The King's Bride By Arrangement (Sovereigns and Scandals, Book 2) Page 14

  ‘Then you should have said so upfront. It doesn’t have to be opened to school groups.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Why shouldn’t they get some benefit from it? You’re right. It’s in an amazing setting and it’s selfish not to share.’

  ‘I never said you were...’

  This time he couldn’t resist the lure of that quaint little frown and her pouting lips. He swooped down for a brief kiss, luxuriating in the taste and softness of that lovely mouth before pulling back.

  Satisfaction filled him as he saw her dazed eyes and their hint of smoky blue.

  In that moment Paul came to a decision. Not with logic or argument but with pure instinct. And nothing had ever felt so right.

  Eva was his.

  It didn’t matter if their betrothal had been arranged as an affair of state, or that the reason they were still officially engaged was to preserve her reputation and scotch any scandal.

  Eva was his and he wanted it to stay that way. He wanted her. Wanted her in his bed, but wanted much more besides.

  Eva was his and he intended to claim her as his bride.

  The thought of her as his wife, not merely his fiancée, brought on that burgeoning emotion, filling up all the empty cracks and fissures he hadn’t known were empty till these last few weeks, when he’d begun to yearn for more.

  On impulse, he raised both her hands to his lips, drawing in the delicate, sweet scent of her skin, watching her eyes widen and her mouth soften.

  He was a determined man.

  He was determined to keep Eva. All he had to do was find out how.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A WEEK LATER, Paul invited Eva back to his study after an official reception.

  Usually he hosted such events alone. Tonight, with Eva circulating among the foreign delegates and charming them, Paul had felt some of his burden lift. It had been an important event, designed to encourage interest in doing business here in St Ancilla. And, from the discussions he’d had, the signs were encouraging.

  As he led her along the corridor it struck him that Eva had been lightening his load for several weeks. She allowed him more time to pursue the discussions he needed to while she acted the perfect hostess.

  More, she often gave him a valuable different perspective, noticing things he hadn’t. Details that helped him at the negotiating table. But other things too, such as reminding him his work shouldn’t be all about securing the nation’s finances. More than once she’d brought his focus back to small-scale local issues that made such a difference to his people.

  Like school excursions for disadvantaged students. He remembered her delight when she’d heard that the first such outing to the hunting lodge had been a success. And the way her eyes had shone when he’d announced the purchase of a bus to be shared by several city schools for excursions.

  After years of public austerity, the finances weren’t quite so tight, and it felt good to direct funds where they’d benefit the people.

  ‘Here we are.’ He opened the door and stood aside for Eva to enter.

  He caught her spring scent as she moved past him, elegant and desirable in a gown that looked as if it was made of dusky-pink cobwebs, ethereal and enticing. Another dress by a local designer. In a few short weeks Eva was putting St Ancillan fashion on the international map.

  Right now, though, Paul was more interested in imagining his hands around that slim waist, or slipping up under the delicate skirt to touch silky skin.

  ‘Paul...?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He dragged his gaze to her face, noting a hint of fatigue around her eyes. He ushered her to a seat but she shook her head.

  ‘I’m tired so I won’t stay long.’

  Disappointment stirred. They had developed a habit of retiring here or to his private sitting room to unwind and discuss the day. Another luxury he’d only just discovered and had no intention of giving up.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Have I been working you too hard?’

  Something, some hint of emotion, rippled across Eva’s features but was gone so fast he might have imagined it.

  Except Paul noticed everything about her now. He was reminded of the early days of their engagement, when she’d hide her emotions behind a polite façade.

  His gut squeezed at the idea of Eva retreating from him. He wanted to find out why she was so fatigued and fix it. Except her very posture, perfectly poised and regal, spoke volumes to a man who knew her. He guessed sheer willpower kept her upright after a long evening of formal entertaining.

  Quickly he turned to his desk, unlocking a deep drawer and withdrawing a crimson velvet box that had been brought up from the treasury.

  He moved to where she stood, the box unaccountably heavy in his hand. This was a threshold he was about to cross, yet he had no qualms about it. Giving this to Eva made sense in every possible way. But he felt the gravity of the moment. Felt and welcomed it.

  ‘I’d like you to wear this at the ball next week.’

  His birthday ball. What better time to share his intentions with Eva? He’d been tempted to tell her tonight but it wasn’t the right time. He preferred not to blurt it out when she was longing for her bed. He wanted her full attention. The moment had to be perfect.

  Hesitantly she took the box, her forehead crinkling in curiosity. Then she snapped open the lid and any sign of weariness was banished by surprise. Her face lit with the reflection of light bouncing off the gems she held.

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Wear it for me, Eva. Please.’ Paul couldn’t remember ever hanging on a woman’s answer quite so urgently.

  He reminded himself it was just a tiara. That the important thing would be winning Eva’s agreement to stay with him. But within the St Ancillan royal family this piece held great significance. It was proof of his intentions at a time when he still trod warily around Eva’s doubts and fears.

