From Bridal Designer to Bride

by Kandy Shepherd

  But this was the first time he’d been commissioned to take a royal portrait.

  And he had a fine line to walk. The private secretary had explained that the king wanted a formal portrait of the future queen. Izzy had scoffed. ‘Nonno will want you to take something stuffy, with Rina dolled up in a posh frock, dripping in jewels and wearing a sash.’

  ‘That’s pretty standard stuff for a princess,’ Liam had pointed out.

  ‘And it’s about a century out of date,’ Izzy had grumbled. ‘I hate the way the palace stifles her. The world needs to see the woman behind the tiara.’

  The woman behind the tiara.

  All the press photographs and the paparazzi snaps Liam had seen of Vittoria di Sarda showed a cool, collected and businesslike woman. Perfectly groomed, always with a faint smile. Not quite Mona Lisa, but heading that way. She certainly wasn’t a scatty ball of energy, like her little sister; looking at Izzy, seeing her laugh in his kitchen with his sister and munching toast, anyone would think that she was just another art student rather than a princess. Vittoria, on the other hand, looked every inch a royal.

  The portrait her grandfather wanted would work perfectly well. Vittoria traditionally wore her dark hair in a classic and slightly old-fashioned style that reminded Liam of Grace Kelly; she had a gorgeous bone structure, and arresting violet eyes that reminded him of a young Elizabeth Taylor. She could definitely carry off the traditional pose with posh frock, diamonds and royal regalia.

  But Izzy had also shown him some selfies from her phone, just to prove her own description. ‘See? She looks like sunshine when she smiles.’

  Vittoria di Sarda looked much softer in those candid snaps. Sweeter. She glowed. She didn’t look like the woman who was about to start running a country; she looked approachable and warm.

  He shook himself.

  He shouldn’t be thinking along those lines. Apart from the fact that he’d never get involved with a client, he’d learned the hard way that careers and relationships didn’t mix. He’d already done the raising a family bit, when he was eighteen and Saoirse was twelve; although he’d never regretted his decision to walk away from his place at university to get a job and look after his little sister, ensuring she wasn’t taken into care, his girlfriends had resented the time he’d spent with his sister. Some of them had taken the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ tack when they’d dumped him, but the more honest ones had said they didn’t want to settle down and raise a young teenager when they weren’t much older than that themselves. They’d wanted to go out to parties and have fun, not stay at home. The fact that Saoirse was his only living relative and really important to him had just passed them by.

  Later on, when Saoirse was older and didn’t need him so much, his girlfriends had resented the time he spent on his career. Time spent travelling, or on a shoot, or in his darkroom, or working on a digital image. They couldn’t see the tiny differences on an image that he could, and got fed up hanging around waiting for him.

  Liam was tired of being torn in two and made to feel guilty, so he’d kept all his relationships casual over the last few years. He wanted to focus on his career, on his goal: of becoming the best portrait photographer of his generation.

  And maybe, just maybe, Vittoria di Sarda would be the one to help him get there.

  * * *

  Vittoria finished reading her dossier.

  Liam MacCarthy, photographer and older brother of her little sister Izzy’s best friend. A man who’d turned down a place at university after their mother had been killed, who’d brought up his sister and who still lived with her in London. A nice guy, according to both Izzy and Pietro, Izzy’s bodyguard; it seemed he’d taken Izzy under his wing, too, over the last three years. A man whose actions showed he believed in family and duty, just like hers.

  But this commission to take her official portrait wasn’t nepotism. He was good at his job. Seriously good. His work featured in upmarket magazines and Sunday supplements, and he already had work hanging in the National Portrait Gallery in London. He’d take the kind of portrait her grandfather wanted, and do it well.

  Even so, Vittoria wasn’t looking forward to the sitting. Over the last year, she’d felt more and more stifled at the palace. She was prepared to become queen—since her father’s untimely death in a yachting accident when she was eleven, she’d been pretty much in training to step up to the throne—but her mother and grandmother were pressuring her to make a dynastic marriage before her coronation.

  Once, she’d dreamed of marrying for love. Rufus, the fellow student she’d fallen head over heels for during their MBA year, seemed to feel the same way about her; and he’d loved her for herself, not because she was Princess Vittoria di Sarda of San Rocello. She’d thought he was going to ask her to marry him. Until he’d actually met her family and realised that their life together would be lived on the equivalent of a floodlit stage; Rufus had backed away, saying that he loved her, but he really couldn’t handle the royal lifestyle.

  It had taught Vittoria that love wasn’t compatible with duty. But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to agree to get engaged to José, the son of a Spanish duke that her mother and grandmother had lined up as an eligible suitor. They’d met a few times socially and had absolutely nothing in common. But time—and suitable men—were both running out. She had to make a decision. Sooner, rather than later, with her grandfather wanting to step down at the end of the year.

  If only she could escape for a few days to clear her head. Somewhere she could think things through without any pressure...

  * * *

  The next morning, Liam headed for the Palazzo Reale in the centre of the capital. The palace was a huge Renaissance-era building, built from pale cream stone; its tall windows were flanked with louvred shutters, painted the same cream as the stone. The imposing entrance had marble steps leading up to huge bronze doors.

