Rafe didn’t have any trouble eating as he finished whatever meal lay on his plate. But then, he had whathewanted, what her father had promised him. No wonder he could eat, drink and be merry with the rest of them. She brushed away a stray hair that had fallen from her chignon, trying to ignore the sensation of him sitting so close. Gone was the laid-back nonchalance that was Rafe’s signature. Today he vibrated, as if filled with some dark energy. In exquisitely tailored morning dress with a silk tie. His over-long hair cut to a more respectable length, but still swept back from his face in that carelessly messy way as if run through by restless hands. Her fingers had itched to touch those glossy black locks as she’d waited for the kiss in the cathedral. The one that never came. Her first and last opportunity. She’d thought for a fleeting moment that today she could steal something for herself. But life wasn’t like that, not for her. As she’d gazed into his velvet brown eyes, transfixed by the full curve of his lower lips that would claim hers, he’d turned and kissed her cheek. She would never get to know whether his lips were cool or warm, soft or hard. Whether he was passionate or restrained.
She should have been relieved. A kiss wasn’t part of their agreement, even though a kiss was expected, today ofalldays. If hehadkissed her, it wouldn’t really have broken any promises. Now she’d lost her only chance. Though she shouldn’t be thinking of chances or kisses. All she hoped was for the day to be over quickly, so that she could return to her rooms, rid herself of her finery. Grieve this sham of a marriage. And steel herself for the next three days allocated as a pretence of a honeymoon, so the country could believe the lie that this was a love match. To give her people some hope built from the tragedy of the past months. And how could she argue against that? Against any of it when she was the cause of the grief? So she was being bundled up and packed off to some unknown destination where there would be more togetherness than she wished to contemplate. Lise’s cheeks heated and she took a sip of her wine.
‘Your dress is magnificent, Your Majesty.’ The prime minister’s wife smiled at her. It didn’t meet the woman’s eyes. No one’s smile did. Not even Rafe’s when he’d greeted her at the altar and told her she looked beautiful. ‘The colour is a brave choice.’
Brave... Why could no one say what theyreallymeant?
Rafe stilled next to her, put down his knife and fork. Took a swig of his wine.
Minutes prior to the wedding, a press release had identified the designer as one of Lauritania’s finest couturiers. It told the story of the gown with the royal crest and Lauritania’s native flora embroidered in beads and crystals on the skirt. So much encrustation that the gown weighed on her, heavy and oppressive, as if she carried the whole country with her.
‘It was a way of honouring my family since I’m in official mourning.’ The stab of pain above her eye made her wince. She rubbed the aching spot in her temple.
The prime minister’s wife brushed her fingers over her jacket sleeve of lemon-coloured silk. Such a cheery shade, which spoke of celebration. It made a mockery of her family’s deaths.
‘But it’s your wedding.’ The woman rambled on. ‘Surely on today of all days you’re allowed to be a little...brighter. After all, you hope to be a bride only once.’
Lise glanced to another table at Sara Conrad. Her brother’s fiancée. She was wearing black too. How would Sara feel, watching Lise marry today? Being crowned Queen in her place? The guilt gnawed at her, bile rising to her throat. Lise couldn’t celebrate knowing she’d stolen her friend’s future. How could she flaunt her marriage when Sara and her brother had lost the chance of theirs?
She clenched her fists in her lap, her wedding ring on one hand and coronation ring on the other, biting into her flesh.
Rafe leaned forwards. ‘Are your parents still alive, Mrs Hasselbeck?’ His warm hand slid over hers. Squeezed in silent support. The tight band in her head eased a fraction.
The prime minister’s wife straightened in her chair, her mouth pinched and tight. ‘They are, Mr De Villiers.’
The cut was so plain it couldn’t have been a mistake. A few people stopped eating. An uneasy, expectant silence fell over the table.
Rafe’s eyes hardened to stone. Face stern, uncompromising.
‘Pardon?’ He raised one dark eyebrow in a supercilious way. Perfectly regal. Her father wouldn’t have done better.
‘My apologies, Your Majesty.’ Mrs Hasselbeck patted her lips with her white damask napkin, nothing at all apologetic in her demeanour. ‘It’s all so new, I forgot.’
