It would, he told her, be first and foremost a legal contract between them—and anything which went beyond that would have to be negotiated between them.
Their lawyers had thrashed out a long-prenuptial agreement. Lucy had engaged the best lawyer she could afford and she had taken his advice—though she had argued in vain about the clause which stated that should they divorce then the Cacciatore family would get custody of her child.
‘Can they do that?’ she had asked heatedly.
The lawyer had given a rather thin smile. ‘Oh, yes. No contest—though you could try. Though can you see the courts letting you put a royal child with minders—while you carry on flying? These people will get whatever it is they want, make no mistake.’
So that was the deal. If she wanted to keep her child then she must stay married to its father.
And now here she was, on her way to the ceremony in all her bridal finery, with her stomach tied up in knots and feeling none of the joyful expectation of the normal bride.
‘Good heavens,’ breathed her father faintly as their horsedrawn carriage came to a halt in front of the cathedral steps. ‘Just look at all those people!’
There were hordes of them—all waving flags and clutching flowers and cheering—their faces alight with what looked like genuine joy at their first glimpse of the bride.
‘It’ll be okay, Dad,’ Lucy whispered, and squeezed his arm. ‘Just pretend it’s the village church.’
‘I don’t think my imagination is quite that good,’ remarked her father wryly.
Lucy was wearing ivory—which flattered her Titian hair far more than pure white would have done. Anyway, she would have felt a hypocrite wearing white when both families knew she was pregnant—and soon the rest of the world would, too. There would be smug smiles all round, of that she was certain. Hadn’t she scoured newspaper columns herself and done sums on her fingers to work out if a child had been conceived before or after marriage?
Her wedding gown was cut with flattering simplicity—a floor-length dress, its starkness relieved by a mere sprinkling of freshwater pearls sewn into the fabric. Over the top she wore a silk-chiffon overcoat which floated like a cloud in the breeze. Fragrant flowers were woven into her hair, and on her feet were a pair of exquisite high-heeled shoes which brought her almost up to Guido’s nose.
The aisle seemed as long as a runway, yet all she could see were the groom’s dark flashing eyes—a half-smile of what looked like encouragement as she made her way towards him.
‘Are you okay?’ he questioned softly as she joined him at the altar.
His heart was pounding. There had been a part of him which had wondered whether she would actually go through with it. Or just flounce off the island—since no one could have physically stopped her—and try to fight him through the courts for custody of the child. Had she been sensible enough to heed his words and realise that such a battle would have been lost before it had begun? Would that explain her fixed and determined smile? And was she also sensible enough to see that it was possible to make this work?
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Lucy answered politely, discovering that it was easy to squash the haunting demons of bitter regret—if you practised long and hard enough.
She had decided that she was going to behave exactly as a bride should behave, and not let her parents—or herself—down. She was pregnant with Guido’s child, and there were far-reaching repercussions which she had been forced to accept. She was certainly not going to start coming over like a petulant adolescent, sulking because her marriage was not the one she had sometimes dreamed of.
Oh, on the outside it was all those things—and more. Her friends had been in turn envious and disbelieving. For how many women with Lucy’s background ended up marrying a devastatingly handsome prince from a picturesque Mediterranean island? How many would be made a princess the moment the ring was slid onto her finger?
Her schoolfriend, Davina, had voiced what most of the others were feeling. ‘Huh—at least you aren’t going to have to save up for ever for your reception—or your honeymoon!’
Lucy had allowed them all their envy—for pride had let her confide in no one that it was simply a marriage of coincidence. But it had been Lucy who had felt envious. Davina might have a few years of scrimping and saving ahead of her—of making do and pass-me-down baby equipment—but she had a fiancé who adored her, who would do anything in the world if it made her happy.
And that was the difference.
Lucy had Guido—royal and rich and powerful.
And utterly remote.
She stared into his black eyes and saw nothing there other than a
look of quiet triumph and determination.
The ceremony was conducted in French as well as English—in order to satisfy Mardivinian law. And as Guido slipped the slim platinum band on her trembling finger Lucy was aware that her life was never going to be the same again. She had left Lucy Maguire behind at the altar and had become Princess Lucy Jennifer Cacciatore instead.
They emerged from the cathedral to a storm of swirling rose petals and the blinding light of flash-bulbs, which set out in stark relief the banked flowers lining the steps leading down to the waiting carriage.
Once the door had slammed shut on them Guido turned to her. ‘Have I told you how beautiful you look?’ he murmured.
She was feeling like a drooping flower, and not in the least bit beautiful. ‘We’re alone now, Guido,’ she said tetchily. ‘So you can drop the pretence.’
A pulse hammered at his temple. ‘How you test me, Lucy,’ he observed steadily.