On the day the Crown Prince had been due to marry. The horror that her government could do this to her. Why did she allow it?
‘How convenient.’
‘It is.’ He couldn’t miss the hard edge of anger in her voice then. ‘Rather than wasting money and effort on planning another event. The coronation will occur immediately after.’
This country couldn’t even give her a day of her own. Proof that they had never seen her as an individual. He clenched his jaw. Perhaps he could offer her something for herself.
‘Any preference for an engagement ring?’ The yellow diamond he’d thought of had no place here. There was no sunshine in this room. She was locked in a permanent winter. ‘I was thinking Ceylonese sapphire. The same, unreachable blue of your eyes.’
She hesitated for a heartbeat then shook her head. ‘I need nothing but a signature on the marriage licence. This isn’t a time for celebration.’
‘I understand. But what do youwant?’
He couldn’t mistake the glitter of tears from a woman who by their agreement was denying herself everything she’d desired.
‘A convenient marriage, nothing more.’
He nodded. Unable to say another word lest anger overtake him.
‘Thank you, Rafe.’ The words were breathy and heartfelt. As he looked at her, he saw the Princess she’d been, before her tone hardened and she became his Queen once more. ‘My private secretary will be in touch.’
‘I’ll await his call.’ He stood and bowed. The move stiff and unfamiliar.
Rafe strode out of the study, his footsteps echoing down the marbled halls. He might have agreed to marry Lise, but he refused to honour the rest. He had time now. This was a battle he would win. He’d marry, then execute a fresh plan.
A plan to win his wife.
CHAPTER TWO
LISESTOODINher chambers, surrounded by a small group of women. Her hair, curled into an elegant chignon. Her make-up, perfect. A few ladies straightened the skirt of her wedding dress, adjusted the veil then stood back to admire their handiwork. She shut them all out, refusing to look at herself in the long mirror, as they twittered that she should.
Long ago she’d dreamt of this day. With her mother here, helping her dress. Soothing her nerves...although the Queen had never been particularly motherly or soothing, in Lise’s dreams her parents could be anything she desired. It was what she’d secretly longed for. Love, not cool formality. Devotion, not duty. A time when she envisaged a future full of joy, love and hope.
She doubted that there would be any joy in this place ever again.
‘We’re done here. Please leave me.’
The group bowed and drifted from the room, taking their excited chatter with them. A familiar burn stung her eyes. The make-up artist had applied waterproof mascara, so there was no risk of the hours of hard work being ruined by errant tears, which she’d only ever cry to herself.
Alone.
Her father had said, on the only time he’d confided anything to her, that being monarch was a solitary job. She understood that now. She’d refused even a bridesmaid today. The natural choice would have been Sara, her brother’s fiancée. Her only real friend. Two young women, battling the palace in their own way. But how could she parade Sara down the aisle on the day Sara was meant to be married herself? With the press salivating over any signs of her friend’s grief? It was too much. Lise wouldn’t do it.
Anyhow, this was a job she needed to perform without support. Sure, someone was walking her down the aisle. The prime minister took that starring role. Fitting that he should give her away, having previously dismissed her and her desires, just as her family had.
It didn’t matter now, anyhow. She smoothed trembling hands over the bead-encrusted satin of her dress. A gown Lauritanian seamstresses had worked day and night to complete on time. Her dress theonething about this wedding she’d had any choice in, and even then, the designer had tried to change her mind. But she wouldn’t be swayed. There was nothing to celebrate.
Today was meant to be endured.
A knock sounded at the door. Time to go already? She swallowed the bitter taint rising in her throat and stilled her quivering fingers. ‘Come in.’
The door opened and Albert Thomsen, her private secretary, entered the room dressed in an impeccable dark suit. She wanted to run and fling herself into his arms because if anyone in this place had given her guidance and counsel over the years, it was him.
But queens didn’t run or fling themselves about. So she waited where she was, for him to come to her. He bowed.
‘The prime minister’s on his way.’
‘Thank you, Albert.’ He was a person more like a father than her real father had ever been. A man who’d held his job since the King took the throne. He remained a solid, stable presence since taking over the role as her secretary, easing her into the job. Helping her around any missteps. Praising her minor successes.