by Lynne Graham
Of course, he didn’t want to keep her when she was so ill-qualified for the position of a royal wife. Obviously, he would want a bride with all the accomplishments that he himself took for granted. Like with like worked best even in nature. It didn’t mean that she was something lesser than the male she had married, she reasoned painfully, it only meant that they were too different.
‘Zac’s around here somewhere but I keep on missing him,’ Vitale breathed impatiently, a lean bronzed hand settling to her slender spine as he walked out to the grand foyer where guests stood in clusters served by another army of waiters bearing drinks trays.
An older man intercepted them and urged Vitale to introduce him to his fiancée. ‘Jazz.’
‘Short for?’
‘Jazmine,’ she slotted in with a smile, because it was the first time she had been asked. ‘My father registered my birth and he spelt it with a z rather than an s, which is how I became Jazz.’
‘And a very good friend in the media told me that you’ve known each other since you were children,’ the older man filled in with amusement. ‘That’s one in the eye for your mother,’ he pronounced with satisfaction before passing on.
‘Who was that?’
‘My mother’s younger half-brother, Prince Eduardo.’
‘Your uncle?’ Jazz repeated in surprise.
‘My mother wouldn’t even let him live here after she was crowned. She has always behaved as though she were an only child refusing to share the limelight...’
Jazz’s attention had strayed to the male exiting from a room further down the hall, smoothing down his jacket, running careless fingers through his long black hair, his light eyes bright beneath the lights. ‘Is that Zac?’ she asked abruptly, recognising the resemblance.
Two giggling women, one blonde, one brunette in rather creased ball gowns emerged from the same room only one telling step in the man’s wake.
‘Sì...that’s Zac,’ Vitale confirmed with audible distaste. ‘I wonder what he did with his partner while he was in there.’
A moment later, Zac answered that question for himself. ‘Well, obviously you win. Jazz is amazing and I came alone,’ he spelt out with a surprisingly charismatic grin of acknowledgement. ‘My car is already in transit.’
While the brothers chatted, Jazz wandered off. Her mother-in-law was talking to a bunch of people at the far end of the hall and Jazz tactfully avoided that area.
Vitale rejoined her by sliding his arm round her back and she smiled. ‘So, you won,’ she commented.
‘I set Zac up to fail. I feel a little guilty about doing that now,’ Vitale confided in an undertone. ‘But even so, this evening you have been a triumph of cool and control and I’m proud to be with you.’
Jazz gazed up at him in shock.
Vitale sighed. ‘It needed to be said and I’m sorry that it took my kid brother to say it first,’ he admitted.
‘Who were those women Zac was with?’
‘Willing ladies?’ Vitale suggested.
‘Don’t be so judgemental!’ Jazz urged. ‘Nothing may have happened between them and Zac.’
‘They’re both on my mother’s staff. I’m not in a charitable mood,’ he admitted wryly. ‘In any case, Zac is a player with the morals of an alley cat.’
Recognising that Vitale’s judgemental streak ran to both sexes, Jazz almost laughed. She wondered if he had ever resented his inability to behave the same way. Of course, he had, she decided, of course he must have envied his brothers’ freedom. Zac and Angel had freely chosen their lifestyles but birth had forced a rigid framework of dos and don’ts on Vitale and choice had had nothing to do with it.
‘Did you ever just want to walk away from being royal?’ Jazz asked him as he whirled her onto the dance floor for the opening dance beneath his mother’s freezing gimlet gaze. But the ballroom was so colourful that Jazz was entranced as more and more couples joined them on the floor, the ladies clad in every colour of the rainbow, their dresses swirling gracefully around them, the men elegant in black or white dinner jackets.
‘Frequently when I was a child, more often as an adult,’ Vitale confided, surprising her with that frankness. ‘But a sense of duty to our name must be stamped into my DNA. Although I consider the idea, I know I won’t actually do it.’
And it finally dawned on her that the unhappiness she had sensed in Vitale even as a child had been genuine and that acknowledgement saddened her. Shortly after midnight, soon after the Queen’s regal exit from the ball, Vitale accompanied her up to the door of their apartment and she knew he intended to go and tell the older woman that he was a married man.
