Just when she thought she couldn’t stand one more minute of it, her face broke into a smile.
‘Dad! Mum! Miranda!’ Breaking free of the posse of primpers, Emily fled across the room towards her family.
‘But, signorina…your veil,’ the designer called after her.
‘Give me a moment, please,’ Emily said, keeping her head firmly buried against her father’s shoulder.
‘Five minutes,’ her father bartered, keeping her close as he encircled Miranda’s shoulders with his other arm. ‘Then you can have her back, I promise.’
There was such quiet determination in his voice that even the highly-strung designer was forced to concede defeat.
Her father sounded just like Alessandro, Emily thought fondly, raising her head to watch the couturier make an imperious signal and lead his group out of the room.
‘There’s still time to change your mind, Emily,’ Miranda whispered, looking around anxiously at their mother, who nodded agreement.
‘It’s not too late,’ her father agreed gruffly. ‘I can have you out of here in a jiffy—’
‘No, Dad,’ Emily insisted firmly. ‘There’s too much at stake here—for everyone concerned. I’m going ahead with it.’
‘Oh, the violin arrived! It is absolutely—’ Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘How could I mention that?’ she asked herself distractedly. ‘When you’re having to put up with all this?’ She made a wild gesture to encompass the various stations dotted around the room set up by hairdressers, beauticians and designers.
‘It’s not so bad,’ Emily teased. ‘No, honestly,’ she said sincerely, catching hold of Miranda’s hand. ‘Nothing would induce me to stay here if I didn’t want to. It’s not so bad living here at the palace with Alessandro.’ She raised her eyebrows a fraction as she looked at her sister.
‘You mean—’ Miranda flashed a glance at their mother and father, who quickly pretended interest in the view outside the window.
‘No, I don’t mean what you’re thinking,’ Emily said softly. ‘But he’s great fun to be with when you get to know him. And he’s so kind.’
‘Is that all?’ Miranda said, sounding disappointed.
‘It was never meant to be anything more,’ Emily pointed out, working at her smile. ‘And you look beautiful,’ she said, desperately trying to turn the direction of the conversation. ‘And Dad, Mum, you look fantastic,’ she added for good measure.
‘You’re absolutely sure about this?’ her father said, looking at her again with concern.
‘Yes,’ Emily said, raising her eyes to his to prove that her composure really was restored. ‘You can call everyone back in again now. I’m ready.’
The ancient cathedral in Ferara was on so vast a scale it might have been built for some lost race of giants. As Emily arrived beneath the towering stone archway that marked the entrance a murmur rose from the congregation like a collective sigh.
‘This situation is about as real as a film,’ her father murmured, echoing Emily’s thoughts. ‘The only difference is, I doubt any of us will be able to forget this once the show’s over.’
‘Courage, Dad,’ Emily replied as she squeezed his arm. ‘We’ll get through this together.’
‘I’m supposed to be supporting you, remember?’ he growled out of the side of his mouth as the opening chord burst from the organ and an angelic choir soared into the first anthem.
Emily was about to move forward when one of the several attendants who had joined the procession from the palace attracted her attention.
‘Signorina, scusami l’ interrruzione,’ he murmured, bowing low. ‘This is an ancient custom in our country. The bride’s flowers are traditionally a wedding gift from the groom’s family.’
‘How lovely,’ Emily said, exchanging her bouquet with a smile.
‘His Serene Highness is most keen that traditions should be upheld,’ the attendant added, backing away from her in a deep bow.
As Emily’s curled her fingers around the slender stems of the roses she knew they were more than a gift. The fragrant arrangement signified the approval of Alessandro’s father, and that mattered to her more than any one of the fabulous wedding presents that had arrived at the palace.
She could not remember ever feeling so keenly aware…so alive. And as she steadied herself for the walk up the aisle she found she could identify each strand of scent—incense, the roses resting in her arms, and the heady mix of countless exclusive perfumes. And above all the dazzling sights and sounds and scents, even though she never looked directly at him once, she was aware of Alessandro, waiting in silence for her at the end of the vast sweep of aisle.
