A King In Love

by Barbara Cartland

Zita was quite certain that Nevi knew who her father was, but was prepared to please him by pretending that she had no idea of his true identity and rank.

  When they had washed and Zita had arranged the ribbons in her hair, which she did not wear when she was riding, she went downstairs to find that a table for dinner was laid for them in the garden outside the chalet.

  It was partly enclosed by shrubs and made Zita think of the arbour where she had sat with the King and surprised and confused him by the remarks she had made to him.

  It flashed through her mind that she had been very foolish not to see him once again as he had asked her to do. Yet it would have been almost impossible for her to take another horse from the stables, which she might have difficulty in saddling, rather than Pegasus.

  She thought of the King now travelling, as she was sure he would be, towards Bosnia.

  Perhaps there he would find the Princess he required as a wife.

  Then all that she would ever hear of him would be the gossip that percolated inevitably from his country to Aldross.

  But, if he did not find a wife in Bosnia, he could go to Serbia and, as she had pointed out to him, there were many other small Principalities attached to them.

  In all of them there would undoubtedly be women who would find him extremely attractive and would be only too willing either to marry him or to let him make love to them.

  ‘What am I keeping myself for?’ Zita asked herself, as she saw her father watching Nevi as she came towards them carrying their food with an expression in his eyes that was very revealing.

  ‘She attracts him,’ Zita thought, ‘just as he attracts her and what could be more natural than that they should be happy with each other – and why should it be wrong?”

  As they enjoyed their dinner, which was delicious, and drank the local wine, which was like sunshine, Zita heard her father speak in a voice that was deeper and different from the way he had ever spoken before.

  She felt perceptively the excitement growing within him, which intensified every time Nevi brought the coffee and sat beside him.

  “Now tell me,” Nevi asked, “everything you’ve done since we last met. I’ve missed you, I can’t tell you how terribly I have missed you.”

  “You are even more beautiful than you were when I last saw you,” the Grand Duke replied.

  Zita drank her coffee, then, without saying anything, she moved away from the table to leave them talking to each other.

  She knew it would be tactless for her to stay, for she wanted her father to enjoy himself and she thought that tonight she must not listen for the soft laughter she had heard before coming from his room when she had awakened in the moonlight.

  She walked away from the inn, moving under the pine trees along one of the little paths beaten down through the years by people following it up and down the mountain.

  The sun was sinking in a blaze of crimson glory and the first stars had not yet appeared in the sky.

  There was the scent of pine from the trees and Zita felt almost as if she was a part of the woods and that the life that pulsed within her was theirs also and they both drew it from the same source.

  She walked on for a little way, still following the path where it twisted behind the inn and she came to where there had been a fall of rocks that had left the side of the cliff bare.

  It had carried the trees away with it, so she had a view of the valley and the evening mist coming up from the meadowland and rising mystically to make everything look as if it was part of a dream.

  She stood thinking that such beauty could never be portrayed on canvass even by the greatest artist.

  It could only be held in the memory. One would not only remember the loveliness of it, but like a secret shrine it would always be there to raise the heart and soul.

  Because it was so perfect, she found herself wishing with an intensity that she could not suppress, that she could share it.

  She felt that there was only one person who would understand and see it as she was seeing it, although why she should think that about him she had no idea.

  ‘We never had time to discuss beauty,’ she thought.

  She wondered why she had been so stupid as to quarrel with him and take him to task instead of sharing with him the feelings which she sensed would be the same as hers.

  ‘I have been a fool!’ Zita told herself.

  Then, because the beauty of what she was seeing was somehow intolerable, she turned to return to the inn.

  As she did so, she was aware that somebody was approaching.

  She could hear footsteps, then there was a man moving between the trunks of the trees, catching only a glimpse as he passed behind first one, then another.

  She resented the intrusion.

  She thought swiftly that it would be a bore if she had to stop and talk as was customary in that part of the world.

  She was conscious only of the beauty of the valley and the pain within her breast because she could not share it with the King.

  Then, as she stood hesitating, wondering whether if she turned her back the stranger would pass by and not stop to chatter, he emerged from between the trees and she thought for a moment that he was just part of her imagination.

  Then when he came nearer she saw incredibly, unbelievably, that it really was the King!

  For a moment she felt as if she were turned to stone, then, as he came towards her with a smile on his lips, she forgot everything except that he was there.

  She could never afterwards remember if he spoke or if, as she thought, he held out his arms.

  She knew only that impulsively, eagerly and without thought, she reacted to the feelings that already possessed her and did as her heart told her.

  As she ran to him, his arms went round her and then his lips came down on hers.

  All she was conscious of was that the sunset was part of him, the light of it blinding and his kiss was what she had wanted, longed for and dreamt about, although she had not been aware of it.

