by Jane Porter
Uniformed footmen filled their tall, slender flutes with champagne. Zale lifted his flute. “To my princess,” he said, a half smile playing at his lips.
“To my king,” she replied, clinking the rim of her glass to his.
They drank and the champagne’s tiny bubbles fizzed in her mouth and the cold liquid warmed as it went down.
“Have all Raguvian kings married royalty?” Hannah asked, setting her flute back on the table. “Has no one married a … commoner?”
“Only once in the past two hundred years and he gave up his throne to marry her.”
“Why is a blue-blood bride essential?”
“Our monarchy grew out of a tribal kingship that spanned nearly a thousand years, and the Raguvian people have fought hard to preserve the monarchy, although today we are—like Brabant—a constitutional monarchy.”
Hannah knew the differences between monarchies from working for Sheikh Koury.
There were absolute monarchies like those in the Middle East—Brunei, Saudi Arabia, Qatar—and then there were constitutional monarchies like those in Belgium, Sweden, Monaco and the United Kingdom. A constitutional monarchy gave a king power as defined by each country’s constitution.
Her brow furrowed. “Does it actually say in your constitution that you must marry a royal?”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t marry a commoner?” “Not without relinquishing the throne.” “And you wouldn’t do that?” “I could not.”
She noticed his word choice. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Why couldn’t you?”
“I could never be selfish enough to put my needs before that of my country.”
She ran a fingertip around the base of the flute stem, watching the tiny gold bubbles of champagne rise to the surface and pop.
Even if Zale wanted Hannah Smith, he wouldn’t choose her. Even if Zale should love her, he wouldn’t keep her. “Have you ever dated a commoner?” she asked, voice breaking.
“All my girlfriends were commoners.” His lips curled, slightly mocking. “You are my first princess.”
And she wasn’t even a real princess, either.
Her heart grew even heavier during dinner. It didn’t help that when Zale looked at her, she lost track of time. In his eyes there was just now, only now, and right now she was happy. Lucky. Good.
Suddenly Zale was standing and extending his hand to her. “Your Highness,” he said, his smile warming his eyes, warming her, making her feel so very alive. But then, he was so very alive. “May I have this dance?”
She looked up into his lean face with the strong brow, firm mouth and uncompromising chin and a frisson of feeling raced through her. “Yes.”
She rose, putting her hand into his, inhaled as sensation exploded inside her, making her body go hot and cold. Again. He’d done it again. Made her want, made her feel, making her aware of just how much she loved him.
Zale led her toward the dance floor as the orchestra started playing the first notes of an achingly familiar love song she’d played endlessly on her guitar growing up.
“Your favorite song,” Zale murmured as he pulled her into his arms and close to his tall lean frame.
Hot emotion rushed through her. How did he know?
And then as his hand settled low on her back, his warmth scorching her through her thin gown, she remembered he meant Emmeline.
Of course he meant Emmeline. But Emmeline wasn’t coming. It all ended tonight.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe, suffocated by crushing pain.
Early tomorrow morning she’d slip away, leaving him a note. He’d hate her when he found the note. She’d never forgive herself for deceiving him, either.
“You’re a good dancer,” she whispered.
“That’s because you’re my perfect partner.”
Eyes burning, heart on fire, she tipped her head back and was immediately lost in Zale’s eyes. She loved his face. Loved everything about him far too much. “You are full of compliments tonight, Your Majesty.”
He smiled at her. “I’m happy.”
He did look happy. His light brown eyes glowed. “I’m glad.” “Marry me, Emmeline.” “I thought we were?”
“I’m proposing again so we can start over. Start fresh. This isn’t about our families or our countries. This is about us. Will you marry me?”
Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked to clear her vision. “You’re sweeping me off my feet.”
“It’s what I should have done from the beginning.”
“I had no idea you were such a romantic.”
His steady gaze held hers. “So is that a yes, Your Highness? Or do you need time to think about it?”
Her chest ached. How could she say no? How could she ever refuse him anything? “Yes.”
He smiled, a great boyish smile that lit his face and made him look utterly irresistible. “Thank God. For a moment I thought you intended to leave me standing at the altar.”
