Because Princess Zabrina had thrown his thoughts into disarray and caused him to feel more than a little apprehensive. And, try as he might, he couldn’t dispel the feeling that he had been short-changed. That he had somehow been misled about what to expect from his future bride.
He had anticipated a little more modesty from the virgin princess. For downcast lids to cover those forest-green eyes—not a challenging stare to be slanted in his direction, which had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He found himself wondering if he had imagined the powerful sizzle of lust which had passed between them. Or had that simply been wishful thinking on his part—because he had looked at her and wanted her and suspected that she wanted him too, because women were never able to resist him? Had he misinterpreted her acerbic response as one of flirtation, when in reality she was genuinely irritated by him—hard as that might be to believe? He curved his lips into an indulgent smile. He would not judge her too harshly. Of course she wouldn’t have been flirting with him—she would have known perfectly well that any such flirtation should be reserved solely for the monarch to whom she was promised.
But in a way, the fact he was having to ask these
questions justified what he was about to do—for what better way to observe his future bride than through the invisible cloak of the humble servant? And when he revealed his true identity to her, he would do it in such a way that could not possibly offend. Even if she was piqued by his elaborate charade, any displeasure would quickly be smoothed away. He would charm her and shower her with the priceless gems he had brought with him and which were currently concealed within his carriage. Because jewels were always a reliable bargaining tool. He had observed the way women behaved with priceless and glittering baubles and doubted his bride-to-be would be any exception.
And he knew this princess was financially astute. Hadn’t she already negotiated a fairly hefty personal settlement for herself within the terms of the marriage contract, which his lawyers had expressed some anxiety about? But her greed did not repel him. Instead, it reassured him. This marriage was nothing but a business deal and the Princess recognised that, too.
He rapped on the door and Silviana opened it. Of course she did. Did he really imagine that Zabrina herself would fling it open and ask him inside? He watched as the servant’s brow creased above the line of her veil, and wondered if she was resisting the desire to curtsey to him. Probably. She knew his true identity but was too well trained to offer anything but a polite nod of greeting. Roman smiled. His equerry had obviously done his job well in warning the staff not to ‘recognise’ him. He glanced across to the other side of the room where a table had been set for dinner, right next to the window and the dusky countryside which was hurtling by. Pale, fragrant roses stood at the centre of the linen cloth and pure white candles had already been lit, casting flickering lights which contrasted with the darkening sky outside.
It was, he realised suddenly, a very romantic scene and now he found himself wondering if that was such a good idea.
Was he worried that temptation would assail him?
‘The Princess will be with you shortly,’ Silviana said. ‘She is getting ready for dinner.’
He nodded, lifting the palm of his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Excellent. You may leave now, Silviana. We will ring the bell when we wish the meal to be served and after that I wish to be alone with the Princess for the rest of the evening.’
She hesitated for no more than a fraction of a moment but Roman had seen it and raised his eyebrows at her in arrogant query.
‘Was there something else, Silviana?’
‘No, no, not at all, Constantin Izvor,’ she said hastily. ‘Please. F-forgive me.’
But Roman barely registered the servant’s stumbled apology or her silent departure. He was much too preoccupied by a growing sense of anticipation—an expectation which was allowed to mount during the thirty long minutes it took for Zabrina to arrive.
He was not used to being kept waiting. Nobody would dare make the King cool his heels in contemplation, and Roman quickly discovered he was not over-fond of the experience. He had often secretly wondered what it would be like to live as an ordinary man but was fast discovering that perhaps he had been guilty of sentimentalising a life of obscurity. Because this was boring—standing to attention while Zabrina took all the time in the world to prepare herself for dinner.
During the hours which had passed since she had closed the door on him earlier, he had allowed himself to fantasise about what she might choose to wear tonight. Was she dressing in one of her fine gowns to dine with him? he wondered, unable to prevent the sudden drying of his mouth. Would the soft rustle of silk precede her, and that tanned skin be complemented by the framing of lavish lace and satin? He felt the heavy beat of desire as he imagined her parading around her bedroom in a variety of different outfits, which banished his boredom just long enough to ensure he was genuinely lost in thought when, eventually, he heard a sound behind him. But there was no rustle of silk or waft of fine perfume as he turned round to survey his future queen.
Roman’s lips parted in disbelief as the Princess entered the salon.
Was this some kind of joke?
She had certainly changed from the embellished dress she’d had on earlier but she had not replaced it with something similarly splendid, or regal. No, she was wearing a pair of what he believed were called ‘sweatpants’, teamed with a loose top which effectively concealed her upper body like some kind of monstrous, flapping tent. She had removed the pins from her hair, too, but the intricate styling had not been replaced by a gratifying fall of lustrous unfettered hair. Instead, the thick brown locks were drawn back in a tight ponytail and she looked...
His brow furrowed. She looked like a woman leaving the gym!
She walked in and saw him and he observed the wariness in her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said, with that same careless tone she’d used last time she’d spoken. ‘You’re here.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t be?’
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘I said I would be eating dinner with you, Your Royal Highness.’
‘So you did. So you did. Well, you’d better stand at ease, I suppose.’ She flopped down onto one of the sofas and Roman noticed her feet were bare and for some reason his disquiet was replaced by a mounting indignation that she should be so studiedly casual in his company. Because although she was ignorant of his royal identity—surely she shouldn’t be so relaxed in the presence of a strange male bodyguard. Surely she shouldn’t be stretching her arms above her head so that he couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sudden pert outlining of her breasts beneath that horrible garment. Instantly, he looked out of the window and gave the darkening sky a searching scrutiny, as if scanning the horizon for potential threats. As if reminding himself that he was supposed to be guarding her and not running his gaze lustfully over her small and perfect body.
‘Are we waiting for something?’ she questioned.
‘Not at all. I shall ring for dinner immediately,’ he said, resenting the implicit order as he found himself noticing the curving sweep of her dark lashes which shuttered those amazing green eyes.
‘You know, I’m almost tempted to ask if we couldn’t have a sandwich or something instead,’ she continued, huffing out a small sigh. ‘At least that way we could cut the evening short.’
Again, people trying to limit the amount of time they spent with him was something Roman wasn’t used to. They usually hung on his every word until he took his leave of them, and he wasn’t enjoying the sensation of knowing she was there under sufferance. No, he wasn’t enjoying it one bit!
‘A casual snack would of course be possible, Your Royal Highness,’ he answered smoothly. ‘Though surely you need to keep your strength up for the long days of celebration and preparation which lie ahead? I am certain that the royal chefs would be deeply disappointed if you didn’t allow them to offer you a range of typical Petrogorian delicacies.’