by Jane Porter
For a moment she just stared up at him, dazed, and then he reached up and began tugging the pins out of her hair one by one. “The public will like you,” he growled, his deep voice humming through her. “The public will love you. You don’t need to be someone you’re not, and you most definitely do not need to be a puppet on a string.” He kept pulling out pins until her thick hair fell over her shoulders in long, loose waves. “This is better,” he said, combing his fingers through the waves. “This is you, and how I like to see you.”
He turned and faced the ladies in the corner. “Do not put her hair up unless Josephine asks for it to be up. Do not apply more makeup than she is comfortable with. Ask her what she wants—do not tell her. Am I clear?”
Josephine was simultaneously awed and horrified. “They will not like me better for that,” she whispered, trying not to smile as she wiped away the lipstick staining his mouth.
He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Maybe not, bella, but I will.”
They were only a few minutes late arriving for the party in the ballroom, and while Alexander had assured her it was an intimate gathering, the fact that they were going to the ballroom spoke volumes.
As the doors opened to admit them, Josephine’s breath caught in her throat, and her fingers tightened on his arm as she was immediately dazzled by the splendor of the grand ballroom. Her appreciative gaze swept the space, trying to process everything she was seeing even as people began bowing to Alexander. Immense chandeliers ran the length of the high ceiling, each dripping with glittering crystals, reflecting shimmering light across the elegant baroque ballroom, enhancing the gold and white scheme where gilt-framed mirrors lined the walls.
“Confidence,” Alexander murmured at her side.
She eased her grip on his arm and forced a smile, trying to block out the sheer number of people filling the room. There were so many people here, and they were all staring. “This is not a small party,” she whispered as his hand slipped to her lower back.
“It’s fewer than three hundred,” he answered under his breath. “Larger than I hoped but small compared to the usual number we host for formal gatherings.” He began introducing her to people, a couple here and a couple there.
She nodded, smiled, and spoke when required, but the entire time she was most conscious of him. His warmth filled her and his fragrance teased her nose. Even though she was uneasy with the sheer number of people present, she felt safe with him, reassured by him at her side. There was something in his touch that made her skin come alive. She loved it. She hated it. He was never supposed to be hers, and yet here she was, being introduced to his court as his bride-to-be.
“You’re doing well,” he murmured when they had a moment to themselves. “You’re quite impressive actually. You’ll be the princess they adore, and before long their queen.”
She glanced up, her gaze meeting his, his irises almost lavender blue in the glittering light. She wanted to tell him she loved him. She wanted him to know how much she cared about him and that she didn’t need the public to love her, as long as he did.
Later, as they mingled, she found herself watching him, and she knew he was also watching her. She could feel his gaze on her, and he made her feel so many things—taut, edgy, physical, desirable.
Tonight, everything in her felt sensitive and alive, especially when he looked at her, as he did just now, his lids lowered and his lovely mouth lifted just so, and she felt that half smile all the way through her, the awareness making her skin warm and her body tingle and ache.
Tonight she felt unbearably feminine, all curves and softness. Her breasts. Her waist. Her hips. Her thighs.
She loved everything about him. She loved the way he moved, she loved watching his hands, loved the width of his shoulders. She watched his eyes, the focus, the intensity, the hint of amusement lurking there in the light blue gaze.
Perhaps she wasn’t a mistake.
Perhaps she was the right bride.
* * *
The party was a success. Photographs of Prince Alexander and his beautiful young fiancée, Josephine Robb, filled the papers, and Josephine could tell from the smiles of the staff that everyone was pleased.
Josephine was pleased, not because the party was a success but because the party was over. She couldn’t wait to escape the palace the next afternoon, retreating almost immediately after lunch for the tower bedroom where she could be alone with her favorite view of the water.
She waved at Alexander’s secretary, Aimee, on the second floor as she hurried up the stairwell, and then she peeked through the open door to the library and saw Alexander there in a chair reading a thick sheath of papers. She nearly spoke to him but then thought better of it because he was lost in thought, and she raced on up, feeling immeasurably lighter and happier.
The formal party was over. The wedding was coming on Saturday, and then soon the spotlight should be off her, and she and Alexander could develop their own routine and their own life together.
She couldn’t wait for them to be a proper family, and she wondered where they’d raise the baby. She was trying to imagine the nursery when she moved too quickly, misjudging the distance between the stone steps. Josephine flung her arm out to brace her fall but it was too late to stop herself, and she screamed as she fell, crying out again as she slammed onto the stairs, the impact knocking the air out of her.
For a moment she lay dazed, and then she pushed herself up into a sitting position. She flexed her hands, tested her legs. Nothing seemed broken. She ached though, with pain in her torso and a wrenched back.
“What happened?” Alexander demanded, charging up the stairs, coming to her side.