He was teasing. Trying to be funny. But Hannah shivered, chilled by reality.
Zale felt the goose bumps on her arms and drew her closer.
“Cold?” “A little.”
He held her even more snugly against him and she pressed her cheek closer to his jacket, her ear resting on his chest just above his heart. And remembered Cinderella.
In Cinderella, at the stroke of midnight the magic ended. The glass coach turned back into a pumpkin. Cinderella’s gown became rags. And Cinderella became no one.
The song was ending and Zale lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingers. “Thank you.”
She looked up into his face, that handsome face, which owned every bit of her heart. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes.”
“She was a commoner?” He nodded. “What happened?”
His jaw tightened. “My parents died and I became king.”
She stared up at him. “You gave her up?”
He nodded again and she exhaled in a rush. Tenderly Zale brushed a wisp of hair from her flushed cheek. “It hurt,” he admitted, “but it was meant to be. Because if I hadn’t ended it with her, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Zale saw her cheeks turn pink and her blue eyes deepen, a sheen of tears making the color look like sapphires, a perfect complement to the jewels in her hair and at her ears.
She’d never looked more beautiful, and yet she hadn’t been this emotional, or fragile, since their engagement party. But he understood her exhaustion. It had been a hard night without either of them getting a lot of sleep.
“I see some friends across the room,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go say hello.”
All evening he’d introduced her to different people he thought she should know—members of his cabinet, members of parliament, influential men and women from all over the world. But now he was taking her to old friends, close friends, people Emmeline loved.
Crossing the ballroom they joined the Greek prince, Stavros Kallas, and his bride of one year, the stunning Greek-English heiress, Demi Nowles. Prince Stavros was a first cousin of Zale’s, their mothers were half sisters and Stavros had been a friend of Emmeline’s since childhood.
When Stavros had proposed to Demi Nowles after a whirlwind engagement, no one had been happier than Emmeline who’d socialized with Demi for years. One year they’d been the inseparable dancing duo, hitting every exclusive nightclub on the Continent.
“I do believe you know these two,” Zale said. “Perhaps you should introduce me, Your Highness?”
Emmeline didn’t reply and glancing down at her he saw panic in her eyes.
“Your Highness,” he prompted, gently, teasingly. “If you’d do me the honor …?”
Emmeline smiled, but her features were tight, and her expression looked frozen.
She extended a hand to Prince Stavros. “It’s a pleasure,” she said politely. “Good to see you again.”
Stavros looked at Emmeline’s hand, glanced at Zale and then back at
Emmeline before slowly taking her hand. “Yes,” he agreed uncomfortably. “You look well, Emmeline.”
Zale frowned, and Demi watched the exchange, equally baffled.
For a moment Demi didn’t seem to know what to do and then her expression suddenly cleared. “Oh, Emi, I get it now! You’re making fun of those Americans and their strange manners. You were just there in Palm Beach for that polo tournament. Heard it was quite the crush.”
“Yes, it was,” Emmeline agreed pleasantly. “How long are you here for?”
Silence followed Emmeline’s question, a most awkward silence, and even Demi’s smooth brow furrowed. “Until the wedding, of course,” Demi answered, perplexed. “Unless you’ve decided to replace me as one of your bridesmaids.”
Again there was silence and Zale caught Stavros and Demi exchanging puzzled glances.
Zale reached for Emmeline’s hand. She was trembling. He didn’t understand what was happening.
“No,” Emmeline answered, breaking the excruciating silence. She smiled but she looked alarmingly brittle. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I get married without you at my side?”
Stavros smiled. Demi hugged Emmeline. But Zale wasn’t fooled. Something was wrong with Emmeline.
They moved on, just a short distance from Prince and Princess Kallas. “Are you all right?” Zale asked, his head bent to hers, his voice pitched low.
She swayed on her feet. “I don’t feel well.”
He slipped an arm around her waist to support her weight. “I can see that,” he said, leading her through a narrow door hidden in the ballroom’s ornate white and gold paneling, exiting the ballroom for a small cream room where he swept her into his arms and carried her to a chaise in the corner.
He settled her on the chaise and she lay still with her eyes closed, her lashes black crescents against her pallor. “Do you feel faint?” he asked.
