That desire was completely inappropriate, for a multitude of reasons. Vittoria di Sarda was his client, and he never mixed business with pleasure. She was the sister of his little sister’s best friend, which made her pretty much off limits; because when it got messy—and it would get messy—that would make life difficult for Saoirse. And Vittoria was from a completely different world, one where he didn’t belong.
Focus, he reminded himself.
This was business.
‘Izzy loves you,’ he said.
‘And Saoirse loves you.’
He liked the fact that she pronounced his sister’s name properly. Sur-sha. ‘She’s a good kid.’
Vittoria raised an eyebrow. ‘You could have gone to university.’
Not to Edinburgh, where he’d planned to study. They’d lost their mum five months before his A levels, in a car accident; how could he uproot Saoirse and drag her off to a city where she knew nobody and where he’d be too busy studying to spend enough time with her to help her settle in properly? Becoming a teenager was hard enough; he’d wanted to keep things as stable for her as he could, which meant she needed to stay at the home and school she knew. ‘I have a diploma and plenty of professional experience. A degree wouldn’t have added anything.’
‘You put your duty before your own needs,’ she said softly.
His duty to look after Saoirse. There hadn’t been anyone else to do it; their father had died when Saoirse was small and their grandparents had either been very elderly and needing care themselves or had passed away.
But it hadn’t just been duty, and he wanted Vittoria to know that. He’d never seen Saoirse as a burden and he never would. ‘My sister isn’t my duty,’ he said, equally softly. ‘She’s my family.’
Again, there was a fleeting expression in her eyes before the royal mask came back. But it was there for long enough for him to see it and recognise it as wistfulness.
So was Izzy right? Was Vittoria suppressing herself for the sake of duty? Because she loved her family?
Not that it was any of his business.
‘What else is in your dossier?’ she asked.
‘That you’re a patron of several charities.’ Izzy hadn’t been clear about whether Vittoria had chosen them herself or whether their grandfather had chosen them.
And then there was the duty aspect. ‘That you lost your dad when you were young—’ like him ‘—so you’re next in line to the throne and your coronation will be at Christmas,’ he added.
‘Nonno wishes to stand down,’ she said.
‘And how do you feel, becoming the Queen of San Rocello at the age of twenty-eight?’
‘That,’ she said, ‘is irrelevant.’
Echoing his own answer to her. And that told him everything: like him, she’d chosen duty before her own desires. And she’d made that choice for the love of her family.
Though he did need to know how she felt. It would affect the portrait.
Maybe he could try a different tack. But what?
Not her love life. Although the paparazzi had photographed her with several eligible men over the years, she didn’t appear to have a partner. Though Izzy had muttered something dark about their mother, their grandmother and an arranged marriage.
Could someone royal marry for love? Or did they have to marry someone politically suitable?
Not that that was any of his business, either.
‘What were you reading?’ he asked instead.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think I was reading?’
This felt like a test. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, a play? He had no idea what she liked reading, but he definitely had the impression that words were important to her. ‘If you were Izzy, it’d be something frothy. If you were Saoirse, it’d be something political. If you were me...’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Words, words, words,’ he quoted softly.
She laughed. ‘So which of us is Polonius?’
He was pleased she’d picked up the reference. ‘Neither, I hope. Though he did have a point about being true to yourself.’
‘Is that why you take portraits?’
‘People interest me,’ he said.
‘And you read Shakespeare? Or was Hamlet your A level text?’
‘The dossier again?’ he asked.
‘Photography, English Literature, History and History of Art.’ She ticked off his subjects on her fingers.
‘Economics, Maths and History,’ he countered. Subjects perfect for a future queen: a background in tradition, with modern business sensibilities. ‘Mine were pretty much your opposite, though obviously there’s a bit of science in photography—physics and chemistry.’
Chemistry.
That was a stupid word to use. Because it made him think of a different sort of chemistry. The one that made him notice the exact curve of her mouth, the length of her eyelashes, the tilt of her nose.
Focus, he reminded himself again. ‘Would you prefer your official photographer to have a degree?’
‘No. I was wondering if you minded. Four top-grade A levels—you could’ve had your pick of any university.’
He’d be honest with her. ‘I minded a bit when I was eighteen,’ he said. ‘But Saoirse was more important to me. Twelve isn’t a great age to move to a different school, let alone a different city. I still ended up with the career I wanted; the apprenticeship meant I learned my trade hands-on instead of in a lecture room. And my old photography tutor lent me books and invited Saoirse and me over for dinner once a month so I could talk theory with her and discuss composition, while Saoirse did the usual teenage girl things with her daughters. I owe her a lot.’
‘The woman you dedicated your first award to.’
He nodded. And not just because of the tuition. Patty had helped him convince the authorities that he was perfectly capable of looking after Saoirse. Luckily his mum had already taught him how to cook a few simple dishes, so he’d be able to look after himself as a student. His mum had owned the house outright since his dad’s death; and the proceeds of her life insurance meant that he and Saoirse could pay the bills until he was earning a decent salary and could support them both. ‘And if she could see me now, she’d be cross that I was chatting about myself instead of focusing on my subject.’
‘Very diplomatically put,’ she said. ‘I can see why Izzy likes you.’
‘I like Izzy. And she’s safe with me.’
‘I already knew that,’ she said.
‘Because of the dossier?’
‘Because Pietro likes you,’ she corrected.
She’d discussed him with her sister’s security detail?
And then he realised. This was what her life must be like. A series of dossiers, learning about people so you could be politically discreet. Knowing that everything you did, everything you said, would be analysed, and not always correctly. Living your life in the public eye, twenty-four-seven.
Which was exactly why King Vittorio had asked for a traditional portrait, Liam realised. To put across the message that the public face of the monarchy might change, but the monarchy itself would go on.
