He was beside her now. Reaching down and lifting her clean off the chair—or was she reaching up to him? She didn’t know, and afterwards she would find it impossible to remember. All she knew was that there were no servants present—for he had dismissed them all—and that this was the first time they had been alone since she had stepped off that train in Rosumunte.
And that they seemed to be in the middle of some crazy sexual power game.
‘Roman,’ she whispered.
‘We’re done talking,’ he husked. ‘Just kiss me.’
It was an uneven request which went straight to her heart but Zabrina needed no such instruction because her lips were already seeking his, and, oh, that first touch of his skin against hers made her gasp. How could a simple kiss feel like this? How come that already she wanted to explode with pleasure? One of his hands was tangled in the fall of her hair while the other was on her peaking breast, his thumb circling the pebbled nipple with dextrous provocation which was making her want to squirm. Sanity implored her to call a halt but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to.
Her hands explored the width of his powerful shoulders then reacquainted themselves with his chest, her nails scraping hungrily against the fine linen of his shirt. She could feel the faint whorl of hair against his muscular torso and, as he cupped his palms possessively over her buttocks, he deepened the kiss. He was pulling her even closer, so that his body was imprinted on hers. She felt the rocky outline of his erection and remembered what it had been like when he had been naked and proud, and she shuddered in his arms.
‘Sweet heaven,’ he husked, and never had she thought that a man so powerful could sound so helpless. ‘How the hell do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘I don’t know,’ he grated, almost angrily, as he circled his hips against her, his voice dipping to a silken murmur. ‘Do you like that?’
‘You know I do,’ she whispered back.
The words seemed to stir him into action, for he began to move. He was backing her across the room, his mouth not leaving hers, until she could feel the coolness of the wall pressing against her back. His mouth was on her neck. Her jaw. As she looped her arms around his neck and arched herself into the hardness of his body he gave a low laugh, and the sound of his exultation thrilled her even more. And now his fingers were rucking up her dress and lightly tracking over the goose-pimples which were rippling over her thighs. Any minute now and he would reach her panties, whose moist panel felt like an unbearable barrier, denying him the access she was so desperate to grant him. She squirmed in expectation and he gave an unsteady laugh.
‘Do you have any idea of how much I want you, Princess?’ he bit out in a tone she’d never heard him use before, and in that moment Zabrina felt a wave of the same heady power which had flooded her the first time he’d made love to her. She could make him feel like this.
But that random thought was her undoing—or maybe her salvation.
Because he hadn’t ‘made love’ to her, had he?
He’d had sex with her while pretending to be someone else! He’d thought—and presumably still did—that she had a comprehensive backlist of lovers! He’d tried to wriggle out of marrying her!
Reality shattered the tension like a rock hurled through a window, but she tried to block it because she didn’t want to think about those things right now. She didn’t want to destroy the pleasure she was feeling. But, infuriatingly, she couldn’t keep them at bay any longer—and one thought dominated everything. Wasn’t this just another example of Constantin/Roman amusing himself with her as if she were his own, personal plaything? And was she prepared to go along with that?
No, she was not.
Somehow Zabrina untangled herself from his arms and took a step sideways, needing to put some space between them, terrified that any closer and she’d be tempted to carry on. But hot on her frustration came a sudden wave of irritation when she saw just how composed Roman looked. Why, he might have been doing nothing more strenuous than reading the financial pages of the newspaper!
‘That’s enough,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘So I see. But you’re not going to deny how much you were enjoying that, are you?’ he challenged softly.
Oh, if only that were the case—but Zabrina was no hypocrite. She wished she knew what she wanted. Or what she didn’t want. Deep down she wanted to make a success of this arranged marriage, but everything seemed to be in such a muddle. She was in a muddle and she didn’t know what do.
She wanted to burst into tears and laugh out loud, all at the same time. She wanted to rush from the breakfast room—yet she wanted him to lock the door and finish what they had started. But she mustn’t. She really mustn’t. The King of Petrogoria had spent the last week treating her with polite and considered detachment. He hadn’t shown a single jot of desire for her. He had behaved as if she were some convalescing relative who’d come to stay at the palace, not the flesh and blood woman he was soon to marry. Only now he seemed to have become bored with that particular course of action—and presumably that was why he had kissed her. Was this all some sort of game to him? Did he think she was like one of those old-fashioned dolls her grandmother used to have—the ones you wound up so they would obediently walk and talk for you?
