didn’t I, some things can be sordid and boring?’

She felt a flicker of disappointment. ‘So the party scene just got old?’

‘It always does.’

Christian looked up from his mug of hot chocolate, his entire face flecked with whipped cream. ‘What does sordid mean?’

And that, Phoebe thought, was a signal to change the conversation if there ever was one. Yet she was curious, far too curious, about Leo. About his childhood, about his change of heart, about the man he was now. A man, she realised with both alarm and excitement, that she could more than like. A man she could love.

They finished their hot chocolate in comfortable silence, before Leo said they should return to the palace. ‘You, young man, look tired.’

‘I am not!’ Christian protested with five-year-old indignation.

‘Well,’ Leo relented, ‘perhaps your mother is. Maybe I could show you the palace games room while she has a nap? I play a mean game of air hockey.’ He glanced at Phoebe in silent query, and she gave a little nod. A nap sounded heavenly.

Outside the café they came across one of Njardvik’s little Christmas markets, a narrow street lined on both sides with stalls, each one strung with lights and offering various handicrafts, baked goods and Christmas ornaments.

‘Are these all Santa Clauses?’ Phoebe asked as she examined a row of carved wooden figures, each with a long white beard and red cap.

‘Santas, no. They’re nissen,’ Leo replied. ‘Sort of like Santa—but a nisse is a bit of a trickier fellow.’

‘Trickier?’

‘Yes, he was originally a protector of family farms. But he might steal the cows’ hay to give to the horses—that sort of thing. Now he’s become a bit more like Santa. On Christmas Eve someone dresses up as a nisse and brings presents, asking if there are any good children.’

‘Did someone do that for you as a child? In the palace?’ Phoebe asked suddenly. She pictured Anders and Leo at Christmas, waiting for the nisse. Knowing what she did, she could imagine Anders vying for all the attention while Leo stood in the shadows, watching.

‘Oh, yes.’ Leo’s expression was strangely shuttered. ‘Always.’

‘And what did you answer?’ Phoebe asked, keeping her voice light. ‘Were you a good child?’ She meant to sound light, teasing, but instead the question sounded serious. Leo’s mouth stretched in a smile and he put the nisse back on the shelf. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘of course I was.’

Yet Phoebe could only imagine what he wasn’t saying, what memories he was keeping to himself. Ignored, neglected, a virtual orphan. He might have been a good child, she thought, but she doubted he had been a happy one. She glanced back at the nisse; the look on the little statue’s face suddenly seemed closer to a sneer.

They left the Christmas market and began to walk back to the palace, Leo leading them down the city’s narrow cobbled streets, his hand easily linked with Christian’s. Phoebe trailed a few steps behind, watching them, thinking how much like a family—a father and son—they looked.

What if Leo had been Christian’s father, instead of Anders? What if all those years ago, she had met him first? What if they’d fallen in love?

Useless questions, Phoebe knew, and ones she couldn’t possibly answer. The past was the past; it had been written, finished. The present was intriguing enough.

And as for the future …

What could there possibly be between her and Leo, the heir to the country’s throne? She’d been considered an unsuitable candidate for queen six years ago, and she doubted anything had changed on that score.

Besides, wasn’t she getting a little ahead of herself? All Leo had done was kiss her, and such a little brush of a kiss it barely counted.

Except it hadn’t felt little.

And yet in two weeks she would be returning home with Christian—at least, that was what she wanted, what she’d hoped for. Her fears about the king’s plans and intentions still gnawed nervously at her insides. Even so, amidst the fear and the uncertainty, she now felt a longing for these two weeks to never end.

It was working, Leo thought grimly, his hand still loosely clasped with Christian’s. With half an ear he listened to the boy chatter on about some kind of toy—a robot or a dinosaur?—as his own mind spun in circles. He’d had a plan, he’d carried it out, and it was clearly a success.

Phoebe was falling in love with him.

So why did that make him feel so miserable?

Because I don’t deserve it … I don’t deserve any of it, I never did or will …

He pushed the thoughts away, the tormented voices of his conscience, his memory. He couldn’t afford to have either. He needed to focus, to keep working towards his goal. And even if Phoebe hated him, even if she discovered the truth, he knew he was doing only what he had to.

For Phoebe’s sake.