‘If you’re going to confront your mother,’ she had argued all the way up the winding staircase. ‘I should come with you.’
‘There’s no reason for you to be subjected to hours of her ranting and raving. For a start, she will initially insist that my having married without her permission makes the ceremony illegal,’ Vitale retorted crisply. ‘I’m used to her hysterics and she won’t even listen until she calms down. Don’t wait up for me.’
Thinking about Vitale poised like a soldier, icily controlled in the face of his Queen’s wrath, made Jazz’s hands clench into angry fists of frustration. She had arrived in Lerovia with an open mind concerning Queen Sofia but that single scene in their bedroom had convinced her that Vitale’s mother was a despotic monster. And she cared, of course she cared, she reflected as she got ready for bed and finally climbed into that bed alone.
She loved Vitale. Oh, she hadn’t matched the word to the feelings before in an effort to protect herself from hurt, but the hurt would come whether she labelled her emotions or not. She loved the male who had lit her candles round her bath, who had held her close all night before they travelled to Lerovia. He was amazingly affectionate when he thought she was safely asleep, she conceded with tender amusement, but wary of demonstrating anything softer during the hours of daylight.
Angel had deemed his younger brother ‘emotionally stunted’, but he had been wrong in that assessment. Vitale bore all the hallmarks of someone damaged in childhood. He had taught himself to hide his emotions, had learned to suppress his pain and his anger to the extent that he barely knew what he felt any more. Yet he was working so hard at protecting her from his horrible mother, she thought fondly before she drifted off to sleep.
Breakfast was served to her in bed late the next morning and her phone already carried a text from Vitale, letting her know that he was attending a board meeting at the bank and would be out most of the day. She ate sparsely, awaiting the nausea that often took hold of her but evidently it was to be one of her good days and she could go for a shower and dress, feeling healthy and normal for once instead of simply pregnant.
Clad in an unpretentious white sundress, she went down the stone steps into the gardens to explore and enjoy the early summer sunshine. She was slightly unnerved to be closely followed by the housekeeper, Adelheid, and introduced to the very large plain-clothed man with her as her bodyguard. Striving to forget that she had company, Jazz went for a walk and then phoned her mum to catch up. She was sitting on a bench beside an ornamental stone fountain when a young woman approached her with a folded note on a silver salver.
‘It is an invitation to lunch from the Queen, Your Highness,’ the woman informed her with a bright smile.
Shock both at the form of address and the explanation of the note engulfed Jazz. Obviously, Vitale had spoken to his mother after the ball and the royal household were now aware that she was a wife rather than a fiancée. Even so, Jazz had expected the Queen to react with rage to the news that her son was married to his red-headed whore rather than a luncheon invite, and she was perplexed, lifting the note from the ludicrous salver and opening it while struggling to control her face.
Yes, she had also noted that the young woman delivering the note had been one of the women who had been in that room the night before with her brother-in-law, Zac. She concentrated, however, on the single s
heet of notepaper and its gracious copperplate written summons and gave her consent to lunching with Vitale’s mother even though she would much have preferred to say no. Vitale would probably want her to say no, but then Jazz was made of much tougher stuff than the man she had married seemed willing to appreciate. Sticks and stones would not break her bones, indeed they only made her stronger. In fact, if she could for once take a little heat off Vitale, Jazz was delighted to take the opportunity.
‘My dear,’ Queen Sofia purred, rising to greet Jazz as if she were a well-loved friend as soon as she entered the imposing dining room with a gleaming table that rejoiced in only two place settings set directly opposite each other. ‘Vitale shared your wonderful news with me.’
And the wonderful news, Jazz learned in disbelief, was that she was pregnant with twins. The Queen also trotted out that old chestnut about the heir and a spare with a straight face. In fact, she seemed to be, at that point, an entirely different woman from the one Jazz had met so unforgettably the day before. Sadly, though, that impression was to be a transitory one.
‘Of course, Vitale has left me to organise the royal wedding,’ the older woman continued smoothly.
‘Wedding?’ Jazz echoed in astonishment.