  He’d taken advantage of her once, making love to her when she’d been vulnerable, and it could be argued she wasn’t thinking straight. This, for the sake of his own conscience, was his promise to her, even if she didn’t know that yet.

  ‘Are you sure? It’s absolutely gorgeous, of course, but—’

  ‘It’s the most formal occasion on the royal calendar. If you’d known you’d be here for it, you’d have brought something similar from Tarentia, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I would have.’ Her eyes lifted from the brilliant stones to his face and Paul felt that for once he’d managed to counter her objections easily.

  ‘You’ll look stunning wearing it.’ He didn’t dare reach out and touch her, knowing the temptation to do more than allow a fleeting caress would be too strong. ‘You’d look stunning without it, I know, but it might have been made especially for you. I’d be honoured if you’d wear it. For me, Eva.’

  For a second something bright and potent shimmered between them. Later he’d wonder if it was the radiance of light sparking off aquamarines and diamonds, but in this moment Paul knew, felt, it was more. A moment’s communion between them. An instant of shared emotion.

  His heart lifted as Eva closed the box and nodded. ‘Thank you, Paul. I will.’

  Eva crossed her room on wobbly legs that gave way when she reached the wide bed. Her fingers bit into the crimson velvet of the box as she subsided onto the mattress.

  Her thoughts were a whirling mess that matched a stomach unsettled by nerves. All day she’d been on edge, worried but telling herself not to be.

  It had been difficult to concentrate on her role as hostess as a voice of doubt kept nagging at her.

  Then, just as she’d thought she could escape to the solitude of her suite, Paul had waylaid her. She should have forestalled him, pleaded tiredness straight away, but she’d been either too light-headed to think of it or too weak to resist the temptation of a little time alone with him.

 
She feared it was the latter. Though she knew it was bad for her, that this need for his company was something she had to wean herself off. The desire to make the most of their last weeks together was too strong.

  Slowly she unlatched the lid of the antique box and lifted it. Instantly the room seemed brighter. It was a classically elegant piece, a master jeweller’s work from over a century ago.

  Fashioned from platinum, it was set with stones of graduating size, the largest at the front angling down to smaller, yet still magnificent emerald-cut stones on either side. The gems were aquamarines, a pure, clear pale blue, set in a delicate frame of looping diamonds that sparkled brilliantly.

  Even she, brought up seeing and wearing heirloom gems regularly, had rarely seen a piece so exquisite.

  And Paul thinks it could have been made especially for me.

  Her heart pounded an out-of-kilter beat and something behind her ribs caught.

  He’s exaggerating.

  But part of her wanted to believe it was true. That he found her attractive. That he believed she shone as brightly as these amazing stones.

  Had he known she’d be wearing silver next week? That this would be the perfect match to the gown being designed for her?

  No, it was a lucky chance. That was all.

  Yet part of her, a tiny superstitious part she didn’t know, felt she was fated to wear this.

  As if!

  Reluctantly she closed the lid, cutting off the blinding brilliance, groping for sanity, perspective.

  He just wants you to look good at his birthday ball. It’s nothing personal.

  But it had felt personal. Sounded it.

  In her head Eva replayed his voice, deeper than usual and carving a groove of longing through her stupid heart, asking her to wear it for him.

  The way he’d looked at her.

  Even through her stress and tiredness, she’d seen that look and felt herself tremble in anticipation.

  Or was she reading too much into a glance and a simple act of kindness? He was lending her a tiara so she’d look the part of his fiancée at a significant event.

  One she hadn’t originally been invited to because he’d planned to end their engagement.

  That severed her wayward imaginings.

  Paul was making the best of a difficult situation.

  He had no idea how much more difficult her continued presence was making things. Only today, at a visit to an embroiderers’ guild, she’d been asked if they might have the honour of working on her wedding dress.

  Within the last two weeks she’d fielded similar requests from lace makers and from the designer responsible for tonight’s fabulous dress.

  Each time she was asked, Eva felt sicker in the stomach. Because she was living a lie and now others were investing in it, building their hopes on it. Eagerly awaiting the wedding.

  She’d been stunned by the alacrity with which most St Ancillans had welcomed her. There’d been a few who’d looked askance, as if doubting her suitability as a consort for their King. And still there’d been a few sensational articles about her, works of total fiction. But she didn’t let those bother her.

  No, what bothered her was the feeling that she was sinking deeper and deeper into this mire of make-believe. That with every passing day it would be harder to break free.

  Because she wanted to be what everyone believed her to be—Paul’s intended bride.

  And then there was the other worry. The one that had haunted her since last night when she’d realised she’d been in St Ancilla a whole month.

  The possibility, faint but disturbing, that she might be pregnant.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WAS LATE and Eva had already danced with a who’s who of dignitaries. She’d chatted with ambassadors and made small talk with a host of St Ancillans, some of whom were familiar to her now. There was an air of jubilation and good will, as if this celebration signalled more than Paul’s birthday. As if people knew that, after years of austerity, things were looking up.