Moving forward, Emily felt the burden of her long train ease as the squad of young train-bearers, chosen from schools in Ferara at her own request, took up the weight. And after a few brief moments of adjustment, when she feared she might lose the priceless tiara as the veil was tugged this way and that, they managed to keep pace with her perfectly.
She walked tall and proud at her father’s side between the massed ranks of European royalty, wearing the slim column of a gown she had insisted upon. Only the splendour of the diamond tiara denoted her rank—that, and the floating pearl-strewn veil that eddied around her like a creamy-white mist. The only real colour was in her cheeks and in the coral-tinted roses her old friend had provided—Christopher Marlowe roses from the palace gardens, with every thorn removed, simply arranged and tied with silk ribbons in the colours of her new country: crimson, blue and gold.
She was aware of her mother in deep blue velvet, and Miranda, ravishing in palest lemon, as well as some other bridesmaids whom she had met only briefly. And then, as the organ sounded a fanfare of celebration, Emily focussed on the long walk ahead of her—the walk to join Alessandro, who stood waiting for her at the foot of the steps to the high altar.
The aisle itself was a work of art, paved in marble and carved by long-dead artisans to such effect that the scenes portrayed appeared more like faded photographs scanned onto the cool surface rather than the painstaking work of supreme craftsmen.
In front of her a vast window of such intense blue it appeared to be backlit by a power even greater than the sun threw splashes of colour across the faces of the dignitaries, some of whom Emily recognised, but she only sensed rather than saw every head turn her way, because her own gaze had found Alessandro’s.
Even though she knew he was entering into marriage with no thought of love or romance, his strength lent her courage, and, seeing a flicker of concern in the eyes of his father, when Emily dropped her curtsey in front of him she smiled reassuringly as he reached forward to bring her to her feet.
Then she was standing next to Alessandro, with every fibre of her being pulsing with awareness…Alessandro, who appeared a daunting figure even in such a setting, where the scale of the building challenged normal perception. She matched her breathing to his, steadying herself, willing herself free of expectation, knowing that if she harboured none she could never be hurt.
But as the ceremony reached its climax a heady sense of destiny overcame her. Too much incense, she told herself firmly. But, whatever happened, she would do her best for the people of Ferara during her tenure as their Princess.
‘You may kiss your bride.’
Reality struck home like a real physical blow. Would he kiss her? Or would he humiliate her in front of everyone? Was this hard for him? Impossible?
Too churned up to interpret anything, let alone the expression in her husband’s eyes, Emily tensed as she waited. She didn’t know what to expect.
He smiled, as if he was trying to imbue her with some of his own confidence. Alessandro, always considerate…thanking her for keeping her part of the bargain, Emily reasoned, wishing against her better judgement that it could be more. She felt his firm lips touch her mouth, pressing against the soft yielding pillow of her lips as she sighed against him—then a chord from the organ broke the spell and he linked her arm firmly through his.
&
nbsp; And they were walking down the aisle together, man and wife, smiling to the left, and then smiling to the right—but never once smiling at each other.
They had their first row on their wedding night.
Elevated to a magnificent suite of rooms adjoining Alessandro’s own, Emily prepared for bed alone. Her head was ringing with the effort of maintaining a front for so long. But at least she could console herself with the knowledge that she had begun to fulfil the requirements of their contract.
Who was she trying to kid? Emily wondered angrily as she sat down in front of the gilt-embossed dressing table mirror. A ceremony couldn’t plug the chasm in her heart, or blot out her certainty that everything she had planned—so carefully, so meticulously—was already falling apart around her ears because she had made the classic mistake of allowing feelings to get in the way.
