Portia's smile deepened, but it was colder now, like a blade hidden behind a mask of sweetness. "Lady Mari, Cristiano is nearly thirty. Your child is still unborn. You speak as if my plans are so easily discernible, but the truth is far more complicated. If I truly wanted your child harmed, I could wait for you to give birth, and by that time, my husband would have secured the throne. God forbid, but my father will not live forever. And, should my husband meet his untimely demise—given his frequent participation in wars—it could happen sooner than you think. Even then, however, it's not your child who would inherit the throne."
Lady Mari's face stiffened as she listened, but Portia's words kept flowing, cool and calculated.