Phoebe gazed at herself in the mirror, amazed at the transformation. That afternoon several gowns had been sent to her room with instructions she choose one to wear that evening. A single card had been inserted among the folds of tissue paper, with a single sentence upon it, written in a bold scrawl: Have dinner with me.

Her heart hammered in anticipation and her nerves jangled as she undid the dresses from their folds of paper and hung them on the door, gazing at each one in turn. What to wear to dinner tonight? Dinner alone with Leo. Now finally he would explain what he knew of the king’s plans, yet Phoebe found she could barely think of that.

All she could think of, her body’s insistent needs drowning out her mind’s, was being alone with Leo. What would happen? What would he do? What would she do?

‘Which one should I wear?’ she asked Christian, who was sprawled on the bed, watching a children’s show in Danish with an expression of endearing perplexity.

He glanced up at her, frowning at the sight of the clothes. ‘Are those dresses?’ he asked and Phoebe laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Christian promptly ducked out of the way and returned to watching the television.

‘Yes, silly. And can you actually understand that show at all?’

‘I saw it back at home,’ Christian replied with a shrug and Phoebe rolled her eyes.

‘Come on, sport. Help me out here.’

With a long-suffering sigh, Christian turned away from the TV once more. He glanced at the three gowns, his brow furrowed. ‘The silver one.’

‘You think?’ Phoebe reached out to stroke the slippery, silky material. It was a bit pathetic, getting fashion advice from a five-year-old, but she needed to talk to someone. To let out some of this energy, this excitement bubbling away inside of her.

‘Yeah.’ Christian had clearly had enough of fashion talk, for he turned back to the show, which featured a talking lion that happened to be friends with a zebra. ‘It’s the same colour as my robot.’

‘And that’s as good a reason as any,’ Phoebe murmured, slipping the dress off its hanger. She went into the bathroom to change, and the dress’s material flowed over her like liquid silver. It was deceptive in its simplicity, two skinny straps and a bodice decorated with tiny jet beads that ended in a swirl of shimmery silk around her ankles.

‘It matches your eyes,’ Christian said when she came out to show him. She laughed, twirling around, feeling beautiful.

‘How kind of you to notice.’

‘Did you bring your hair stuff?’

Christian knew how she disliked her curly hair that always tended to frizz. When she had time, she used a special hair serum and blow-dried it straight. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said with some reluctance. ‘Leo will just have to take me as I am.’

‘You’re eating with Leo?’ Christian asked, astute as ever, and Phoebe flushed.

‘Yes, we’re having dinner together while you get to be with Frances.’

Christian narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you going to marry him?’

‘Christian!’ Phoebe stared at her son in shock. ‘What makes you think such a thing?’

He shrugged. ‘He’s nice and I don’t have a dad,’ he said simply. Phoebe’s heart ached.

‘I didn’t realise you wanted one,’ she said quietly, and Christian gave her a look that clearly said such a thought was incredibly stupid. And wasn’t it? Phoebe asked herself. No matter how many friends she surrounded Christian with, no matter how much love she showered him with, didn’t he still want a father?

Didn’t he still need one?

And could Leo be it—him?

Whoa, Phoebe told herself. You’re getting way, way ahead of the game. Leo had merely asked her to dinner. He’d only kissed her once. And yet … and yet …

She wanted so much more. She was ready for so much more. For the last five years she’d put her own romantic life on hold, for Christian’s sake. Building her business and caring for her son had been enough.

Now it wasn’t.

Now she wanted more. She wanted Leo.

At seven o’clock Phoebe took Christian up to the nursery and was met at the door by a smiling Frances.

‘My, don’t we look nice tonight!’ she exclaimed, taking Christian by the hand. She winked at Phoebe. ‘You’re not going on a date, are you?’

‘Just dinner,’ Phoebe murmured, blushing. What was with everybody? she wondered. Were her hopes so transparent?

‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ Frances replied comfortably. ‘I’m sure we will.’

Leaving Christian in the nurse’s capable hands, Phoebe made her way downstairs. A servant directed her not to the main dining room, but to a private salon in the back of the palace.

The servant opened the door, disappearing quickly and quietly before Phoebe had even properly entered. And then she stopped, for the room, with its fireplace and dancing shadows, the rich wood panelling and the heavy velvet curtains the colour of wine, was sumptuous and beautiful and reminded her of the room at the consulate.