‘You may legally be married now but for the benefit of our country and the dignity of the family there must be a religious ceremony in which you are seen to get married,’ Queen Sofia clarified. ‘Didn’t my son explain that to you?’
‘No,’ Jazz admitted, thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of a royal wedding.
‘Of course, you probably think it is a great deal of fuss over nothing when you and Vitale will not be together very long,’ the older woman continued in a measured tone of false regret that told Jazz all she needed to know about why she was currently receiving a welcome. ‘But our people expect a wedding and a public holiday in which to celebrate the longevity of the Castiglione family’s rule.’
Jazz was holding her breath after that stabbing little reminder that as a wife she would not be enjoying family longevity. ‘Of course,’ she said flatly, because clearly her private wants and wishes were not to be considered in the balance of royal necessities.
‘We are so fortunate that Vitale married you quickly and that your condition is not obvious yet,’ the Queen carolled in cheerful addition.
My goodness, the prospect of a couple of babies truly transformed Vitale’s mother, Jazz thought limply.
‘Obviously we will announce that a civil ceremony took place in London some weeks ago,’ the older woman assured her. ‘Not that I think these days people will be counting the months of your pregnancy, but it will add to what my PR team regard as the romantic nature of this whole affair.’
‘Romantic?’ Jazz exclaimed, wondering if she would ever work up the nerve to say more than one word back to the Queen.
The Queen waved a dismissive hand. ‘Your low birth. Your having known my son from childhood. His apparent decision to marry out of his class,’ she pronounced with unconcealed distaste. ‘We know that is not the true story. We know he had to marry you but our people will prefer the romantic version—the totally ridiculous idea that he could have fallen madly in love with you!’
Jazz was now pale as death with perspiration beading her short upper lip. She could no more have touched the plate of food in front of her than she could have spread wings and flown out of the window to escape the spite of the woman opposite her. She swallowed hard on her rising nausea, determined not to show weakness or vulnerability. She pushed her food around the plate while the Queen chattered about how very quickly the wedding could be staged and about how she would have Jazz’s measurements taken immediately for her dress. After the meal, she was shown into another room where a dressmaker did exactly that and then she escaped back up to the apartment feeling as battered and bruised as though she had gone ten rounds with a champion boxer.
Jazz now understood exactly why the Queen of Lerovia was willing to make her the reluctant star of a royal wedding. The twins would be Vitale’s heirs and that was seemingly important enough to the Castiglione dynasty to counteract his bride’s notoriously humble beginnings. Jazz tried to comprehend her mother-in-law’s unreservedly practical viewpoint. Vitale could have married a woman who did not conceive or a woman who had other difficulties in that field. Instead his heir and a spare were already on the way. The Queen despised her lowborn daughter-in-law but would tolerate her because Jazz was not in Lerovia to stay. Evidently, Vitale had told his mother the whole truth about his marriage and Jazz could not work out why she felt so wounded and betrayed by that reality when she had urged him to do exactly that.
There were no more secrets now and it was better that way, she told herself over a lonely dinner. The Queen would throw no more tantrums and would play along for the sake of appearances until Vitale and Jazz broke up. Everyone could now relax—everyone could be happy.
* * *
‘You’re having a bad dream... Wake up!’ Vitale shook her shoulder.
In the darkness, Jazz blinked rapidly, extracted from a nightmare in which she was fleeing from some menace in a haunted castle remarkably similar to Vitale’s home. ‘I’m fine,’ she whispered shakily. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Midnight.’ His lean, powerful body perfectly aligned to hers. ‘I let you down by not being here. I didn’t expect my mother to invite you for lunch. I told her to stay out of my life. What the hell is she playing at?’ he demanded in furious frustration.
‘She’s crowing about the twins.’ Jazz sighed, drowsily stretching back into the reassuring heat of him. ‘And organising a royal wedding.’
‘You should never have joined her for lunch,’ Vitale declared rawly. ‘You should’ve said you were ill and left me to deal with her.’
‘I managed. It was OK,’ Jazz lied.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Vitale admitted, flipping her over onto her back and leaning over her, his lean, darkly beautiful face shadowed by moonlight into intriguing hard edges and hollows. ‘She would’ve been poisonous. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid!’
