Not Fit for a King?

by Jane Porter

  Or the warm, engaging, challenging Emmeline here? The Emmeline who blushed easily, spoke quickly and responded to his kiss last night with hot, sensual passion?

  Maybe if he was just a man instead of a king, he could choose emotion and passion, but he was a king. And he was responsible for the future of his country.

  He needed a proper princess.

  He needed the right princess.

  And as beautiful as Emmeline was, she didn’t appear to be the right princess after all.

  While he welcomed passion, he needed suitability. He needed predictability. Strength of character.

  And the Emmeline that was here appeared strong, but was it real, or an act?

  And the fact that he didn’t know just nine days before their wedding was a huge red flag.

  How could he afford to risk his country’s future on an enigma? A question mark?

  He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But if he was going to end this, then he needed to do it soon. He’d accept the blame, pay the penalty and be free. The longer he put it off, the worse the repercussions would be.

  In her suite, Hannah felt positively sick. Anxiously she paced the living room, stomach churning, nerves stretched to breaking.

  Zale thought he knew the truth. He thought he knew everything. But he didn’t, and Hannah should have told him.

  She should have confessed who she really was and asked him to forgive her for her part in the deception and then headed to the airport to get a flight home.

  But she hadn’t done that. She’d allowed him to walk away thinking that maybe finally everything would be okay.

  Hannah was still pacing when Lady Andrea gently knocked on the door and opened it. “Your Highness? Your stylists are here to prepare you for your sitting. Shall we get started?”

  Hannah opened her mouth to protest but closed it, knowing she was in too deep now. And the only way she’d get out of this in one piece was for Emmeline to arrive so Hannah could escape.

  “Yes.”

  Nearly three hours after the clash with Zale, Hannah still sat in a chair before the dressing-room mirror, watching Camille, Emmeline’s personal hairstylist for the past seven years, spritz a tiny bit of hairspray on Hannah’s hair to discourage flyaway strands.

  It was all Hannah could do not to wiggle as Camille ran a light, practiced hand over Hannah’s hair, ensuring all the ends hung straight. “No more do-it-yourself color, oui, Princess?” she said, tapping her on the shoulder. “If you want to go darker, or put in streaks, next time ask me. Oui?”

  “Oui,” Hannah agreed, thinking at that point she’d agree to anything just to get the marathon session over. She’d wanted a diversion, but two and a half hours in this chair while Camille colored, cut and then blew her hair dry using a large round brush to make it straight and glossy, was just too much. Hannah rarely did anything special with her hair, and was amazed that Emmeline could tolerate having her hair professionally styled every time she stepped out in public.

  Teresa, Emmeline’s personal makeup artist, had spent a half hour on her face and she moved forward now as Camille stepped back to apply one last coat of mascara and then another dab of soft gold gloss over Hannah’s matte rose lipstick.

  “Perfection!” Teresa murmured, nodding approvingly as both she and Camille critically examined their handiwork, looking for any flaws. “What do you think, Your Highness? Anything you’d like changed?”

  Hannah forced herself to focus on her reflection. Her hair hung straight and very golden—she’d never been this blond in her life—even as her eyes had been subtly lined and lashes darkened to intensify the blue of her eyes. Her lips were full and a discreet golden pink. Her couture gown—the color somewhere between gold and sand—had a deep V neckline and long straight sleeves making Hannah feel unusually sophisticated.

  “Nothing,” Hannah answered, astonished by how much she looked like the real Princess Emmeline.

  Now that her hair had been cut and colored, with her makeup applied by the same deft hand that did Emmeline’s makeup, Hannah truly could pass for the princess.

  If she didn’t know better, even she would think they were twins. “I look … I look …” She searched for the right words to express herself but couldn’t find them.

  “Stunning,” a deep voice said quietly from the doorway, finishing her sentence for her.

  Hannah’s hands clenched the arms of her chair as her gaze met Zale’s in the mirror. He was no longer angry, just somber, but she wasn’t ready to see him. Too much had been said already for one day.

  But he lifted a hand, dismissing the stylists. “We’d like some privacy, please.”

  She swallowed uneasily as they slipped away and the door to the dressing room closed, leaving her alone with him.

  For a long moment after the others left he said nothing. “I was wrong,” he said, breaking the silence. “I handled the situation this morning badly.”

