The Future King's Bride

by Sharon Kendrick

  And she did.

  How could she fail to love the man who had awoken the woman in her in every way that counted and set her free? She had been living in a two-dimensional world before Gianferro had stormed in with such vibrant and pulsating life.

  He had taken her and transformed her—moulded her into his Queen and his wife. At least externally he had. Inside she was aware of her own vulnerability—of a great, aching realisation that he would never return the love she felt for him.

  Sometimes she looked at him in bed at night, when he was sleeping, and could scarcely believe that he was hers. Well, in so much as someone like Gianferro could be anyone’s.

  He was everything a man should and could be—strong and proud and intelligent, with a sensuality which seemed to shimmer off him. The leader of the pack—and weren’t all women programmed to desire the undisputed leader? Especially as he treated her like…well, like a princess, she supposed. Except that she wasn’t. Not any more. She was now the Queen.

  The Coronation had been terrifying—the glittering crown which had been placed on her head at the solemn moment had seemed almost as heavy as she was. But at least she had been expecting it—had been warned about the weight of it—and Alesso had suggested she practise walking around the apartments with it on her head.

  ‘It takes a little getting used to—the wearing of a crown, Your Serene Majesty.’

  It had seemed more than a little bizarre to be wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a priceless heirloom on her head! Millie’s eyes had widened. ‘It weighs a ton!’ she’d exclaimed, as she had lowered it onto her blonde hair.

  ‘Do not tilt your head so. Yes, that is better. Now, practise sitting down on the throne, Your Majesty,’ he had instructed, and Millie had falteringly obeyed, feeling like one of those women who had to carry their crops home on top of their heads!

  At least she hadn’t let anyone down on the big day—herself included. The newspapers had praised the ‘refreshing innocence’ of the new young Queen, and Millie had stared unblinkingly at the photographs.

  Was that really her?

  To Millie herself she seemed to resemble a startled young deer which had just heard a gunshot deep in the forest. Her eyes looked huge and her mouth unsmiling. But then she had been coached in that, too. It was a solemn occasion—heralded by the death of the old King—not a laughing matter.

  Afterwards, of course, there had been celebrations in the Palace, and Millie had overheard Lulu exclaiming, ‘I can’t believe I’m sister to a queen!’ and had seen Gianferro’s brief and disapproving frown.

  At least that had dissolved away the last of her residual doubts about Lulu. She could see now that her sister would not have made a good consort to Gianferro—she was far too independent.

  And me? What about me? Millie had caught a reflection of herself in one of the silvered mirrors which lined the Throne Room. I am directionless and without a past, and therefore I am the perfect wife for him. The image thrown back at her was a sylph-like figure clad in pure and flowing white satin. In a way, she looked more of a bride on her Coronation day than when she had married—but she had learnt more than one lesson since then, and had toned down her make-up to barely anything.

  Yes, her husband revered and respected her, and made love to her, but he was not given to words of love. Not once had he said I love you—not in any language. And Millie was beginning to suspect that was because he simply did not have the capacity for the fairytale kind of love that every woman secretly dreamed of. How could he?

  He had been rigidly schooled for the isolating rigours of kingship, and his mother had been torn away from him at such a crucial stage in his development. A mother might have softened the steeliness which lay at the very core of his character—shown him that to love was not a sign of weakness.

  Millie had tried from time to time to talk to him on a more intimate level, but she had seen his eyes narrow before he smoothly changed the subject. Don’t even go there, his body language seemed to say. And so she didn’t. Because what choice did she have?

  Only in bed, when his appetite was sated—in that brief period of floating in sensation alone before reality snapped back in—did he ever let his guard down, and then it was only fractionally. Then he would touch his lips to her hair almost indulgently, and this would lull her into a sense of expectation which would invariably be smashed.

  She wanted him to tell her about his day—to confide in her what his thoughts had been—just as if they were any normal newly-wed couple, but it was like drawing blood from a stone. They weren’t a normal couple, nor ever would be. And he didn’t seem to even want to try to be.

  Gianferro was looking at her now, as she hovered uncertainly in the door of his study. It was a gaze laced with affection, it had to be said, but also with slight impatience—for his time was precious and she must never forget that.

  ‘Yes, Millie?’

  She laced her fingers together. ‘You remember on our honeymoon I said that I wanted to learn French?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ He nodded impatiently.

  ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind.’ She could see his small smile of satisfaction. ‘I think it should be Italian.’

  ‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.

  ‘Well, yes. Italian is your first language.’

  ‘I am fluent in four,’ he said, with a touch of arrogance.

  ‘It’s your language of choice.’ She looked at him. ‘In bed,’ she added boldly.

  His eyes narrowed for just a second before his smile became dismissive. He loved her eagerness and her joy in sex—but did she really imagine that she could come in here at will and tempt him away from affairs of state? Very deliberately he put his pen down in a gesture of closing the subject. ‘Very well. I shall speak to Alesso about selecting you a tutor.’

  But something in the cold finality of his eyes made Millie rebel. She tried to imagine herself in one of the luxurious rooms of the Palace, with the finest tutor that money and privilege could provide, and realised it was just going to be more of the same. Isolation. ‘But, if you recall, I said that I would like to learn in a class with other people.’