For just as before there was Leo standing by the fireplace, dressed in an immaculate suit, his hair brushed back from his forehead and curling on his collar. He looked amazing, seductive and beautiful and she wanted him more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

For, while the room seemed so similar to that room at the consulate, the mood was different. She was different … and so was Leo. Gone was the fear, the outrage, the anger. She came into the room smiling.

‘Did I really need to wear a formal gown?’

‘I was hoping you’d choose the grey one.’

His words caused a prickly heat of awareness to creep along her arms and flush her face and bare shoulders. ‘You selected those gowns?’

Leo arched one eyebrow. ‘Are you questioning my taste?’

Laughing a little, Phoebe shook her head. ‘No. They were all beautiful.’

Leo started forward, towards her. ‘But the grey one matches your eyes.’

‘That’s what Christian said.’

‘Smart boy.’ He stopped in front of her, close enough for her to touch him if she reached her hand out and yet still too far away.

Phoebe’s heart bumped in her chest; she felt as if Leo could see it through the tissue-thin fabric of her dress. She stared at him, unspeaking, helpless, because she had so many things to say and she didn’t know how to begin. ‘I’m hungry.’

Leo’s lips curved in a smile and Phoebe flushed. She hadn’t meant to say that, but the words had come out anyway. ‘So am I,’ he said, and Phoebe knew he wasn’t just talking about food.

He reached out one hand to touch hers, lacing their fingers together, and drew her deeper into the room. His touch created an instant and overwhelming response, so her legs felt like butter, soft and melting as she practically swayed towards him.

‘Leo …’

‘Let me pour you a glass of wine.’

But she didn’t need wine; she felt drunk already, dizzy and light and free. ‘All right,’ she whispered. She watched as he poured from the bottle already opened on the sideboard and then handed her a crystal glass, raising his own in a toast. ‘To tonight,’ he said, and the words were surely a promise of what was to come.

Phoebe drank, letting the rich liquid slide down her throat and fire her belly. She felt floaty and weightless, suspended in the moment, unable to think or care about anything else. She knew, absolutely knew, she shouldn’t feel this way. Wasn’t this evening meant to be about the future? About the king and his plans? About what Leo knew? Yet all the questions she’d meant to ask, all the answers she’d meant to demand, seemed to float away to nothing, meaningless in the face of the consuming desire she felt for this man.

‘Shall we eat?’ Leo asked, and Phoebe nodded, for, though she’d claimed to be hungry, surely the meal was simply something to be got through, to be endured before the rest of the evening began.

She moved to the table, her gown swishing sensuously against her bare legs, and sat down.

‘Please. Allow me.’ Leo set down his wine glass and took the heavy linen napkin from the table, unfolding it with a flourish and then spreading it on her lap, his fingers brushing and even lingering on her thighs. Phoebe closed her eyes, savouring the caress.

Leo moved to the other side of the table and sat down, and Phoebe forced herself to open her eyes, to act normal. To feel normal. His knee nudged hers under the table, a subtle, steady pressure that had fiery sensation flooding through her once more.

This had to stop. It had to begin.

‘Something smells delicious,’ Phoebe said.

‘Indeed.’ Leo lifted the lids on several silver chafing-dishes; a tantalising aroma of rosemary and lemon wafted from a dish of roasted chicken. Leo placed some on her plate, along with fresh asparagus and new potatoes. He handed her a basket of bread; the rolls were soft and flaky.

Yet Phoebe couldn’t taste it, or at least the taste was overwhelmed by her other senses. The feel of Leo’s knee against hers, the sight of him, the scent of him.

She couldn’t take any more, she thought almost frantically. She was burning up, her body aching and restless—

‘Phoebe,’ Leo said quietly, putting down his fork, ‘the king wishes to make Christian his heir.’

The words didn’t make sense. They penetrated Phoebe’s haze of desire like buzzing flies, circling in her fevered brain. The king wants to make Christian his heir . . . his heir . . . his heir . . .

‘But … that’s impossible.’ The words felt thick and clumsy on her tongue, and she blinked, struggling to find clarity amidst her body’s clamouring needs. ‘Anders abdicated. Christian has no right—’

‘The king has decided otherwise.’ Leo gazed at her directly, watched her carefully. Did he think she was going to throw a fit? To scream and shriek and cry?