  Now the lightning that had moved to her heart when he had kissed the palm of her hand was streaking through her whole body, moving from her breast up into her throat and to her lips.

  Then, as the King held her closer and his lips became more possessive, more passionate, she felt as if he carried her into the sun itself and the heat of it seemed to burn its way through her body and yet was part of her soul.

  Only when she felt it was impossible to feel such sensations and not die of the wonder of them did the King raise his head.

  “My darling!” he said, in a voice that was strange and very unsteady. “I thought I should never find you!”

  Then, before she could speak, he was kissing her again, kissing her fiercely, demandingly, possessively, as if his fear of losing her made him want to make her his forever.

  Only when time had stood still and a century might have passed in the King’s arms did Zita give an inarticulate little murmur and hide her face against his neck.

  Her heart was pounding and she felt as if every nerve of her body was throbbing with a rapture that was indescribable.

  She was alive, more pulsatingly alive than she had ever been in her whole life and she could only think that this was love, as she had never expected it to be.

  “My precious!” the King said. “How could you go away in that damnable way? I have been frantic, desperate, in case I could never find you again.”

  “I – could not – help it,” Zita managed to whisper.

  “When I learnt at The Golden Cross that they had no idea where you were,” the King said, “I thought I would go mad!”

  “You – asked for me?” Zita enquired.

  “I sent somebody to do so,” the King replied, “just as I have sent a dozen of my most trusted servants to make enquiries in the City as to where you were or where I could find you.”

  Zita stiffened and he added,

  “It’s all right, my precious. They were very discreet, but how could I have thought you would be
here?”

  “B-but – why are you – here?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  As he saw the surprise in her eyes, he continued,

  “I will explain in a moment, but now all I want to do is to kiss you!”

  He did not wait for a reply, but found her lips and was kissing her until she could think of nothing except that her whole body seemed to burst into flames and burn with a sensation that was so thrilling, so ecstatic, that it was impossible to think but only to feel.

  Then, as the King kissed her and went on kissing her, there was a sound behind them and Zita heard her father’s voice,

  “Zita! What the devil do you think you are doing?”

  It was difficult for the moment to come back from the rapture that possessed her, which had carried her into the sky, to the realisation that she was in the King’s arms and her father was looking at her incredulously, as if he could hardly believe what he saw.

  Then, as she strove to find her voice, the King turned his head and the Grand Duke exclaimed,

  “Your Majesty!”

  As if he could hardly believe what he was seeing, he added,

  “I had no idea that you knew Zita!”

  The King stiffened and turned towards the Grand Duke, taking one arm from round Zita while the other still encircled her.

  For a moment the two men looked at each other.

  Then the King asked harshly,

  “Is Zita yours, Sire? It is something which had never crossed my mind.”

  “Mine? Of course she is mine!” the Grand Duke answered sharply. “But, as I had no idea that Your Majesty had even met her, I find this completely astonishing.”

  He walked nearer to them and as he did so Zita glanced up at the King and realised what he was thinking.

  For a moment it did not seem possible!

  Then, because she was afraid he might say something that would reveal to her father the very strange story of how they had met and the King’s ignorance of her identity, she said quickly,

  “Forgive me – Papa for not – telling you, but I met – His Majesty – one morning when we were both out riding.”

  As she spoke to her father, the King set her free and he was looking not at the Grand Duke but at her and the surprise on his face would have been ludicrous had she not been nervous of what he might reveal.

  In a voice sounding very unlike his own, the King said,

  “Am I to understand, Sire, that Zita is your – daughter?”

  “Of course she is my daughter!” the Grand Duke said testily, as if the King was challenging him.

  “I did not – meet her when I was staying with you,” the King persisted.

  The Grand Duke looked slightly embarrassed.

  “My wife thought it best if you met only Sophie and Zita therefore remained in the background.”

  Then, suddenly realising that there was no reason for him to be on the defensive and that that should be the King’s role, he said,

  “I would, however, Your Majesty, like an explanation as to why your very short acquaintance with my daughter, for it can be nothing more, should entitle you to behave as you were – ”

  Before he could say any more, the King interrupted,

  “I would be most grateful, Sire, if you would give your permission for Zita and me to be married as soon as possible.”

  His voice was firm and there was none of the astonishment or suspicion that had been in it before.

  It was now the Grand Duke’s turn to be even more surprised and he stared at the King as if he could hardly believe what he had heard.

  Then, as he comprehended the King’s request and was in fact extremely gratified by it, he said,

  “This is certainly something I did not expect, Your Majesty, and I think that we should talk about it over a glass of wine.”

  It was then that Zita came back to reality.

  As if waking from the dream she had been dreaming ever since the King had kissed her and carried her into a world so wonderful, so rapturous that she could hardly believe it, let alone understand it, she was aware that these two men were deciding her future.