  ‘And I think that, if you recall, I hinted that such a scenario would be inappropriate.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is wrong with taking your lessons here, cara?’

  Take courage, Millie—he’ll never know unless you tell him. ‘Sometimes I feel a little…lonely, here at the Palace.’ She saw his frown deepen and she hastily amended her words, not wanting him to think that she was spoilt or ungrateful. ‘Oh, I know that you’re busy—of course you are—but…’ Her words tapered off, because she wasn’t quite sure where she was going with them.

  ‘You are still not with child?’

  Millie stared at him and the nagging little feeling of guilt she had been doing her best to quash reared its mocking head. Perhaps a baby was the answer. Maybe she should throw her Pills away and no one would ever be the wiser. ‘N-no.’

  ‘You wish to consult the Palace obstetrician?’

  There was something so chillingly matter-of-fact about his question that hot on the heels of her wavering came rebellion, and Millie bristled. As if a baby would solve everything! As if she was little more than a brood mare! ‘I think it’s early days yet, don’t you?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice reasonable. ‘We’ve only been married for six months.’

  He quelled the oddly painful feeling of disappointment. She was right—it was early days indeed. Here was one thing he could not command. An heir would be his just as soon as nature—and fate—decreed it.

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ he agreed, and gave her a soft smile. ‘What about your horses?’ he questioned, for he had acquired for her two of the finest Andalusian mares that money could buy. ‘Surely they provide adequate amusement for you?’

  Millie bristled even more. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but horses do not speak.’

  ‘Yet the grooms tell me that you communicate with them almost as if they could speak.�
� His voice dipped with pride. ‘That your enthusiasm for all things equine equals the energy you put in to your charity work.’

  She knew that in his subtle way he was praising her—telling her that she made a good Queen and that there was plenty to occupy her without her trying to make a life for herself outside the rigid confines of the Palace. She could see that from his point of view it would be so much easier for a tutor to be brought in.

  ‘And your English sisters-in-law,’ he continued. ‘You like Ella and Lucy, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, I like them very much,’ said Millie truthfully. But Ella and Lucy were different, and not just because they were mothers. Their relationships with their husbands were close and inclusive—and that wasn’t just her imagining. She had seen them sometimes, at State Banquets, behaving with all the decorum expected of their position—but occasionally sneaking a small, shared look or a secret smile. Gianferro never did that with her.

  She knew that comparisons were wrong, and could lead you nowhere except to dissatisfaction, and Millie wanted to be contented with her lot—or rather she wanted to make the best of what she had, not yearn for something which could never be hers.

  But sometimes it was hard not to—especially when her sisters-in-law had genuine love-matches. Theirs had not been marriages of convenience, where the winning hand had been the bride-to-be’s innocence and inexperience.

  ‘I guess I don’t really know them that well,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, then?’ said Gianferro impatiently. ‘Invite them round for tea! Get to know them a little better!’

  His arrogance and condescension took her breath away and strengthened her determination to fight for a little freedom.

  ‘Very well, I will—but I should still like to go to a class,’ she said quietly. ‘What harm can it do?’

  Gianferro drummed his fingers on the polished rosewood of his desk. He was not used to having his wishes thwarted, but he recognised a new light of purpose in his wife’s eyes. ‘It could…complicate things,’ he murmured.

  ‘How?’

  Would she believe him if he told her? Or was this going to be one of the lessons she needed to learn for herself? He knew what she was trying to do—trying to dip into a ‘normal’ life once more—but she could not. Her life had changed in ways she had not even begun to comprehend. He felt a fleeting wave of regret that it should be so, which was swiftly followed by irritation that she would not be guided by his experience. ‘It will not be as you imagine it to be,’ he warned. ‘Being Royal sets you apart.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer to find that out for myself,’ said Millie, but a smile was twitching at her lips, because suddenly this one small blow for freedom felt important. Tremendously important.

  ‘Very well,’ he said shortly. ‘I will speak to Alesso.’

  It was clear from his attitude that the usually sanguine Alesso disapproved of her request almost as much as Gianferro did, but Millie held firm and two weeks later she was allowed to go to an Italian class, accompanied by a bodyguard.

  The class had been chosen by Alesso, and was held in a large room at the British Embassy. Millie was greeted by the Ambassador’s wife, who dropped a deep curtsey before her. She wanted to say Please don’t make a fuss, except that she knew her words would be redundant. People did make a fuss—indeed, they would be disappointed if they were not allowed to! But she had given Alesso prior warning that her participation in the class was not to be announced.

  ‘I’d like to just slip in unnoticed,’ said Millie softly. She had dressed as anonymously as possible—a knee-length skirt and a simple sweater, for while the Mardivinian winter was mild, there was a faint chill to the air.

  Alesso had raised his eyebrows. ‘Certainly, Your Majesty.’

  She smiled. ‘Loosen up,’ she said softly. ‘It’s only an Italian class!’

