Page 129 of Reign

“I think your affection lies elsewhere,” Regina countered, something knowing in her voice.

Fitzroy snorted. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I wrong to believe you have a soft spot for the blacksmith?”

My heartbeat quickened—pounding faster and faster for every second of silence.

“She’s different from any woman I’ve ever met,” Fitzroy replied.

“Is that why you’re so fond of her?” Regina pressed, trying to squeeze every drop of detail out of him.

Until tonight, I’d not once thought Fitzroy had eyes for me—if anything, I’d assumed he regarded me as argumentative and unappealing. But after our dance, when we exchanged longing stares, I was conflicted. Despite nothing being said, in those wordless glances a confession was made—one of shared desires.

Fitzroy sighed again, as if this topic irritated him.

“The woman has no airs or graces,” he said in a snappy cadence. “She doesn’t curtsy correctly or excuse herself when leaving the table. She calls me her liege as an insult, and speaks to me as if I’m no better than a commoner.”

His words stung slightly, and I struggled to find any sentiment in them.

“And you take pleasure in her not respecting your title?” Regina asked, and I waited.

Another sigh.

Another long pause.

I pressed my ear more firmly into the door, not wanting to miss a word.

“It’s refreshing for someone to see me not only for that,” he finally said.

A warmth seeped into my chest, like I’d eaten a heaping spoonful of wild honey.

I made Fitzroy feel seen.

Regina let out a soft laugh. “I can understand that. But remember, she’s a peasant after all—she has everything to gain from you.”

Fitzroy chuckled—dry and hollow—nothing joyous in its tone.

“You find that amusing?” Regina asked.

“It’s comical. I could give her everything but the one thing she desires.”

My mind raced through the things I wanted—and in that moment, all I could think of was him.

“And what is that?” Regina asked, and I was thankful that she did.

A moment of silence followed, painfully long, as I waited for Fitzroy to answer.

Then I heard a deep grunt. “A carpenter,” Fitzroy said.

I faltered.

He was right. I did desire Bash—but part of me, the part I always ignored, was desperate for Fitzroy. And the more time I spent with the prince, the harder it became to conceal my growing feelings.

Fitzroy’s laughter echoed as heavy footsteps clipped along the tiled floors.

“Good night, Nephew.”

With haste, I scrambled into my four-poster bedstead and pulled the silky sheet over my head.