  It was almost as if she stood aside and saw the years ahead being planned for her without her having any say in the matter.

  She knew that while her whole body vibrated and pulsated for the King and the fire that he had awakened within her was still burning, her mind told her something very different.

  The King and her father were smiling at each other with an understanding as if there was little need for words because they were so in tune with each other.

  But she felt a cold icy wind pass through her as if the snows on the mountain above were touching her and putting out the heat of the fire.

  She looked at her father and saw how pleased he was by the King’s request. Then she looked at the King and while her body would have moved more closely to him, her brain said, ‘no!’

  She could see, almost as if she had been shown them, the women who had loved him, who had been part of his life, whom she had heard about and imagined.

  Women who, like La Belle, were doubtless waiting for him at this moment.

  She saw them moving into his life and out of it, being replaced by others and still others and she knew that this was something she could not endure and live with.

  It all flashed through her mind in the passing of a second and, as her father was just about to take her arm and lead her back to the inn, she said, and her voice was clear and sounded surprisingly calm,

  “Before you go any further, I have something to say in this matter. While, of course, I am deeply honoured at the suggestion of His Majesty that he should marry me, my answer is, ‘no!’ I will never be his wife!”

  She did not wait to see the astonishment on the King’s face or her father’s.

  She ran straight past them and, following the path that led through the trees, she ran faster and still faster until she reached the inn.

  She sped up the stairs and, finding her own room, threw herself down on the bed and hid her face in the pillow.

  She knew that she was shutting herself out of Paradise.

  At the same time an instinct for self-preservation, which was stronger even than the rapture and wonder of love, told her that only in this way could she survive.

  *

  A long time later Zita heard her father come upstairs and go into his bedroom.

  He did not come to say goodnight to her and she thought he was doubtless angry that she had behaved as she had.

  He would also be ashamed because she had insulted the King.

  ‘It should not be an insult to refuse to marry a man,’ she argued with herself.

  However, she was quite sure that the King would feel not only insulted but also humiliated that the first time he had asked a woman to marry him she had refused.

  Then she told herself that she should be the one to be insulted.

  After all, he had offered her a very different position in his life, and, if he had been so lacking in perception as to think that she would accept such a proposition, then it was his own fault that in consequence she now had no wish to be his wife.

  But arguments, however logical, did not assuage a feeling of consternation or expel the uneasy conviction that her father could bring pressure to bear on her to change her mind.

  ‘The King’s behaviour will ruin our holiday,’ she thought resentfully.

  Then she knew that he had ruined it already, because she could never again feel happy or free.

  He had kissed her and the rapture of it was still with her, so that even to think of him was to feel a thrill running through her and her lips were still soft from the pressure of his.

  ‘I love him – I love – him!’ she admitted to herself.

  But she knew that where he was concerned, love was not enough.

  Perhaps they would be happy together for a short time, until he became bored with her, as he had been with other women.

  He would sli
p away to Paris or like her father did, find amusements locally, to relieve the monotony of a marriage that was always the same year in and year out.

  ‘How could I bear it?’ Zita asked herself.

  She thought that when that happened, however much she tried to control her temper and her emotions, she would want to kill the woman who had supplanted her in her husband’s affections – and indeed might actually do so.

  She imagined what it would feel like to be alone in the Palace or in a great State bedroom and know that the King was in the Château, having gone down the secret passage after the Court had retired to bed, to enjoy the excitement of a new face, a new allurement who had an attraction his wife could no longer give him.

  ‘Then I would really die – or else commit some – terrible crime for which nobody would ever – forgive me!’ Zita thought despairingly.

  And yet the King’s lips had awakened sensations in her that she had no idea existed and she was aware that if she lost him now, she would never find the same rapture with any other man.

  As she thought of him, she heard very soft footsteps on the uncarpeted passage, then a door opened and closed, and she knew who had gone to her father’s room.

  She was aware then that it was not only the King’s infidelities that kept her from marrying him but also her father’s.

  ‘All men are like that!’

  She could almost hear somebody saying the words aloud to her and the warning remained in her mind.

  Men were like that and she accepted it.

  But what she would not accept was the agony, the humiliation and the frustration of being the unwanted wife of a husband she adored, but who no longer had any use for her.

  ‘I am different from Mama, for I could never forgive or forget,’ she thought, ‘and it would be impossible for me to sit tamely waiting for my husband’s return.’

  She thought then that perhaps she would be goaded into causing a scandal by taking a lover and flaunting him.

  But she had the uneasy feeling that if she loved the King as much as she did now, there would never be another man she could allow to touch her or come close to her in any way.

  The agony that she would endure in the future was so vivid in her mind that she knew that anything she suffered now would sink into insignificance compared to what she would suffer later.