The fact that Alessandro was a prince didn’t matter at all—the fact that they had a business contract between them rather than a love affair mattered more to her than she could ever have imagined. It hurt like hell, she realised wistfully.
Plucking out the last of the pins holding her hair in place, she allowed it to spill over her shoulders and began to brush it with long, impassioned sweeps.
It was hard to believe she had been naïve enough to think she could simply pick up the pieces of her carefree single life and transfer them to Ferara with the rest of her luggage. Naïve? Her naïvety had been monumental, Emily thought, shaking her head angrily and then tossing the brush aside.
The wedding changed everything she realised, remembering the solemn vows she had made. Alessandro was her husband now, and she was his wife. And with those simple facts came hope, desire, expectation—and, most pressing of all, she thought, ramming her lips together as she tried not to cry, was the need to spend at least your wedding night with your husband.
Once they’d left the cathedral there had hardly been a chance for her to speak to him. And even when they had opened the reception by dancing together there had been constant interruptions. And she hadn’t helped matters, Emily thought, remembering how stiffly she had held herself. There had been a moment when the toasts were made—Alessandro’s hand had closed over her own as they’d sliced through a tier of the wedding cake and she had felt her whole body rebel and strain towards him. But she had clenched her fist over the handle until her knuckles had turned white and hurt…and apart from that—
She started at the knock on the door.
She had sent everyone away, taking the chance, once she had showered, to slip into a clean old top that had somehow found its way into the bottom of her suitcase. It didn’t matter what she looked like. It could only be the maid with some hot milk, she reasoned, hurrying to the door.
‘Alessandro!’
She felt foolish, standing there with bare feet, wearing nothing except an old faded top while her husband looked every bit as resplendent in a simple black silk robe as he had in full dress uniform, with medals and sash of office.
‘I just came to see if you were all right…if you had everything you need,’ he said, appearing not to register her choice of clothes as he scanned her sumptuous quarters as if running a mental inventory.
‘I’m fine,’ Emily replied. ‘Just a little tired.’
‘You looked beautiful today.’ As he turned to look at her his gaze was steady and warm. ‘Thank you, Emily.’
‘It was nothing,’ she lied, forcing a smile. But her glance strayed to his mouth as she remembered his kiss at the culmination of their marriage ceremony…chaste and dutiful maybe, but it still possessed the power to thrill her like no other kiss could ever hope to again. Recklessly she relived it now, briefly, self-indulgently, closing her eyes for just an instant as faint echoes of sensation shimmered through her frame.
‘I think it all went well,’ Alessandro said, breaking into her reverie.
‘Yes,’ she managed tightly. ‘It all went very well. Miranda is in seventh heaven. The violin is everything—’
‘Can we talk about us for a moment?’
His expression was hidden in shadow as he moved away from her towards one of the heavily draped windows, but Emily knew something had upset him. Perhaps he thought the violin too high a price to pay for a woman for whom he felt nothing.
‘There’s no reason why it should be awkward between us—’ he began.
Awkward between them! What the hell was he talking about? Alessandro thought angrily, balling his hands into fists while in his mind the image of some rare bloom overlaid the fever. He swung around to look at her. Petals bruised easily, too easily—
‘Are you all right?’ Emily said, reaching out a hand. Then, remembering her position, she let it fall back again by her side.
He was completely naked under the robe; she was sure of it. Her speech had thickened as erotic possibilities crowded her mind…No one need ever know. They could be lovers and still end the contract as agreed. Just the possibility was a seduction in itself…The walls were twelve feet thick in this part of the old palace, she remembered. And their rooms were interconnecting. Most of the servants were still celebrating at one of the many parties in the palace grounds—she could still hear periodic explosions from the fireworks outside.
‘I’m not aware of any awkwardness between us,’ she said, in an attempt to prolong the conversation, trying not to stare too blatantly at the outline of his hard frame so clear in silhouette as he stood with his back to the window.
