At least that had dissolved away the last of her residual doubts about Lulu. She could see now that her sister would not have made a good consort to Gianferro—she was far too independent.
And me? What about me? Millie had caught a reflection of herself in one of the silvered mirrors which lined the Throne Room. I am directionless and without a past, and therefore I am the perfect wife for him. The image thrown back at her was a sylph-like figure clad in pure and flowing white satin. In a way, she looked more of a bride on her Coronation day than when she had married—but she had learnt more than one lesson since then, and had toned down her make-up to barely anything.
Yes, her husband revered and respected her, and made love to her, but he was not given to words of love. Not once had he said I love you—not in any language. And Millie was beginning to suspect that was because he simply did not have the capacity for the fairytale kind of love that every woman secretly dreamed of. How could he?
He had been rigidly schooled for the isolating rigours of kingship, and his mother had been torn away from him at such a crucial stage in his development. A mother might have softened the steeliness which lay at the very core of his character—shown him that to love was not a sign of weakness.
Millie had tried from time to time to talk to him on a more intimate level, but she had seen his eyes narrow before he smoothly changed the subject. Don’t even go there, his body language seemed to say. And so she didn’t. Because what choice did she have?
Only in bed, when his appetite was sated—in that brief period of floating in sensation alone before reality snapped back in—did he ever let his guard down, and then it was only fractionally. Then he would touch his lips to her hair almost indulgently, and this would lull her into a sense of expectation which would invariably be smashed.
She wanted him to tell her about his day—to confide in her what his thoughts had been—just as if they were any normal newly-wed couple, but it was like drawing blood from a stone. They weren’t a normal couple, nor ever would be. And he didn’t seem to even want to try to be.
Gianferro was looking at her now, as she hovered uncertainly in the door of his study. It was a gaze laced with affection, it had to be said, but also with slight impatience—for his time was precious and she must never forget that.
‘Yes, Millie?’
She laced her fingers together. ‘You remember on our honeymoon I said that I wanted to learn French?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ He nodded impatiently.
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind.’ She could see his small smile of satisfaction. ‘I think it should be Italian.’
‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.
‘Well, yes. Italian is your first language.’
‘I am fluent in four,’ he said, with a touch of arrogance.
‘It’s your language of choice.’ She looked at him. ‘In bed,’ she added boldly.
His eyes narrowed for just a second before his smile became dismissive. He loved her eagerness and her joy in sex—but did she really imagine that she could come in here at will and tempt him away from affairs of state? Very deliberately he put his pen down in a gesture of closing the subject. ‘Very well. I shall speak to Alesso about selecting you a tutor.’
But something in the cold finality of his eyes made Millie rebel. She tried to imagine herself in one of the luxurious rooms of the Palace, with the finest tutor that money and privilege could provide, and realised it was just going to be more of the same. Isolation. ‘But, if you recall, I said that I would like to learn in a class with other people.’
‘And I think that, if you recall, I hinted that such a scenario would be inappropriate.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is wrong with taking your lessons here, cara?’
Take courage, Millie—he’ll never know unless you tell him. ‘Sometimes I feel a little…lonely, here at the Palace.’ She saw his frown deepen and she hastily amended her words, not wanting him to think that she was spoilt or ungrateful. ‘Oh, I know that you’re busy—of course you are—but…’ Her words tapered off, because she wasn’t quite sure where she was going with them.
‘You are still not with child?’
Millie stared at him and the nagging little feeling of guilt she had been doing her best to quash reared its mocking head. Perhaps a baby was the answer. Maybe she should throw her Pills away and no one would ever be the wiser. ‘N-no.’
‘You wish to consult the Palace obstetrician?’
There was something so chillingly matter-of-fact about his question that hot on the heels of her wavering came rebellion, and Millie bristled. As if a baby would solve everything! As if she was little more than a brood mare! ‘I think it’s early days yet, don’t you?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice reasonable. ‘We’ve only been married for six months.’
He quelled the oddly painful feeling of disappointment. She was right—it was early days indeed. Here was one thing he could not command. An heir would be his just as soon as nature—and fate—decreed it.
‘Yes, that is so,’ he agreed, and gave her a soft smile. ‘What about your horses?’ he questioned, for he had acquired for her two of the finest Andalusian mares that money could buy. ‘Surely they provide adequate amusement for you?’
Millie bristled even more. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but horses do not speak.’
‘Yet the grooms tell me that you communicate with them almost as if they could speak.?
? His voice dipped with pride. ‘That your enthusiasm for all things equine equals the energy you put in to your charity work.’
She knew that in his subtle way he was praising her—telling her that she made a good Queen and that there was plenty to occupy her without her trying to make a life for herself outside the rigid confines of the Palace. She could see that from his point of view it would be so much easier for a tutor to be brought in.