  Liam re-read the instructions in the email from the Private Secretary, Matteo Battaglia; he went over to the security checkpoint to introduce himself, then went through the security procedure before being escorted to the Private Secretary’s office by one of the guards.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr MacCarthy.’ The Private Secretary shook his hand.

  ‘Buongiorno. Delighted to meet you, too, Signor Battaglia,’ Liam responded.

  Signor Battiglia gave him an approving smile and took him through to the king’s office.

  Liam remembered what Izzy had told him when he’d asked how he should address her family. It was the same as for the English royal family; he should call her grandfather ‘Your Majesty’ and Vittoria ‘Your Royal Highness’ the first time, and then ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’.

  He waited politely for the king to speak.

  ‘Good morning, Mr MacCarthy.’ King Vittorio held out his hand for Liam to shake.

  ‘Buongiorno, Vostro Maestà. Thank you for inviting me here.’

  The royal visage was completely impassive and Liam didn’t have a clue what was going through the king’s head. ‘Princess Isabella speaks highly of you.’

  ‘That’s good to know, sir.’ All this formality made the neck of Liam’s shirt feel tight; Liam rarely wore a suit at work, but today was definitely a suit and tie day. What he really wanted to do was to get his camera out and start work.

  There was a slight twinkle in King Vittorio’s eye when he added, ‘Though Izzy also says your coffee is atrocious.’

  It broke the ice and Liam laughed, relaxing for the first time since he’d walked into the palace. ‘I’m afraid my barista skills aren’t quite up to my darkroom skills, sir.’

  ‘So you’ll be using traditional film rather than digital?’

  Liam was pleased that the king was aware of the difference. ‘A mixture, sir,’ he said. ‘I use a digital camera a lot of the time, but I like analogue. There’s something special about developing a print.’
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br />   ‘Indeed.’ King Vittorio inclined his head. ‘I liked the photographs you took for that article on Shakespearean actors. Quite remarkable how you dressed them all in plain black and yet they still looked like the characters of their most famous roles.’

  And that was enough to finally convince Liam that he’d been given the job on merit and not just because of his little sister’s friendship with Izzy. The king had actually seen his work and liked it. ‘Thank you, sir. I asked them to declaim their favourite speeches and took the shots as they talked. I think a face should always tell the story in a portrait.’

  The king made a noncommittal noise. ‘Let’s take you to Vittoria. She’s waiting for us in the Throne Room. Walk with me,’ he added imperiously.

  Didn’t protocol mean that you had to walk behind a king? Liam wondered. But the king had said to walk with him. Perhaps he could compromise by being half a step behind.

  Liam hauled his tripod and camera over his shoulder and walked through the corridor with the king. The place was amazing and, although he specialised in portraits, there were plenty of little details that made him itch to photograph them. The black and white marble floors, the full-length windows hung with voile curtains, the silk wall hangings. And he’d just bet there was a suite of rooms with a classic enfilade, where the doors between each room were so perfectly aligned that you could see every doorway from one end of the suite. He could just imagine taking a series of portraits of the princess, one in every doorway...

  Then they walked into the Throne Room. The red carpet was so thick that Liam literally sank into it with every step. The walls were hung with red damask silk; the high ceilings were painted in cream and gold, and Venetian gilt and glass chandeliers hung down, glittering. On one wall there was an oil painting of King Vittorio, next to portraits of various others that Liam assumed were former kings; all were set in heavy, ornate gold frames. There was a white marble fireplace with a mirror above it reflecting the chandeliers, and on the mantelshelf sat an ornate ormolu clock flanked by matching candelabra.

  It was all very traditional, and a portrait taken here would send out a very strong message.

  There were two thrones in red velvet on a raised dais at the far end of the room. Sitting on one of the thrones, reading, was a young woman.

  Vittoria di Sarda.

  ‘Vittoria, may I introduce Liam MacCarthy, photographer? Mr MacCarthy, this is my granddaughter, Princess Vittoria,’ King Vittorio said.

  She closed her book, setting it down on the throne next to her, and stood up.

  The press photographs and even Izzy’s snaps hadn’t done her any justice.

  Vittoria di Sarda was absolutely stunning.

  You could drown in the depths of those violet eyes.

  Liam opened his mouth and found himself silenced. Not good. He wanted her to see him as he was: a professional, not some tongue-tied bumbler.

  He’d met lots of beautiful women in his working life, and dated several equally beautiful women in his private life, but none of them had made his pulse race like this.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Vostra Altezza Reale,’ he said, just about managing to string the words together. Thank God Izzy and her bodyguard Pietro had spent the last week schooling his Italian pronunciation and teaching him important phrases. Otherwise he might have accidentally called her a festering slug or something equally terrible instead of ‘Your Royal Highness’.

  ‘My sister’s said a lot about you, Mr MacCarthy,’ she said, offering him her hand to shake.

  His skin tingled where hers touched his, and he didn’t know what to say.

