Seeing Isobel sitting on a wooden sofa, facing the doorway, Dion stopped in his tracks. Her golden hair was brushed long and straight, glowing in the crisp afternoon sun that poured through the window, and her eyes matched the blue jewel in a brooch pinned to her coral-colored chiton. She still wore the medallion with the dolphin, dangling from her slender neck. She looked beautiful.

She didn’t stand, and her chest was heaving as she looked up at him, each breath pressing her breasts against the material, making him wonder if they would stay constrained, as low-cut as her chiton was. She moistened her lips.

‘Please.’ She made space for him on the sofa, even though there were several stools and benches in the room. ‘Sit beside me?’

He glanced back at the curtain. ‘I am not sure if your father . . .’

Her smile lit up her face. ‘My father won’t mind, truly.’

Feeling caught up in a tide of events not of his making, wondering what she was about to tell him, Dion sat next to her, so close he was aware of her body’s warmth and scent as she turned to face him.

He was surprised when she took his hand.

‘Dion. I need to talk to you about what happened on the night of the banquet.’

He drew a deep breath and nodded. ‘I don’t know what I can say besides I’m sorry . . . I drank too much wine. I’m sorry and . . . thank you for . . . helping me to bed.’

She squeezed his hand as her lips formed a pout. ‘You are jesting. You must be. Surely you remember?’ She took his hand and pressed it against her breast. ‘You don’t remember this?’ Her expression was mischievous. ‘I remember every moment of it.’

He felt his face redden. ‘I remember . . .’

‘I am with child.’

His eyes widened and he started to cough. ‘You’re . . . ?’ His eyes were burning as he fought to catch his breath. ‘Did you just say . . . ?’

‘The child is yours.’

Dion pulled away. Putting a hand to his temple, he suddenly realized he’d climbed to his feet and was standing beside the sofa. ‘You’re certain?’

She gave a little nod, still smiling, but with a small crease in her forehead. She was now biting her lip, looking concerned.

His head spinning, he sat down again. He stared at her flat belly, as if trying to see a change in her.

‘I’m not showing yet.’ She blushed.

‘I . . .’

It was only then that the full import of what she had told him sank in. He was going to be a father. Filled with a sense of awe and wonder, he reached down and put a hand against Isobel’s stomach. She let him, still searching his face.

‘We are going to have a child together, King.’