She nodded.
“A little.”
“What can I get for you?” Tears seeped from beneath her lashes. “Nothing.” Zale summoned a footman. “Brandy and water,” he said crisply.
The footman returned quickly and Zale carried the snifter of brandy to Emmeline. “Drink. It’ll help.”
She sat up, brushing away tears and took a sip, gasping a bit as the alcohol burned her throat.
He waited for her to take another sip before standing up. “How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Better.”
But her teeth were chattering and she was still too pale.
Zale slipped his coat off and draped it around her shoulders before moving to stand in front of the fireplace. He stared into the cold hearth. “You didn’t recognize them,” he said bluntly. “You still don’t know who they are.”
She lifted her head, looked at him then, her blue eyes shadowed. “No. I don’t.”
“And you shook Stavros’s hand. He’s a childhood friend.”
“I … embarrassed you.”
“No. That’s not the issue. I just don’t understand. How can you not know them?”
She didn’t answer, her head hung in shame.
But he didn’t want shame. Nor did he want an apology. He wanted answers. “Are you on something? Taking something? Pills … uppers, downers, pain medicine?”
“No.”
“Diet pills, or an appetite suppressant?”
“No.”
“Snorting anything? Smoking anything?” Her head jerked up and she gave him a horrified look. “No!” “Then what?” His voice throbbed with emotion. “What the hell happened in there?”
“I’m tired, Zale. Confused. I haven’t been sleeping much lately—”
“That doesn’t hold up. You always travel. You are a globetrotting royal, never long in the same place.”
“But there’s been so much stress. We’ve had problems and the wedding is just days from now—”
“I don’t buy it. Not from you. You are Emmeline d’Arcy. You thrive on stress. So tell me what happened in there. Tell me why you’re acting like this.”
“I’m telling you but you’re not listening.”
“No. What you’re telling me are lies. I can see it in your face. You haven’t told me the truth yet. And I want the truth.”
Hand trembling, she reached for the brandy, took another sip and then set the glass back down. “Maybe you should sit.”
His temper flared. “I prefer standing.”
She nodded once, a small nod that said nothing and yet everything. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Please,” he groaned impatiently. “Spare me the theatrics.”
Her chin lifted and she looked up at him, expression blank. For a long moment she said nothing and then she shrugged. “I’m not Emmeline.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ZALE gritted his teeth. Not Emmeline? It was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous.
“This isn’t a good time for drama,” he said, striving to stay pleasant, and trying not to think of the three hundred and fifty guests in the ballroom awaiting their return. “We’re throwing a party. A huge fundraiser. Until now it’s been quite a success. Let’s sort this out so we can return—”
“I’m not Emmeline,” she repeated flatly, no emotion anywhere in her voice, her expression equally vacant. “I’m Hannah. Hannah Smith.”
Again he felt that need to laugh but then he saw her face and finally understood she wasn’t joking. She was serious.
Zale abruptly sat down. “What do you mean you’re not Emmeline?”
“I’ve just been pretending,” she whispered, hands clenched into a fist in her lap. “I was doing Emmeline a favor. I was only supposed to be her for a few hours while she went to see friends, but she never came back, and I got onto the plane and then I was here.”
He stared at her in shock.
She’d lost her mind. She needed help. “I’ll get you a doctor,” he said gently. “We’ll get you care—”
“I’m not sick,” she interrupted, her voice low but steady. “Just very foolish. Inexcusably foolish. And I don’t expect you to forgive me, but it’s time you knew the truth.”
She looked up at him, eyes bright, cheeks finally taking on some color. “I’m an American. I work in Dallas as a secretary for an Arab sheikh named Makin Al-Koury—”
“I know Sheikh Al-Koury. He just hosted the Palm Beach Polo Tournament.”
“I organized the event.” She drew a quick breath. “And that’s where I met Her Highness, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy. We were mistaken for each other so often that she requested a meeting with me. The princess needed to take care of something and asked for my help—”
“To impersonate her?”
She nodded. “Her Highness said she would never be able to leave without a disguise, and so she left the hotel as me.” “Where was she going?”