For now the lovely fog of desire was burning off under the cruel light of dawning realisation. If Christian was the king’s heir, then he would be king one day. Of Amarnes. He would live his life here, his life would be forfeit to the crown, and Phoebe—what role would she have?

The answer was obvious. None. She rose from the table on legs made shaky now by fear. ‘This has been his plan?’ she asked sickly, though she knew, of course, it was. ‘All along?’

‘Yes … although I did not know it.’

She shot Leo a dark glance. ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you? If Christian is named heir, then you won’t be—’

‘King. No.’ Leo spoke with no intonation, no inflection, no emotion at all. Phoebe turned around to stare at him helplessly. What was he thinking right now? Feeling? She had no idea, no clue, and it scared her. The heady hope of the last twenty-four hours, brimming as they had been with possibility, suddenly seemed ludicrous. False. Who was this man?

‘Are you disappointed?’ she asked and Leo shrugged one shoulder.

‘I could hardly say I did not feel some disappointment at the news. But if the king wishes it, there is little I can say or do about the matter.’

‘And what can I do?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘I don’t want Christian to be king!’ She thought of her mother’s lawyer friend. How did you contest a line of succession? Was it even possible?

‘I wouldn’t go down that route, Phoebe,’ Leo said quietly, and she heard a raw note of compassion in his voice. ‘It won’t get you anywhere.’

‘But how can he …? This isn’t a dictatorship—don’t you have a parliament or something—?’

‘Yes, and I’m afraid they’ll do what Nicholas says. He is—and has been—a strong ruler.’

Just like that, Phoebe thought, too shocked and sick at heart even to feel angry. Just like that, Nicholas could change everything, everyone’s lives.

‘So what am I supposed to do?’ She finally asked brokenly. ‘Just … roll over? Accept this?’ Her voice rose and her hands fisted at her sides. ‘Leo, he can’t become king! Frances told me how awful the royal family—your family—is!’ she continued wildly, driven by desperation. ‘All the jealousies and rivalries—your own mother was sent away!’

Leo stilled, his face now utterly blank. ‘Yes, she was.’

‘And is that what’s going to happen to me?’ Phoebe demanded. ‘Is the king going to send me away, or will he just try to buy me off again?’

‘No,’ Leo replied calmly. ‘He wanted to buy you off in New York, but I never made the offer.’

‘What …?’ The single word came out in a hiss.

‘A million euros,’ Leo clarified dispassionately. ‘But I knew as soon as I saw you, Phoebe, that you would never take such an offer, and I would never make one.’ He paused, turning his head so his face was averted from her, cast in shadow. ‘You were right, my mother was sent away when I was six. When Anders was born. My father died the same year, and Nicholas couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Or at least put me in my proper place.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Of course, he couldn’t do so without first getting rid of my mother. She wasn’t needed any more, and Nicholas wanted a clear playing field.’ Leo let out a long, ragged breath. ‘He bought her off.’

Phoebe’s eyes widened in shock; she still couldn’t see Leo’s face, but she could feel the pain emanating from him in sorrowful waves. ‘Leo, I’m sorry.’

‘I saw her only a handful of times after that, and she died when I was sixteen. She had a weak chest.’ He turned his head, met her gaze. ‘So I could hardly let the same happen to you,’ he continued, and Phoebe saw the bleak honesty in his eyes. ‘Even though I was tempted.’

‘Tempted …?’

‘You were an inconvenience, remember?’ Leo gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘At least, I thought of you as one until I saw you again.’

Her heart bumped painfully against her ribs. She wanted to ask Leo what he meant, wanted to hope, needed to, but the future—Christian’s future—was too overwhelming. ‘So what can we do?’ she whispered. ‘We can’t—I can’t—’ She stopped, took a breath, and started again in a stronger voice. ‘I won’t be bought, and I won’t leave Christian.’

‘I know.’ Leo smiled, his mouth curling upwards in a way that made Phoebe’s insides tingle with awareness, with anticipation. ‘I have another solution.’ He paused, and in that second’s silence Phoebe felt as if the room—the whole world—became hushed in expectation, as if everything had led to this moment, this question, this possibility. As if she already knew. Leo took a step towards her, his hand outstretched. ‘Phoebe,’ he said, ‘you can become my wife.’