  Eva enjoyed herself, especially the two waltzes with Paul, clasped close in his embrace as if he’d never heard of royal protocol and simply wanted to envelop her. Her heart still hammered too fast after the sheer delight of swirling through the glittering crowd, lost to the joy of being in his arms.

  But reality had intervened soon enough. It had been in the supper room, when she’d been confronted with a plate of tiny pancakes topped with smoked salmon and gleaming caviar.

  She’d tried to tell herself it was the heat and the press of the crowd, but for a moment she’d felt nausea well. Instantly she’d retreated, excusing herself for the quiet of a withdrawing room, taking slow breaths and dampening her nape and wrists with cold water.

  She was fine now. No more nausea. It was probably just nerves.

  Except she’d been in St Ancilla five weeks and still hadn’t had her period.

  Usually that wouldn’t bother her. Eva’s cycle was notoriously irregular. Which meant she was worrying about nothing.

  Except this time there was just a possibility she was pregnant. Condoms weren’t a hundred percent effective.

  Heat danced in her veins as she remembered Paul straining against her. His hoarse shout of elation as he’d powered into her and she’d been swept up into bliss.

  Yes, pregnancy was definitely a possibility.

  But not, she told herself, probable. And the more she fretted...who knew? Could stress delay her period?

  She needed to take a pregnancy test.

  She wasn’t able to leave the palace, walk into a pharmacy and ask for a test kit. The world would know within hours.

  Instead she’d contacted her best friend and asked her to buy one and send it to her. A courier had arrived with the parcel while Eva had been dressing for the ball. She’d been torn between the need to discover the truth straight away and the knowledge that she’d never maintain the façade of calm she needed at the royal event if she discovered she was pregnant.

  Or if she discovered she wasn’t. Eva was honest enough to realise part of her would be disappointed at the news she wasn’t carrying Paul’s child, despite the complications a baby would create.

  Tonight, as soon as she returned to her suite, she’d take the test.

  Decision made, she stood straighter before the mirror, taking time to smooth a stray lock of hair, fixing it back into the low-set knot behind her head. She smoothed the glittering silver dress with hands that barely trembled. On her head sat the gorgeous tiara Paul had loaned her.

  Wearing this dress and jewellery, she looked the part of Paul’s bride-to-be. All she had to do was keep her composure a little longer and she could escape to her room.

  Eva hadn’t counted on the pair of women gossiping at a side entrance to the ballroom.

  They stood with their backs to her, yet their voices carried down the otherwise deserted corridor.

  ‘Do you think it’s true, that she really was trawling night clubs looking for a one-night stand? That she’s the sort who’s never satisfied with just one man?’

  ‘It’s possible. That photo...’ A shrug of plump shoulders. ‘On the other hand, you noticed what she’s wearing, of course.’

  ‘It’s an amazing gown. I’ll give her that. She dresses well.’

  ‘Not the dress, the tiara. My sister-in-law used to be a lady-in-waiting to the old Queen. If I remember rightly, that’s the tiara she told me about. The one that’s never been worn by anyone but the Queen of Ancilla. Now, I ask you, would he give her that to wear if he knew she was some little tart he can’t trust to keep her legs together?’

  Eva faltered to a stop, stunned. Not by the carelessly vicious gossip but by the news she was apparently wearing something that rightly belonged to the country’s Queen.

  Could it be true? Why would Paul let her wear it in that case? They were du
e to end their engagement soon. Such a gesture could only dredge up more speculation about them.

  Her heart thundered and her skin prickled all over as she tried to make sense of the gesture. But this wasn’t the time or the place. Any minute now, the gossips would turn and see her.

  Too late. Her half-formed thought of heading back the way she’d come died as the women both sank into deep curtseys.

  There, stepping out of the ballroom in front of them, was Paul, the scowl on his face as black as his superbly tailored evening clothes.

  Eva sucked in a deep breath, stunned by the cold fury on his face. She’d seen him look like that only once before, when discussing the man who’d taken advantage of her behind the night club. Then he’d looked as though he’d wanted to commit murder.

  Now she watched his features settle into a mask of glacial calm. He spoke to the women, but so low she didn’t catch his words. An instant later they were hurrying away, heads down, as if glad to escape.

  As they left his eyes caught hers. Heat stole through her and a jangle of emotions stirred. Eva set her shoulders and moved towards him, head up.

  ‘Eva. I...’ He paused as someone spoke to him from inside the ballroom. Then he held out his hand to her. ‘Come. It’s time for our final dance.’

  ‘Then we need to talk.’

  He nodded, holding her eyes. ‘We do, indeed. We have something important to discuss.’

  The rest of the ball alternately flew and dragged by.

  Dancing another waltz in Paul’s arms was a brief, glorious respite from doubt and anxiety. Even the fact that he held her closer than ever, his body moving in sync with hers so deftly they might have been one, was a source of joy rather than dismay. But then came the long, ceremonial process of farewelling their guests.

  Eva didn’t see the two women who’d been talking outside the ballroom. Had they left without saying goodbye, or had Paul ordered them gone?