  It was the last thing Hannah had expected him to say. “I don’t suppose you’d ever cancel a meeting for a headache,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Just as I don’t suppose you ever let a headache keep you out of a football game.” “Definitely not. “

  Her lips curved. “You played with pain?” “My job was to play, not sit on the bench.” She’d expected as much. You didn’t become a star midfielder without pain and sacrifice. “So, no excuses.” “No excuses,” he echoed.

  At least on this point, her father would agree with him. Her father was tough—physically and mentally—and he’d raised Hannah to be the same. She wasn’t allowed to make excuses. Always do your best, he’d tell her, no matter what.

  Not that being here, passing herself off as Emmeline, was her best.

  “I can understand why you were so upset with me then,” she added carefully. “But I didn’t this morning. I thought you were being a bully.”

  “A bully?”

  “An unreasonable one.”

  He looked startled and then he smiled, a quick smile that made him real and warm and sexy.

  But she didn’t want to find him sexy. Not if he was Emmeline’s.

  “Have we made a mistake, Emmeline?”

  The quiet question in his deep, softly accented voice shocked her. “What?”

  “I wonder if we’re forcing something we shouldn’t.”

  She looked at him, too stunned to speak.

  “It’s never been easy between us,” he added, leaning against the wall, his big shoulders even broader in the black jacket. His brow furrowed. “I know why I’ve pushed ahead, but why have you? There are a half dozen eligible royals you could marry right now. You could have your pick of any of them—”

  “But I chose to marry you,” she interrupted softly, because Emmeline had chosen him, and while Emmeline might not love Zale, she must want to be Queen of Raguva.

  “Why?”

  “For all the same reasons you chose me—our families approved, our countries would forge a stronger alliance, the next generation would be secure.”

  He sighed and ran a hand along his jaw. “I wish I could believe you.”

  She sat up straighter. “Why can’t you?”

  “Your behavior this past year. The secret weekends with your Argentine boyfriend. The prolonged contract negotiations. Your refusal to spend time with me until now.” His broad shoulders shifted. “One of those alone would give me pause, but all three? I’d be a fool to trust you.”

  She knew he was talking about Emmeline, but at the moment his anger and mistrust felt personal. “You’d be a bigger fool to let me go.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Why would I?”

  “Your country has felt the same economic downturn that the rest of Europe has experienced, but you have big plans to turn the economy around, and those plans hinge on me.” Hannah was grasping at straws now, trying to piece together an argument based on the articles she’d read online about the impact the royal wedding would have on Raguva—increased tourism, greater finan
cial resources, improved clout and visibility. “Since the announcement of our engagement, Raguva’s popularity has skyrocketed. The scenic coast has become the new Riviera, and the public can’t get enough about us and the wedding. The telecast of the ceremony will bring millions to your treasury—” She broke off, drew a quick breath. “Are you willing to throw all that away on a whim?”

  “It’s not a whim. I’ve been concerned about your suitability for a long time.”

  “Then why have you let it go this long? The wedding is in just nine days. The lawyers are here—all five of them. And the portrait artist is out there setting up his easel this very moment.”

  His gaze narrowed. His jaw tightened. He didn’t speak for so long that the uncomfortable silence turned into exquisite tension. “I like confidence in women, Emmeline, but you’re absolutely brazen. You’ve flaunted your boyfriend beneath my nose for months and yet you expect me to just ignore my better judgment and marry you anyway?”

  Heat washed through her, scorching her cheeks, burning her skin. “There is no boyfriend.”

  “Emmeline, I know all about Alejandro. You’ve been together for years.”

  “But that was before we were engaged. We’re not together anymore.”

  He gave her a cool look, features grim. “So how do you explain the photographs of you and Alejandro at the Palm Beach polo match?”

  “You know I attended the match and posed for pictures afterward. It was a charity event and I took pictures with everyone.

  Why aren’t you asking me about the photos I took with the English or Australian teams?”

  “Because you’re not involved with any of their players.”

  “But I’m not involved with anyone anymore. I’m here, engaged to you.”

  “Maybe here in body, but not in spirit.”

  “You don’t know that. You can’t say that!” She fought back. The last thing Hannah wanted was to be responsible for Emmeline and Zale’s relationship. She hadn’t come all this way, or struggled this much, to have Zale break off the engagement here and now. No, if Zale wanted to end the engagement, he had to end it with Emmeline, not with her. And if Emmeline wanted to break things off, then she needed to tell him—in person, which meant she had to get here and sort this out herself.