She was standing close to him now…close enough to detect the tang of the lemony soap he must have used in the shower. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, then murmured dreamily, ‘Don’t worry, Alessandro. I’m completely at ease—’
She gasped in alarm as his fist hit the wall.
‘“Don’t worry, Alessandro”?’ he mimicked softly, dangerously, and so close to her lips she could feel his warm breath on her face. ‘How can you ask me not to worry? Am I the only one tense here? Don’t lie to me, Emily,’ he warned, pulling back. ‘You’re about as at ease with all this as I am.’
He took a couple of steps away, as if he couldn’t bear to be close to her any more than she could bear to be parted from him.
‘Please don’t waste your breath on innocent protestations,’ he said. ‘I know you’re lying to me. We’re both in this over our heads, and you know it.’
‘We knew what we were getting into—’
‘Oh, did we?’ He cut in sceptically. ‘You’re quite sure about that, are you, Emily? You’re quite sure nothing’s changed between us now that we’re man and wife?’
He had taken the same mental journey she had, Emily realised with surprise. And each nuance in his voice betrayed the fact that he was every bit as disturbed by his thoughts as she was by her own.
‘It’s our wedding night—’
‘So?’ he demanded harshly.
‘My no-sex clause—’ She felt so foolish, so exposed. ‘We could—’
‘Forget it?’ he suggested.
His gently mocking tone nudged her senses until she was unbearably aroused; the wet triangle of lace between her legs stretched taut in the struggle to contain her excitement.
‘I don’t think so, Emily,’ he said harshly.
Every last remaining strand of common sense told her he was right, while her instinct, her desire, every hectic beat of her heart said she would stop at nothing to change his mind…But once the terms of their contract were satisfied he would need to move on, Emily reminded herself. Marry a woman of his own choosing—someone, as he had already intimated, who could shoulder the responsibilities of Ferara as an equal partner. There would be no place for her in Ferara then, so she would just have to find some way to rein in her hunger for that country’s prince sooner rather than later.
Switching on the smile that had served her so well throughout the day, she agreed tonelessly that she did have everything she needed. But, just when she was complimenting herself on the cool way in which she’d handled the situation, Alessandro threw ev
erything into confusion again.
‘I suppose we could do as you suggest—keep the terms of our contract and yet have an affair,’ he suggested bitterly.
There were a few moments of stunned silence, then Emily laughed nervously—as if to show she knew he couldn’t possibly be serious.
‘What do you think, Emily?’
‘What do I think?’
What did she think? She wasn’t incapable of any thought, Emily realised as she watched him caress the door handle. Her belly ached with need for him. She was utterly beguiled by his strength, by the subtlety in his hands and by the strong, flexing power in his fingers…She wanted to know how all that would feel, transferred from hard steel to soft flesh—
‘Well?’ he said harshly.
Could he be serious? Her body seemed to think so.
Even as he watched her eyes darkening, and saw the tip of her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, Alessandro knew it wasn’t enough. Even if Emily agreed, a sexual relationship with his beautiful new wife would only leave him more frustrated than ever. And he wanted more. He wanted much more. He wanted her love. He knew he had to do something…say something…or he might tip them both headlong into a situation from which neither of them would ever recover. He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender.
‘Forgive me, Emily. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m very tired—’
Yes, he was tired, Alessandro acknowledged. He was tired of all the play-acting, tired of pretending he didn’t feel the most urgent need to consummate their marriage and ease the physical torment he was certain now that she felt every bit as much as he did. He longed to make Emily his wife, and in more than name only. He wanted them to be bound together, body and soul, for the rest of their lives.
But the weariness dragging at his mind had another cause, he accepted restlessly as he started to pace the room. What exhausted him the most was the secret he was forced to keep. The secret he bound so close because it was the one thing in the world that could take her away from him. And, in spite of the physical desire that raged through his body, he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—run the risk of losing her.
Married By Christmas Bundle: Anthology Page 51