  The tutor had his back to her when she walked in—he was busy scrawling verbs on a blackboard—and as the door opened he turned round and frowned, pushing back the dark, shoulder-length hair which hung almost to his shoulders.

  ‘You are late!’ he admonished.

  Clearly he didn’t recognise her! Millie bit back a smile as she heard the slight inrush of breath from the Ambassador’s wife, and almost imperceptibly shook her head in a silent don’t fuss command. ‘Sorry,’ she said meekly, quickly making her way to a spare place at the back of the room. ‘I’ll just sit quietly and try to catch up.’

  He nodded. ‘Make sure you do.’

  The next hour was spent busily trying to retain fact after fact and word after word. For a brief moment Millie realised how long it was since she had actually used her brain—not since school, and then not as much as she could have done.

  But she found that she was enjoying herself, and soon lost herself in the challenge of learning something for the first time.

  Her first faltering attempts at speaking aloud were greeted with smiles from the others, but she found herself smiling when their turn came. They were all in the same boat, and the sense of belonging she experienced filled her with a warm glow.

  At the end of the class the others began to file out, and Millie was just gathering her books together when the tutor strolled down towards her and paused by her desk. He looked more like an artist than a teacher, she thought, with his long dark hair and jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘You enjoyed my class?’ he questioned.

  Millie nodded. ‘Very much. You made it seem…easy!’

  ‘Ah! You should not say such things.’ He laughed. ‘Or the expectation for you to become my star pupil will be too high!’

  ‘Okay, you made it seem really difficult!’

  He was frowning now. It was not a frown of displeasure, but as if he was trying to place her, and Millie’s heart sank.

  ‘Don’t I know you, signora?’ he questioned softly.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ Millie began to shuffle her books in order to put an end to a line of questioning which struck her as extremely inappropriate, but it seemed he was not to be deterred.

  ‘Your face is…familiar.’

  She guessed she couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn’t pull rank if she was trying to keep her identity secret! It was true that as she had been sitting at the back of the class only the tutor would have seen her face—but she couldn’t do that week in, week out. And when she stopped to think about it hadn’t she been living in cloud-cuckoo land even thinking that she could—with a dirty great bodyguard stationed outside the door?

  ‘Is it?’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘You are the image of our new Queen!’

  Millie sighed. ‘That’s because I am.’

  ‘You are joking me?’

  Millie laughed as his English deserted him in his confusion. ‘Okay, I am!’

  He gave a long, low whistle. ‘I have the Queen in my class?’ he questioned incredulously. ‘The Queen of Mardivino?’

  Millie smiled. ‘Is that a problem for you?’

  ‘For me, no! But perhaps for you?’

  ‘I don’t see why.’ She allowed herself to believe the illusion and it was both heady and seductive.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you not being taught within the Palace?’

  ‘Perhaps I want to experience life outside it,’ she answered slowly.

  ‘The caged bird?’ he questioned thoughtfully. ‘Who longs to break free?’

  ‘You’re being very impertinent!’ she remonstrated.

  ‘Am I?’ He stared at her. ‘You say you wish to experience life—and life outside the Palace means that people say what is on their minds.’ He hesitated. ‘What must I call you?’

  She gave it only a split-second’s thought. In this—if only in this—she would be like everyone else. ‘My name is Millie,’ she said firmly. ‘You must call me Millie.’

  ‘And I am Oliviero.’ He smiled then, a genuine smile which made his eyes crinkle. ‘Your secret is safe with me…Millie—though I doubt that it will remain so. But I can
and will tell you this—while in my class, you are simply another pupil, and the others will respect that or they will be…’ He shrugged and clicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Turfed out?’ supplied Millie helpfully.

  ‘Turfed out? Yes, it is just that!’ His smile grew wider. ‘I sometimes forget that it is the teacher who also learns!’

  And Millie smiled back.

  The challenge of studying added an extra dimension to her life, and she threw herself into her work with a new-found enthusiasm which was very gratifying.

  She wasn’t naïve enough to suppose that the rest of the class remained oblivious to her true identity, for their manner towards her was subtly deferential. But no one bothered her, or questioned her, or was intrusive.

  She was always the last to leave—mainly to avoid being seen with her bodyguard, but also because she had grown to enjoy her little chats with Oliviero. He alone, of all people, treated her just as Millie. With him she felt like the person she knew she really was, deep inside. Not the Queen—a person who always led the conversation and was listened to with deference—but someone with whom she could have a genuine laugh. A small thing, but a precious and cherished one, and it reminded her of a very different life indeed.

  Millie hadn’t realised quite how much freedom she would lose when she married her Prince, but in a tiny way this compensated.

  Her false paradise lasted for precisely one month, until the morning when Alesso knocked at the door of her sitting room. She had been sitting looking at an Italian newspaper. Oliviero had told her that she would understand almost none of it—and he had been right!—but that the best way to become fluent with a language was to familiarise yourself with it as much as possible. Each word she correctly identified felt as though she had found a nugget of gold!

  ‘Come!’ she called, and saw the tall, dark figure of Alesso, his face unsmiling. ‘Oh, hello, Alesso!’ she said brightly.