* * *
Why hadn’t Izzy told her that Liam MacCarthy was gorgeous?
Tall, with dark hair he’d clearly tried to tame today in deference to his royal clients, cornflower-blue eyes and fair skin. And the most beautiful mouth...
She shook herself. Ridiculous. Liam MacCarthy was here to take her portrait, that was all.
Nothing could possibly happen between them. They were from different worlds and she’d learned from Rufus that getting involved with someone not from her own background led to heartbreak.
She ought to just let him get on with this. Let him take the portrait her grandfather wanted, then leave.
But he was the first man in years who’d made her feel a spark. Who’d fenced wi
th her, responded to teasing.
She’d liked his quick wit. The way he’d quoted Shakespeare at her and picked up her veiled references—unlike José, who’d simply looked blank and turned the conversation back to cars.
Liam MacCarthy intrigued her.
Which was exactly why she should be on her utmost regal dignity with him. She couldn’t afford to react to him as a man.
‘Where do you want me?’ The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Oh, no. That sounded like flirting. ‘To sit for the portrait, I mean,’ she added swiftly. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to stand.’
He gave her an assessing look, and heat curled up through her, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to take a range of shots.’
Back to the formal ‘ma’am’.
Of course he wouldn’t call her Rina, the way her sister did—short for Vittorina, her family pet name. He wouldn’t even call her Vittoria. To him, she was Your Royal Highness or ma’am.
Sometimes, protocol really grated on her; yet, at the same time as it made her feel boxed in, she recognised that it protected her.
He directed her to sit, to stand, to change position. He changed the lighting and worked almost in silence. Vittoria felt herself growing more and more twitchy, then her impatience finally burst out. ‘Do all your sittings take this long?’
‘That depends, ma’am, on my subject.’
She met his gaze; he masked it quickly, but for a moment she was sure she could see the same heat in his eyes that she felt pulsing through her.
‘The sitting goes more quickly for both of us if my subject talks to me,’ he said. ‘Like the ones I did of the Shakespearean actors. They declaimed their favourite speeches from their favourite roles.’
Sometimes it felt as if she were playing a role. But she didn’t have any new speeches. ‘So is this where I tell you all about San Rocello, its exports and its history?’
‘You could—but that’s the economist in you talking.’ He paused. ‘Tell me what you love doing. Tell me about your passion.’
Passion. Something else she had to suppress. A queen couldn’t be passionate. A queen needed to be diplomatic and sensible. A royal first and a woman second.
Looking at his mouth, she could imagine it moving in passion, and she had to suppress the sudden shiver of desire.
Things weren’t meant to be this way, and it tipped her off balance. It also made her cross with herself. She’d been trained to react with dignity and calm. A queen-in-waiting. But something about him made her react to him as a woman—something deep and primeval and which she didn’t really understand. She wasn’t sure whether it scared her more or excited her.
What did she say?
She glanced round the room.
Thankfully someone had put a silver bowl of roses on a low table and she seized on them gratefully. ‘Roses,’ she said. ‘They’re my passion.’
‘Sadly, it’s slightly too early in the year for roses, or I’d suggest a few shots by the roses I assume are in the palace gardens,’ he said. ‘But you can tell me about your favourite rose. Describe its colour, its scent, the touch of its petals.’
His voice was husky and incredibly sensual, and her mind was translating his words into something else entirely.
Please don’t let the heat she could feel in her cheeks actually be visible.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Call me Vittoria.’ The words came out before she could stop them.
‘Vittoria,’ he said softly.
And, oh, she could imagine him saying that as he drew her into his arms for a kiss...
She shook herself. ‘I was lying about the roses.’
‘Would I be right in guessing books are your passion?’
Yes, and she didn’t get anywhere near enough time to read. Which made her feel even more trapped and frustrated—but she didn’t want him to guess that. It was private. Something she needed to keep to herself. She shrugged. ‘You saw me reading when you came here.’
‘And the palace has a library?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Show me, Vittoria.’
It wasn’t so much a command as a request. A temptation. She didn’t dare move.
‘When Saoirse was small,’ he said, ‘her favourite story was Beauty and the Beast. She loved the film, too, and she used to sing the soundtrack all the time. Mum and I took her to see the stage show for her birthday when she was seven. I remember, it was a matinee. Not the sort of thing your average thirteen-year-old boy would put up with, but I went because I knew it’d make my mum and my sister happy. She loved every second, and she loved it even more when we went for dinner afterwards and the waitress lowered the lights and came out carrying an ice-cream with a fountain candle. The whole restaurant sang “Happy Birthday” to her.’
The yearning in his eyes as he shared the memory made Vittoria’s heart crack a little.
‘That was a bright spot. And I used to tease her that she should have been called Belle.’ His eyes met hers. ‘And I have a feeling that might be who you really are. The princess who loves stories. The princess whose dream is a castle filled with books.’
He was the first person she’d ever met who’d seen that.
So, instead of ignoring his request, she nodded and beckoned to him to follow her.
Copyright © 2021 by Pamela Brooks
Love Harlequin romance?
DISCOVER.
Be the first to find out about promotions, news and exclusive content!
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Instagram.com/HarlequinBooks
Pinterest.com/HarlequinBooks
ReaderService.com
EXPLORE.
Sign up for the Harlequin e-newsletter and download a free book from any series at
TryHarlequin.com
CONNECT.
Join our Harlequin community to share your thoughts and connect with other romance readers!
Facebook.com/groups/HarlequinConnection
ISBN-13: 9781488073755
From Bridal Designer to Bride
Copyright © 2021 by Kandy Shepherd
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at [email protected].
Harlequin Enterprises ULC
22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.Harlequin.com
From Bridal Designer to Bride Page 17