“I fell,” she answered, trying not to wince, not wanting to alarm him. “I was distracted and lost in thought and my feet ended up going faster than the rest of me.”
“You could have been seriously hurt,” he said.
“I know. But I wasn’t.” She allowed him to help her to her feet but she frowned at the twinge in her belly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She forced a smile, hiding her pain, thinking now wasn’t the time to be melodramatic. She’d just taken a fall, and by most standards it was a very small fall. She hadn’t even gone down more than five or so stairs. Everything was fine. She was certain everything was fine. “Just a bit stiff from falling. Your stairs are hard,” she added lightly, trying to tease him to ease the tension.
“You shouldn’t be coming up here. It’s a very old staircase, the steps far too narrow and steep. My mother mentioned they were dangerous years ago—”
“I’ve never fallen before, and next time I’ll go more slowly. I promise.”
“There won’t be a next time. The tower is off-limits.”
“Stop it! You’re being ridiculous. I’m fine. Look at me—” She broke off to wiggle her fingers and flex an ankle. “No cuts. Nothing is broken.”
“I’m taking you back to your suite in the palace.”
“You don’t need to take me anywhere, Alexander. I can walk just fine.”
“I’ll feel better if I see you there.”
“Fine.”
He held her hand as they started down, and she could tell by the firm clasp of his fingers that he was trying hard not to lift her up and carry her the rest of the way. She was touched by his concern. It was a little heavy-handed, but he’d always been protective.
She was just about to thank him for his assistance when she felt another twinge in her abdomen, sharper, much sharper than before. Startled, she paused on the step and suddenly she had to look at Alexander. Suddenly she needed to hear from him that everything was okay.
“Something is wrong,” he said roughly. “Don’t tell me everything is fine.”
“It’s pinching on the inside. It’s getting stronger.”
“Where?”
She pu
t her hand on her still-flat belly. “Here,” she whispered, cupping her womb. “Where the baby is.”
He muttered an oath and swung her into his arms. “Let’s get you to your room and we’ll call the doctor from there.”
* * *
She was in bed when the doctor arrived, but she’d been to the bathroom twice because she’d noticed she’d begun spotting. She was trying to contain her panic as she added pads to her panties, trying to tell herself that this was just a little blip and everything would be fine.
But as the doctor drew out the fetal Doppler to listen for a heartbeat, her eyes burned and then filled with tears because she could see from Alexander’s tense expression just how concerned he was.
They were all quiet as the doctor listened. An hour ago she’d been so happy, almost elated that everything she wanted was finally coming together. But now Alexander stood just behind the doctor, silent, watching and waiting.
When the doctor put the Doppler away and made a call for someone at the hospital to bring over an ultrasound, her heart fell.
“You don’t hear anything, do you?” she said, her throat constricting.
“You’re still quite early. It can be difficult listening for a heartbeat with a Doppler. The ultrasound will allow me to have a better view, and we’ll be able to see the heart beat.”
Alexander was thanking him but Josephine closed her eyes and turned her face away, unable to let them see her fear because something was wrong. She felt it. She knew it. From the cramping to the bleeding to the doctor’s nonexpression, the professional kindness intended to mask concern.
The nurse arrived with the equipment in just thirty minutes but the doctor’s silence as he studied the ultrasound image crushed her. She knew.
She knew.
“There is no heartbeat,” he said quietly. “I am so sorry.”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. For a moment she felt as if she’d just vanish into thin air.
There was no heartbeat.
The little life inside her was gone.
She shook her head, and then again, unable to look at the doctor or Alexander. This time when she turned to face the wall, she stayed that way, even after the doctor and his nurse had gone.
She gripped her hands into fists, trying to keep from screaming. This was her fault. All her fault.
“Josephine,” Alexander said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She shrugged him off. “Don’t say anything.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I know what you’re saying to yourself, and it was such a little mistake, such a simple thing.”
“Please go. Please leave.” She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the scalding tears.
“The doctor wants us to go into his office for the procedure he mentioned—”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“I know, and I don’t want you to be put through it, either, but he believes it will be better for you, less risk of an infection.”
“Alexander, no.”
“I hate this, too, cara, but we need to keep you well. We need to do what’s best for you now.”
* * *
The procedure on Wednesday night was horrendous, and Josephine slept in on Thursday, having cried herself to sleep the night before.
She didn’t want breakfast Thursday morning, and she didn’t want to get up, too spent, worn-out, wrung out, cried out. Queen Serena came by her room just before noon to tell her how deeply sorry she was, and shared that she understood Josephine’s grief because she had miscarried, too, and that Josephine should feel free to come to her anytime, for anything.
Josephine got through the short visit without breaking down, but once Serena had gone, she curled into a ball and cried again. The last six weeks had been a gigantic roller coaster and this last drop was too much, too frightening, too heartbreaking.