‘For goodness’ sake...’ Jazz faltered as he stretched over and switched on the light to stare down at her accusingly. ‘She was a bit bitchy, little jibes...you know...’
‘Of course I know,’ Vitale asserted grimly, his strong jaw clenching hard. ‘I’ve seen her in action many times when she wants to punish those who have crossed her. What did she say to you?’
‘Nothing that wasn’t the truth,’ Jazz dismissed. ‘That you had to marry me. Well, can’t argue with that.’
Vitale swore long and low in Italian. ‘Don’t you understand that that is why I want you to stay away from her at all costs? I refuse to have you exposed to her malice.’
‘It really doesn’t matter to me,’ Jazz fibbed with pride. ‘It’s not as if I’m going to be living here under her roof for ever, so I don’t care what she thinks of me or what she says to me.’
‘I care,’ Vitale ground out fiercely, thinking of what he had learned about himself after he had forced out the admission to his mother that his marriage was not to be of the permanent variety. ‘I care a great deal.’
‘Why are you in such a mood?’ Jazz asked, running a teasing pale hand down over his bare bronzed chest, feeling him tense against her, watching his eyes flare with luminous revealing gold.
‘I’m convinced you’re a witch, moglie mia,’ Vitale growled, his passionate mouth crashing down hungrily on hers.
Smiling inside herself, Jazz slid like a temptress along the long, taut and fully aroused length of him and, returning that kiss with equal heat, concluded the awkward conversation.
* * *
Three weeks later, Queen Sofia had the last laugh, after all, Jazz conceded as she watched her six bridesmaids fuss over her train and her veil, both of which demanded considerable attention due to their length and ornate decoration. Less was not more in the Queen’s parlance, but Jazz had picked her favourite of the options presented t
o her. The pressure of starring as the leading light in a royal wedding sat heavily on her shoulders and it was several days since she had enjoyed a decent night of sleep.
It was a fairy-tale wedding gown and very sophisticated. It was composed of tulle and glitter net with a strapless dropped-waist bodice adorned with metallic embroidered lace. The neckline and waistline were richly beaded with pearls, crystals and rhinestones. Exquisite and stylish, the draped full skirt glittered with delicately beaded lace appliques. The veil was full length and fashioned of intricate handmade lace.
The bridesmaids, however, were a cruel plunge of a knife into Jazz’s still beating heart. The file of bridal candidates she had hidden in the bottom of her lingerie drawer were all fully present and correct in the bridesmaids. So, naturally, Jazz was studying them, listening to their chatter, struggling to work out which one Vitale would eventually marry for real. Would it be Elena, who never ever shut up? Carlotta, who out of envy could barely bring herself to look at Jazz? Or Luciana, who either didn’t speak any English or who didn’t want to be forced to speak to the bride? Or one of the other three young women, all bright and beautiful and perfect?
The organ music in the cathedral swelled and Jazz walked down the aisle on the arm of Vitale’s uncle, Prince Eduardo. Her family were present but her mother had shrunk from such public exposure when her daughter had asked her to walk her down the aisle, so the Queen had, once again, got her wish and had co-opted her brother into the role of giving away the bride.
Jazz was troubled by having to go through a religious service when her marriage was already destined to end in divorce but nobody had asked Jazz how she felt about taking such vows in church and she suspected that nobody would be the least interested in her moral objections. There was no fakery in her heart, nothing false about her feelings, she reminded herself resolutely as she knelt down before the Cardinal in his imposing scarlet robes.
Disconcertingly, Vitale chose that same moment to cover her hand with his and she turned her head to look at his lean, darkly handsome face, her heart jumping behind her breastbone, her tummy fluttering with butterflies while she marvelled at the compelling power of that sidewise glance of his and the curling lashes darker and more lush than her own false ones. His wide sensual mouth curled into a faint smile and she thought, Why is he smiling? and only then did she remember that there were cameras on them both and quite deliberately Jazz beamed back at him, doing what was expected of her, fearful of the misery inside her showing on the outside and equally fearful of doing the wrong thing.