CHAPTER SEVEN
THEREWERENOprincess lessons the next day. Instead, Clara had to endure two hours of tedium with a world-famous designer who clearly thought she was God’s gift to wedding dresses. An hour of that time was spent acting like a human mannequin while her measurements were taken.
It had been exactly a week since Marcelo had rescued her from her fate and whisked her to Ceres and this was the first time she’d been bored.
No, she admitted. Not bored. Restless.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the moment she’d held her breath in anticipation of Marcelo kissing her. But it had been only a fleeting blink of a moment, passing so quickly she wasn’t even sure whether or not she’d imagined it.
Wishful thinking?
She shivered.
‘Can you keep still?’ the designer scolded.
‘Sorry.’
Focus, she told herself. Consider standing like a mannequin good practice for that evening’s function when she’d have to put her new princess face on.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her mind lurching back to Marcelo. She wondered how he was getting on in Milan, where he’d flown to after breakfast to arrange his own wedding outfit.
When the measurements were done and the designer reached, again, for her bulging portfolio, inspiration to get rid of her struck.
‘How many wedding dresses have you made, in total?’ she asked.
‘I have lost count. About one hundred and three.’
Clara wasn’t quick enough to hide her cackle of laughter. ‘Then you must have a good idea what suits individual women?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why don’t you let your imagination go wild on this dress for me? I definitely want the skirt of the dress to be like a meringue and I don’t want the top part to be heart-shaped...’ Not when she’d had a heart-shaped wedding dress for King Pig. ‘And I’d like to look like a proper princess for the day—a bit like Cinderella when she goes to the ball—but those are my only stipulations. You’re the expert. You must know what will and won’t suit me. Use all your knowledge and experience and create something you think is fit for a princess for me.’
After a bit more cajoling and flattering, the designer finally agreed. By the time she left, she actually seemed excited to be given a free rein. Clara suspected most of the women she created wedding dresses for turned into Bridezilla.
Finally alone, Clara took Bob into the garden for some training, clutching her phone in case Marcelo called or messaged. He’d said he’d be back by lunch. It was almost three p.m.
Being here felt very strange without him. Very strange. And it was strange too how keenly she felt his absence, how her ears had pricked up at every external noise as if it could be him returning, how her stare kept gluing itself to the door waiting for him to throw it open.
There was no sign of him when she went back inside an hour later. Swallowing the icy feeling forming in her heart she went through her phone and selected the playlist she’d spent hours creating, pressed the button indicating the living room and then pressed shuffle. Seconds later, music piped out of the four corners of the room where the staff had rigged up speakers for her.
Where was he?
She’d give it another ten minutes and then call him. With the number of bodyguards who accompanied his every step out of the palace she was sure he was fine, but the icy feeling was spreading.
A song came on that she adored and she sang along, trying even harder to tamp down the icy worry in her chest. The palace beauty team would be here soon to turn her into a princess for the night but there was no sign of her prince.
Where was he?
She sang even louder.
‘Having fun?’
Startled, she spun around and found Marcelo standing at the threshold of the living room wearing one of those snug T-shirts she liked so much matched with a pair of black jeans. His almost black hair was as perfectly coiffured and groomed as it had been when he’d left the castle and just to look at him made her heart bloom with pleasure as well as relief and delight. ‘You’re back!’
The smile on Clara’s face was like no smile Marcelo had been on the receiving end of before. Not from his family. Not from any of his lovers.
No one had ever looked at him like that.