  Princess Emmeline’s presence was required. Immediately. “You see only my faults and none of my strengths,” she said. “Maybe that’s because your faults outnumber your strengths.”

  “So that’s that? You’ve made up your mind, decided our fate, game over?”

  “You make it sound like I’m an executioner about to take off your head.”

  “It feels like it.”

  “Emmeline!”

  She shook her head. “You’re not giving me a chance.” “I gave you chances—twelve months of them!” “But I’m here. I came. Let’s play the damn game, Zale!” “What does that mean?”

  “It means we’re still early in the match and you’re wanting to pick up the ball and walk off the field. But we have nine days until the ceremony, nine days to figure out what’s real and what’s not. So put the ball down. Give me a chance to play.”

  “And so what do you suggest?”

  “We use this time right now to get to know each other. We make every effort to see if this could work before you make a rushed, and rash, decision.”

  His expression looked skeptical.

  “We commit the next nine days to discovering if we’re compatible. If we are, we marry as planned. If we’re not, we end this amicably.”

  “It sounds reasonable except for one thing. We can’t cancel the wedding at the eleventh hour, not after everyone has traveled at great effort and expense to be here for the event. It would be a public relations nightmare.”

  “Five days, and we’ll make a decision?”

  “Four,” he countered. “Four days should be more than sufficient if we use the time wisely. And then if I’m still not happy in four, it’s over. Done. No more negotiating. Understand?”

  His amber gaze burned into her but Hannah stared straight back, lifting her chin, her expression equally determined. “I understand perfectly, but you should know I’m tough. I play hard. And I’m playing to win.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE moment Zale left the dressing room, Hannah grabbed her phone and tried to call Emmeline.

  The call went straight to Emmeline’s voice mail.

  “You need to get here, Emmeline. Zale is threatening to call the wedding off. Hurry.” Hannah hung up just as Lady Andrea appeared.

  “Your Highness, Monsieur Boucheron, the artist commissioned to do your portrait, is ready.”

  Hannah slipped the phone back into the drawer beside her bed before following Lady Andrea to the Queen’s drawing room where Monsieur Boucheron had set up his easel.

  For the next two hours Hannah sat in the small elegant armless chair holding herself perfectly still as the soft yellow afternoon light illuminated her shoulders and face.

  Lady Andrea, Camille and Teresa hovered in the background as the artist sketched. Every now and then Camille or Teresa would move forward to smooth a strand of hair, or apply a dab of powder to Hannah’s brow or nose.

  But Hannah never moved, or complained, her gaze fixed on a distant point.

  Her calm was an act. Beneath her cool, half smile, she felt wild.

  What if Emmeline was deliberately delaying her flight to Raguva so she could spend more time with her boyfriend? What if Emmeline’s goal all along was to have a long romantic break with this Alejandro?

  Hannah’s hands clenched in her lap. Please don’t let that be the case. Emmeline couldn’t be so selfish—

  “Maybe a break?” The artist suggested, setting down his paintbrush. “Her Highness looks unhappy. Perhaps it’s time for a little stretch?”

  Hannah nodded, and hurried to her room to try to call Emmeline again. This time she got through.

  “I couldn’t understand your message,” Emmeline said, answering immediately. “The reception wasn’t good and the message was broken up—”

  “Are you with Alejandro?” Hannah demanded sharply.

  “What?”

  “You know, your Argentine boyfriend, a member of the polo team.”

  Emmeline exhaled hard. “How do you know?” “Zale. He’s not happy. You have to come now. Today. You have to sort this out before it’s too late.” “You know I’m trying—”

  “No, Emmeline, I don’t know you’re trying. I actually don’t think you’re trying very hard at all, because things are falling apart here—”

  “Things are falling apart here, too!”

  “Zale wants to end the engagement. He doesn’t think you’re compatible.”

  “How can he say that? He’s never spent time with me!”

  “Precisely. If you want to save the marriage, you have to get here quickly, because he’s giving us—well, you—just four days to prove to him that you’re the right one.”

  “Even at the soonest, I won’t be able to get there before morning, so it’s up to you to convince him for the next twenty-four hours that he does want to marry me.”