‘You know I was enjoying it. But we both know the rules. Or rather, I thought we did. No...’ Her voice trembled a little but she forced herself to say it. Why be shy of saying something they’d actually done? ‘No sex until we’re officially man and wife.’
‘That didn’t seem to bother you on the train, Zabrina.’
‘I wasn’t... I wasn’t thinking straight on the train,’ she said, smoothing the crumpled skirt of her dress with palms which were clammy. ‘And we were lucky not to have been caught. We might not be so lucky this time. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going. I want to get down to the stables before my dress fitting and check everything is ready for Midas’s arrival.’
‘As you wish.’ He was looking at her thoughtfully—as if he knew perfectly well that her composure was nothing but a façade. But the hard gleam of his eyes was underpinned with something else and she couldn’t quite work out what it was. ‘Oh, and I’m going away for a few days.’
And Zabrina was surprised by the sudden sinking of her heart. He was going away without her, leaving her alone in the palace? ‘Where?’
‘I’m taking a short trip to the Marengo Forest. I want to meet with a few people there so we can get the ball rolling on the airport development as soon as the wedding takes place.’
She nodded her head. Of course his mind was fixed on his shiny new acquisition—wasn’t that the main reason he would soon be sliding a golden band on her finger? And, while he might have been momentarily distracted by that passionate encounter, he wasn’t obsessing about it, like her. He wasn’t reading all kinds of things into it which simply didn’t exist. So show him how independent you can be. Don’t be such a limpet. She nodded. ‘In that case, I’ll see you when you get back. Have a good trip.’
He had started walking ahead and when Zabrina realised he was pulling rank on her, she had to resist a childish urge to race him to the door! But just as he reached the door, he briefly turned his dark head.
‘Oh, by the way, you’ll find some jewellery waiting when you get back to your suite.’
‘What kind of jewellery?’
‘Just a necklace. I thought you could wear it to the palace ball on Saturday.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘JUST’ A NECKLACE, Roman had said. But this wasn’t just any old necklace, Zabrina had quickly realised. This was a glitzy waterfall of sparkling emeralds and diamonds which was too big and too heavy and completely swamped her. But she supposed it was exactly the sort of accessory people would expect a future queen to wear and she had to admit that the jewels matched perfectly her green ball gown. And how strange it was that as she had slit
hered into the silk creation earlier, she had felt a slow building of anticipation rather than dread. From someone who had hated dresses she had found herself wondering if Roman would approve of her outfit. It came as something of a shock to realise she was dressing for him.
The candlelit ballroom was decked with fragrant white roses and now, as the remains of the seven-course banquet were cleared away and the Petrogorian Chamber Orchestra started to play, Roman led her from the table to begin the dancing. The other guests had formed a circle around the dance floor like spectators at a bullfight, to watch the newly engaged couple on their first formal outing. But Zabrina was aware that every eye in the golden ballroom was fixed on her. People’s gazes were running over her assessingly. Possibly critically. She worried that the high-flown members of Petrogorian society wouldn’t approve of the Princess who was shortly to become their Queen. She found herself wishing she’d worn higher shoes because she barely reached Roman’s shoulder and surely the discrepancy in their height must make them look faintly bizarre as a couple.
Her sudden attack of anxiety wasn’t helped by the recognition that some of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen were gathered in this sumptuous ballroom, along with their powerful husbands. But her smile hadn’t faltered as line after line of Roman’s loyal subjects had filed in front of her before dinner, and the Prime Minister had seemed favourably impressed when she’d quoted from one of his country’s ancient poets.
