They weren’t worth even a fraction of a penny—she had lost the plot and it was time to get it back. This marriage deal wasn’t off the table, but there wouldn’t be any glimmer of fairy sparkle sprinkled
on it.
She looked up as Deepali approached from across the courtyard. ‘Your meal is ready. The chef has prepared a selection of traditional Goan food—I trust you will enjoy it.’
Sunita managed a smile even as her brain scrambled around in panic, chasing down that stupid, sparkly bit of her that advocated the ringing out of wedding bells. How had this happened? In a little over twenty-four hours he had somehow persuaded her that marriage was not only a possibility but a sparkly one.
Enough. She had to halt this before this fairy tale place wove some sort of magic spell around her—before that stupid sparkly bit inside her grew.
* * *
Frederick studied Sunita’s expression as she looked round the dining room. Her eyes skittered over the colourful prints on the white walls, along the simple wooden table, and he could almost hear her brain whirring.
Deepali entered and put their plates in front of them. ‘Prawn rissoles,’ she said, and Sunita inhaled appreciatively.
‘They smell marvellous—and I’m sure they’ll taste just as good.’
The middle-aged woman smiled. ‘I’ll pass on your kind comments to the chef.’
Once she’d gone, Frederick watched as Sunita studied the rissole with more attention than any food warranted, however appetising.
‘This looks great.’ She popped a forkful into her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘Fabulous! The reason why melt-in-the-mouth is a cliché. Cumin, with perhaps a hint of coriander, and...’
But even as she spoke he knew that her thoughts were elsewhere. There was an almost manic quality to her culinary listing, and he interrupted without compunction.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you avoided my earlier question about what you were thinking.’
Her brown eyes watched him with almost a hint of defiance. ‘I was thinking how surreal this situation is—the idea that two people who don’t know each other at all could contemplate marriage. It’s...mad.’
‘That’s why we’re here—to get to know each other.’
‘We can’t pack that into two days—most people take years.’
‘And there is still a fifty per cent divorce rate.’
‘In which case we are definitely doomed.’
‘Not at all. All those people who take years...they try to fall in love, decide they’ve fallen in love, expect love to last. Every action is dictated by love. They heap pressure on the whole institution of marriage and on themselves. Our approach is based on common sense and on us both getting a deal we think is fair. Two days is more than enough time.’
He leant over and poured wine into her glass.
‘In days gone by it would have been the norm. Throughout Lycander history, rulers made alliances—not love matches.’
‘Does posterity say whether they worked?’
‘Some were more successful than others, but every marriage lasted.’
Until Alphonse had arrived and turned statistics and traditions on their heads.
‘For better or worse?’ Sunita sounded sceptical.
‘I see no reason why we couldn’t be one of the better ones—we’d go in without any ridiculous, unrealistic expectations, with an understanding of what each other is looking for.’
‘I don’t even know what your favourite colour is.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I feel it’s the sort of thing one should know before they marry someone.’