Worse, there was no reason for Alexander to marry her anymore. He was only marrying her because of the baby, but now that there was no baby he was free.
She’d freed him. That was good, right? Still crying, she threw back her covers and got out of bed. She should go. That’s what she should do. She should just go and put this whole nightmare behind her.
Josephine was in the middle of packing the few things she’d brought with her when Alexander entered her room. From his expression, she knew that someone from her staff had alerted him that Josephine was preparing to leave.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, taking in the clothes she’d put in the pile to leave at the palace and the sarong and blouse and swimsuit she would take back to Greece with her.
She wiped tears away. “I want to see my father. I want to be in my house again.”
“Your father is on his way here for the wedding.”
“We’re not getting married now,” she said, folding another simple blouse. “There is no reason for him to come.”
He crossed the room and closed the door that divided the bedroom from the sitting room where her staff had collected. “You can’t run away every time there is a problem,” he said tersely, facing her. “You have to be stronger than your fear.”
“I think there is some confusion here. I’m not afraid. I’m just no longer necessary, which is why I’m choosing to return home.”
“Not necessary? You’re my fiancée. My intended. My betrothed. We’ve announced it to the world. We’ve celebrated it in style. We have a wedding in two days.”
“It’s a small wedding, a very private wedding. It’s not going to be difficult to cancel it.”
“I don’t understand. I know you’re upset about the miscarriage, but why are you doing this to us?”
“Because there is no us!” she cried, balling up a T-shirt and smashing it against her knees. “There has never been an us. This—” she gestured to him, and then herself “—this has never been about you and me. It’s only been about the baby, and the baby is no more.”
“You are my fiancée. We’re marrying in two days.”
“Why? You don’t need me. You don’t want me. You were only marrying me because I was pregnant, and I’m not pregnant anymore. You’re free. Go! Find Danielle. Or find a new princess. Find someone who wants to be your princess. I never wanted the job.” She rose and stepped over the clothes, wishing she could fling the doors open and escape, but there was no escape here, and there would be no escape, not until she was on her own island, in her own world.
“I am not going to break off our engagement.” His voice was hard, every word sharp and brittle. “I cannot put my father through the humiliation of another broken engagement. It would kill him—”
“He’s going to die anyway!”
“How dare you?” He took an enraged step toward her and then stopped himself. “How dare you disrespect him—”
“I’m not trying to disrespect him, Alexander.” Her voice broke. “I’m trying to save us from disaster. You don’t love me. You desire me. You’ve sexualized me. But there is nothing else for me... There is no real relationship. I’m to be in your bed, and at your side for important appearances, but what else is there for me? Why should I stay? Give me one good reason to stay!” She was almost trembling with emotion, trembling with the need to hear him say he loved her and wanted her above all else—not because she was pregnant and not because this was duty but because he couldn’t live without her. He didn’t want to live without her.
“Because you made a promise,” he ground out, jaw flexed, blue gaze icy. “My father has given us permission, and we have announced our wedding, and I will not disappoint my father again. I refuse to disappoint my father. I will not.”
They weren’t the words she needed. Her eyes burned, filling with tears. “So you’ll trap me and disappoint me.”
“You benefit, cara, you benefit beautifully from this arrangement.”
“No.”
“And there will be children. You will be pregnant again soon—”
“I knew you were not a terribly sensitive man, but your lack of empathy at the moment is astonishing.”
“My lack of empathy? My father is dying—”
“And my child just died.” Her voice broke and she reached up to knock away the tears, hating them and hating him. He had no idea how much he was hurting her. He had no idea how every word he said wounded. “And I appreciate that your father is a king and I am but an ordinary woman, an American at that, but can you please allow me to grieve for what I have lost? Or are you too self-absorbed with duty and your tortured relationship with your father to allow me time to mourn and heal?”
She’d finally effectively silenced him.
He stood there stiffly, features granite hard, no emotion anywhere on his handsome face.
She should have felt a thrill of victory because she knew that finally something she’d said had penetrated his thick skull and the even thicker wall he kept around his emotions. But she hated that it was the miscarriage that should do it. How much better if he’d actually loved her. How much better if he’d been willing to fight for her.
Alexander saw the pain in Josephine’s eyes and her pain unnerved him. She was so open and so vulnerable and he could see what she was feeling—even feel what she was feeling—but the sheer intensity of so much emotion made him shut down and pull even further away.
Emotions had always been problematic for him, but his father’s death was even more challenging because this was his last chance to get it right. This was Alexander’s last chance to try to make amends with a father who had never wanted or needed him. If there ever was a time to be the son Bruno had wanted and needed, it was now. “I am not indifferent,” he said lowly, his voice rough to his own ears. “I am more disappointed than I can say—”
“I don’t believe you.”
He gave her a slight bow. “I’m sorry.”