  This was crazy. He wasn’t a talker, as such, but he was always good with his clients, conversing just enough to put them at their ease. If he carried on like this, the portrait he ended up with would be even worse than the stuffy waxwork Izzy was worried he might end up taking.

  He dragged himself together with an effort. ‘Thank you for sparing the time to see me, ma’am.’

  ‘You could hardly take my portrait without me actually being here,’ she pointed out.

  Was she teasing him or irritated by him? He couldn’t tell. That beautiful face was inscrutable.

  Best to play it safe and be businesslike. ‘With your permission, ma’am, I’ll set up my equipment.’ At her nod, he did so in silence, but he kept glancing at her. She was dressed perfectly for the formal, old-fashioned portrait that Vittorio had requested, in a white haute couture gown teamed with a midnight-blue velvet cloak, a sash and a royal badge. Her hair was styled very simply, and she wore a tiara with matching earrings, necklace and bracelet.

  Dripping in diamonds.

  Was that what people wanted from a modern princess? Wealth, haughtiness and an air of distance? Or did they want something warmer, a view of a woman who had something in common with them?

  Liam itched to take a different set of photographs from the one he’d been commissioned to do. To remove the sash and the diamonds, replace them with single pearl earrings and a single-strand pearl necklace, and end up with a softer and sexier look—like Beaton’s 1954 portrait of Elizabeth Taylor or Karsh’s gorgeous 1956 portrait of Grace Kelly.

  Maybe he could talk her into letting him take a second set of portraits. Especially as he’d promised to take one for Izzy.

  Though he wanted to take one for himself, too. He wanted to see the woman behind the tiara. The woman she kept hidden. The woman whose smile was like sunshine.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ King Vittorio said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Give my love to my granddaughter when you’re back in London.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Liam waited until the king had left. Vittoria, while she was waiting for him to finish setting up, had her nose back in her book. He couldn’t resist a quick snap.

  The sound of the shutter alerted her, and she stared at him. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Testing for white balance, ma’am,’ he fibbed.

  ‘I won’t insult you, Mr MacCarthy, by saying that I hope none of the photographs you take today appear anywhere without the prior approval of the palace press office,’ she said coolly.

  She really was a royal, he thought. An ice princess. But he’d like to see more of the woman he thought she might be behind that image. The sister Izzy had described—the woman who’d been sitting lost in a book. That moment had reminded him of his sister, when she was small: how Saoirse had always lost herself in a book, like her favourite fairy tale princess Belle.

  Was that who Vittoria was, behind the tiara?

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Wanting to reassure her, he added, ‘The contract I signed stipulated that all negatives and original files will be the property of the House of di Sarda, to use as you wish, and I’ll be credited with the images.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s get this over with.’

  Interesting, he thought. As a woman who was destined to be a queen, she must surely have grown up very used to having her photograph taken. He couldn’t help wondering: did she, like Izzy, want a different portrait from the one her grandfather had commissioned?

  He looked at her. ‘Once we’ve taken the official portraits, ma’am, would you allow me to take a portrait for Izzy? I mean, Princess Isabella,’ he corrected himself swiftly. He didn’t have the same easy, familiar relationship with this woman that he did with her sister, so he needed to be more formal in the way he referred to Izzy.

  She tipped her head very slightly to one side, and his pulse went up another notch as he realised how beautiful her mouth was. Kissable. He really had to get a grip.

  ‘What does Izzy want?’ Princess Vittoria asked, surprising him with a lapse into informality.

  He was taking a risk, but he caught her fleeting expression and it gave him the courage to be honest. ‘Something that makes you—and I quote—not look like a stuff
ed waxwork.’

  She laughed, and for the first time he saw a glimpse of the sister Izzy adored. At that moment he knew that this was the woman he wanted to photograph, not the official Princess.

  ‘That sounds like Izzy.’ She paused. ‘Your little sister’s best friend.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I’m sure your security team has a dossier on me.’ What did surprise him was that she might have bothered to read it.

  She inclined her head. ‘Let me see. Aged thirty. Never married. Didn’t go to university—but you finished your A levels while looking after your sister, and then you took an apprenticeship.’

  He shrugged. ‘University wasn’t an option. It’s irrelevant.’ But he knew just as much about her, thanks to some research on the internet and a conversation or two with her sister. ‘Did you enjoy studying in London—economics for your first degree and then for your MBA?’

  ‘Toccato,’ she said. ‘You clearly have a dossier on me.’

  ‘I need to know my subjects before I take their portrait,’ he said. ‘The whole point of a portrait is to tell a story. To show the world who you really are.’

  ‘Goodness. That’s frightfully intimidating.’

  He threw the ball back in her court. ‘Only if you have something to hide.’

  ‘Call me Dorianna Grey?’

  There was an edge to her humour.

  He couldn’t work her out. They’d never met before. And yet the way he found himself instinctively responding to her... My dear Lady Disdain. Except Vittoria was a few rungs higher up the social scale than a lady.

  He looked into those stunning violet eyes and, for a second, he couldn’t breathe. And then, shockingly, he realised how much he wanted to kiss her. To feel her mouth against his. To coax a response from her. To kiss her until they were both dizzy.