‘Oh, it’s the real thing,’ he answered unevenly—because even he couldn’t deny its emotional significance. ‘It was my mother’s engagement ring.’
‘Your mother’s?’ A moment of memory took her right back to a time when he’d caught her crying over her own mother, when he’d offered her a lift to stop the rain getting in her cheap shoes. What wouldn’t she give for a moment like that now—in exchange for all the glittering jewels in the world?
‘A rare Calistan diamond,’ he continued, concentrating on the gem rather than on her question as he prised it from its velvet claws. ‘De-flawless and perfect. You will never wear fake jewellery again, Melissa.’
But a chill passed over her heart as he slid the ring onto her trembling finger. She was about to get married to a man who saw her simply as a commodity—and it occurred to Melissa that she’d never felt so fake in her whole life.
CHAPTER NINE
‘YOU look beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘As beautiful as any bride on her wedding morning.’
Melissa turned round from the mirror to see Casimiro standing in the doorway of her sumptuous suite of palace rooms—a formidable and commanding presence in his Zaffirinthian naval uniform.
Medals gleamed at his chest and the dark livery drew attention to his imposing frame and powerful presence. Her eyes blinked rapidly—as if she still couldn’t quite believe that she was marrying this man and that within a couple of hours they would be man and wife. Or, rather, King and Queen. She kept thinking that in a minute she would wake up and she and Ben would find themselves back in Walton in their tiny apartment with the spluttering shower and the barking dogs outside.
‘You’re…you’re not supposed to be here!’ she stumbled.
He raised his dark brows. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it isn’t traditional for the groom to see his bride on the morning of the wedding!’
‘I hardly think we’re a shining example of traditionalism, do you, Melissa?’ he questioned wryly.
Anxiously, she glanced around. Where were the maids who’d been helping her—scurrying around making unnecessary adjustments to the restrained silk of her wedding suit? ‘Where’s everyone gone?’
‘I sent them away.’
She lifted her eyes to his, aware that the unaccustomed weight of several layers of mascara was making them feel very heavy. ‘Why?’
‘Because I wanted to see you. Before the marriage. Alone.’
Melissa’s heart began beating very fast. She had tried to tell herself that this marriage was wrong on all kinds of levels. When doubts had come to her—mainly in the middle of the night—she had convinced herself that she would be insane not to go through with it. That mainly she was doing it for Ben—so that he wouldn’t be wrenched away from her. So that he wouldn’t grow up as a part-time royal who might one day push her away completely.
But although Ben was a valid enough reason for this marriage—she was doing it for someone else too. For herself. For the stupid craving and yearning part of her which had never stopped loving this man and wanting to know him better. Hoping that once he had slipped the wedding band on her finger he might allow her to see beneath the formidable exterior he presented to the world. Would it be possible to chip away at the ice and maybe rediscover the warmth of the man she had once known? Would he give her that chance? Or had that man disappeared altogether—leaving nothing but this beautiful yet icy shell which stood before her now in his uniform?
‘Why alone?’ she breathed. ‘Are you having…second thoughts?’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’ She searched his face for a glimmer of affection—some kind of regard—but all she could see was a telltale darkening at the depths of the amber eyes. ‘I…I am prepared to go through with it. I want to be a good wife.’
‘How dutiful you sound, Melissa.’
‘Well, isn’t this all about duty?’ she questioned quietly. ‘Yours to your country and mine to my son?’
Her logic took his breath away, for it was a quality he looked for in his advisors but had not expected from her. Hadn’t he expected—and wanted—some kind of soft and melting acquiescence? A very feminine capitulation to the allure of wealth and high office he was offering her and which might have made her show a little more gratitude?
But no. There was nothing soft or melting about Melissa Maguire today. She looked, he thought—like some sort of ice-Queen.
Advised by his aides that a white wedding would be highly inappropriate in the circumstances, instead she wore a muted suit of beaten silver—the colour of some untouched glacier. Mahogany hair had been piled into an intricate confection on top of her head and left unadorned—for she would be crowned during the wedding ceremony itself.
Yet it was her face which startled him. The green eyes were edged in black and her lips gleamed a faint rose-pink colour. A professional make-up artist had been presented with the raw material of this unrefined woman from a small town in England—and a sleek, almost unrecognisable beauty had emerged.
He thought how well she had dealt with the press—doing nothing other than smiling in just about every shot he had seen of her. That and holding their son tightly—who had also looked particularly angelic, even if Melissa had stubbornly refused to have his hair trimmed before the press call.
The photographers had demanded that the couple kiss and then that Casimiro lift up his son—but he had refused both requests. How the hell could he act like a father for the cameras when he didn’t feel remotely like a father inside? Or, indeed, a loving bridegroom.
What he did feel like was a frustrated lover and now he ran his eyes over the slim lines of her silver-clothed body.