‘Well, if anyone did guess,’ she added on a philosophical note, ‘it couldn’t be any more excruciatingly awful than the last time the subject of babies came up at the dinner table.’
His blank expression made it obvious that he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
Beatrice envied his amnesia. She would never, could never, forget the silence around the table that night, when she had responded to a thinly veiled hint when she had refused a glass of wine.
Suddenly everyone had been exchanging knowing glances and saying how very well she looked…positively glowing.
There had been any number of similar moments after the early loss of that first pregnancy where it had been made clear that should she prove to have good childbearing hips all her other shortcomings might be overlooked.
Dante didn’t seem to realise how agonisingly embarrassing she’d found the entire situation. Previous to that night she had risen above the comments, had damped down her hurt over their insensitivity, but on that occasion something inside her had snapped. She had tried to do it Dante’s way, it had been time for hers, and she had always found that the best way to deal with most situations was by being upfront, despite the fact that she’d agreed with Dante up to a point. It hadn’t been anybody’s business, but then no one had been staring at his belly waiting to see a royal bump!
Of course, there had never been any official acknowledgement of her miscarriage, but she’d known that her personal loss was the subject of palace gossip and speculation.
She had tried not to care, to rise above it, but as she’d looked around the table she’d known full well that there wasn’t a single person present who didn’t know the details, a single person who hadn’t discussed her fertility.
Despite her outward composure her voice had shaken a little with the effort to control the surge of emotion inside as, looking at the woman seated opposite her, she’d deliberately pitched her words to reach the entire table as she’d remarked how much she loved children and hoped to have several.
The approving smiles that had followed this group-share announcement had faded when she’d gone on to explain that she would be following her own parents’ example, that she wanted to adopt as well as give birth, but that she didn’t plan on doing either just yet.
By the time she’d finished speaking the entire table had been sitting in shocked silence, broken finally by the King himself, who had announced quite simply that adoption for a member of the royal family was not an option, before proceeding to make a lot of pronouncements about bloodlines and breeding that had made her blood boil before he’d risen and left the table, indicating that the discussion was over.
So Dante hadn’t leapt to her defence. She’d been prepared to cut him some slack as there hadn’t been much opportunity once his father had gone into regal-pronouncement mode.
She hadn’t expected to have Dante intervene on her behalf, she could defend herself, and the first lesson on royal protocol that she had learnt was that you didn’t contradict the King, although she had seen Dante calmly face down his father, with an emphasis on the calm, when it had come to something he’d thought important. Dante had always emerged the victor without raising his voice, no matter how loud his father had got—but this had never happened when there were people present outside the immediate family, as there had been that night.
But she had been quite glad of his silently supportive arm around her shoulders as they’d returned to their apartments. It wasn’t until the door had closed that she’d realised that the arm hadn’t been supportive, more restraining, and Dante had been quite royally unhappy with her.
In fact he’d blamed her for reacting the way she had and making a situation where none had existed.
And now there was a situation.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her now, scanning her face.
‘A bit light-headed, that’s all.’
‘This is not a good idea,’ he said, dragging out one of the ornately carved chairs that were set at intervals along the wall.
‘No,’ Beatrice said, resisting his efforts to push her into it. ‘I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing. I really am fine. Please stop looking at me as though I’m an unexploded time bomb. The baby is fine. I am fine.’
‘You are not fine—you escaped and now you’re back. The doors have closed and locked and you’re wondering what the hell you were thinking of.’ He smiled at her shocked expression. ‘You think I have never felt that way?’
‘You?’
He tipped his dark head and gave a faint twisted smile. ‘I sometimes feel as if the walls are closing in on me.’ His dark eyes lifted to the ornately carved ceiling high above.
‘What do you do?’ she asked, fascinated by the new insight. Did Dante ever think about escaping?
‘I used to escape in your arms, inside you, cara.’
‘Dante?’Her stomach clenched with helpless desire as their eyes met.
He stroked her cheek with one finger. ‘Lately I remind myself that I am here to change things, that I can knock down walls, change mindsets. So long as no one guesses I don’t have a clue what I’m doing I might become a man my son is not too ashamed of.’
She was moved beyond words and for several moments could not speak. ‘You do know what you’re doing,’ she protested indignantly.
‘Do I?’he said, self-mockery gleaming in his eyes. ‘Frankly,’ he continued in the manner of someone making a clean breast of it, ‘it doesn’t matter so long as people think you know what you’re doing.’
She took an impetuous step towards him and almost stumbled. He caught her elbow to steady her, his own heart thudding hard in reaction to the burst of adrenalin in his bloodstream.