Lise didn’t believe the lie for a minute. How dared the woman? Dismissing Rafe was like dismissing the monarchy itself. Lise opened her mouth to say something, but Rafe cut across her, voice cold as steel.
‘You should have your memory checked. The lapse is troubling. It could mean something serious for the future.’
Those words spoke a clear warning. That Rafe wouldn’t forget or forgive. Lise shivered. This was a side to the man he’d never shown her before. The ruthless businessman, who would do whatever he wanted because he now could.
The woman dropped her gaze, a conciliatory gesture of sorts. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘That’s pleasing to hear,’ he said. The moment passed. The palpable tension settling. People turned away from them and went back to their food and wine. ‘But my message is that with the advantage of having both parents alive you shouldn’t presume to tell anyone who’s recently lost theirs how to mourn.’
A bright kernel of warmth lit Lise’s insides, the words a surprise. She shouldn’t have enjoyed them. He didn’t really care. Rafe simply knew how to play the game of intrigue too well. She couldn’t let her silly heart buy into the fantasy it meant something more. He was experienced, she was an amateur, and she must never forget.
Whatever she might have hoped for, he would never love her. In her relatively brief years on this planet, she’d come to realise no one really did. Her birth had been deemed a necessity born of duty. She’d not been truly wanted and, whilst the King, Queen and Crown Prince had seemed to do much as they’d pleased, she had been required to do what she was told. And even when she’d done that, it had never been enough.
The soft strains of a string quartet began, announcing the bridal waltz. Lise let out a slow breath, let her shoulders slump. The ache in her temples hadn’t gone. She fixed a false smile on her face. Stared out at the crowd.
Lise dreaded this moment. Rafe stood and held out his hand. She placed hers in his. The warmth of it engulfed her own chilled fingers. He stared at her with his dark eyes, almost black in the room aglow for the wedding luncheon. Her pulse whipped to superhuman speed. Her head pounded to the same thready, anxious rhythm as he led her to the dance floor. She needn’t worry, she knew the movements of the waltz. Had suffered through lessons given at her finishing school, when for months all they had seemed to learn was deportment and dancing. She placed one hand lightly on Rafe’s upper arm, the superfine wool of his coat cool and soft under her fingers. The muscles underneath hard and uncompromising. He slid his arm round her back, till his palm sat strong and hot below her shoulder blade. Drawing her to him.
‘Relax,’ he murmured, his voice gentle and enticing. How could she? The space between them too close. She tried concentrating on the elegant knot of his silver tie. The perfect double-breasted waistcoat of pale grey silk. The way the clothes moulded over his strong chest. She looked up at his face, his gaze intent. His all too fascinating lips curved in a half-smile. She could do this, dance with him. Though her breaths seemed short and sharp as if there weren’t enough air in the room. All she needed was to let the man lead. Yet the thought of letting Rafe lead... She had no idea where he’d take her. But the slow, curling slide in her belly took her head to places she didn’t want to go. Revisiting the fantasies she’d once had of being held in his arms, made love to, adored.
He moved, his powerful legs brushing her dress. Carrying her with him. They rose and fell in time with the music, in perfect unity. The warmth radiating from his body seeping into her frozen one. A prickle of awareness singing over her skin. She could smell him, fresh and crisp like the Alpine forests mingled with something darker, a primal thing that sang to every nerve in her body. That made her want to fall into him, soak it into the frigid heart of her. Yet she couldn’t do that, have him draw her close. Rest her tired and aching head on his chest and take some of his strength. She’d made the decision. The lives of her family had been stolen as a result of her actions. She’d devote herself to the Crown. Preparing her country for a time when the monarchy was no longer required. Nothing else mattered. For tonight she needed to straighten her wedding tiara and get on with it.
More people joined in the dance. The prime minister and his wife.Sara.Dancing in the arms of their best man. Looking...happy. Smiling up at Lance whereas the swirling and the sound simply made Lise sick and dizzy. The music too much with the pounding of her head, till the colours blurred and she misstepped.
Rafe steadied her. Stopped. Led her from the floor, drawing her into a quiet corner. Or as quiet as any corner could be with the eyes of three hundred or so people watching them.