Zabrina could feel the loud skitter of her pulse as Roman put his arms around her and she tried not to let her inner excitement show too much. The King had been away in the Marengo Forest for three whole days and she was taken aback by how pleased she’d been to see him again. To touch him again. Wasn’t it crazy how being on a dance floor allowed you to be intimate with a man in a way which would be forbidden anywhere else? And she had missed him. Missed him more than she should have done, considering she’d barely known him a fortnight. More than anything, she wanted to talk to him because they’d been seated at opposite sides of the table during the sumptuous banquet and had barely exchanged a word all evening.
‘So, when did you get back?’ she asked a little breathlessly as they began to move in time to the music, because she was acutely aware of the indentation of his fingers at her waist.
‘This morning.’
‘Oh.’ A stupid sense of disappointment washed over her. He’d been here all day and hadn’t bothered to let her know? She wanted to say, Why didn’t you come and find me? Or, Why didn’t you join me for lunch? But maybe that would have been presumptuous. As if she were laying down terms, or revealing expectations he might stubbornly refuse to meet if he were aware of them. Instead she strove to find just the right, light touch. To sound like the kind of undemanding partner he might wish to spend more time with and not one who was immediately haranguing him with demands. ‘I’ve been with Midas for most of the day.’
‘I know you have.’ There was a pause. ‘I came down to the stables to see you.’
She turned her face upwards, aware of the faintly shadowed jut of his jaw and the sensual curve of his lips. ‘But you didn’t come over and say hello?’
‘You looked as if you were preoccupied. I didn’t want to disturb you. I watched you riding for a while and that kept me...entertained. You are quite something on the back of a horse, Zabrina.’
Something in his tone spooked her—but not nearly as much as the thought of Roman quietly observing her, his pewter eyes glinting from within the concealment of the stable yard’s many shadows. She wondered how long he had been there for. She wondered if she would have behaved any differently if she’d known he was watching.
‘How was the Marengo?’ she said, changing the subject.
‘The Marengo was fine,’ he replied evenly. And then, ‘You didn’t tell me that your groom was planning on coming to Petrogoria, too.’
She stiffened a little. ‘That’s because I didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Well, that’s not strictly true. Not specifically. I knew one of the grooms would travel with him and Stefan has known Midas since he was a foal, so I guess it made sense that he should have been the one to make the journey. But when he got here...well.’ She shrugged, feeling the heavy weight of the jewels scratching against her skin and she wished she could just rip them from her neck and drop them to the ground. ‘It seemed silly for him to go back immediately, so I gave him permission to stay. Just to get the horse properly settled in, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Roman, his words non-committal as he spun her round, thinking that she was as light as a cloud. He glanced down at the loose dark hair which spilled over her shoulders. At the dark green silk which clung to her slender frame, making her appear pristine and perfectly princess-like, especially when adorned by the priceless glitter of his gift. He contrasted that with the carefree image he had seen on horseback earlier, trotting out of the yard with a banner of a ponytail floating behind her. She had tipped back her head and laughed at something her groom had said and something dark and nebulous had invaded his soul. Something which had been eating him up ever since.
Was it jealousy?
No. He felt the slippery silk of her dress beneath his fingertips and his jaw tightened. It couldn’t be.
But just because you’d never felt something before, didn’t mean you wouldn’t be able to recognise it when you did. And if that were the case didn’t he only have himself to blame? Despite not being the sort of princess he had ever imagined himself marrying, she had persuaded him into going ahead with the union and he had allowed himself to be persuaded, because the pros had outweighed the cons. Or so he had convinced himself. Theirs was to be an unemotional business arrangement. He knew that and she knew that. She had implied that she was prepared to be ‘reasonable’ if he sought solace in the arms of another woman, as kings had done from the beginning of time, and by implication that meant he couldn’t rule out her doing the same, despite her protestations to the contrary. So why did he feel the primitive throb of dark possession when he even considered that option? Why did he want to roar out his anguish at the thought of her ever being in another man’s arms?
But his face betrayed nothing, for an implacable countenance had been drummed into him for as long as he could remember. A king must never show his feelings and, in order to guarantee that, it was preferable not to have those feelings in the first place. It had been one of the first things his father had taught him when he had woken on that bleak, black morning to find his mother gone.
It had been a useful lesson in survival.
‘Do you want me to ask him to leave?’ Zabrina was saying. ‘Is that what you want?’
He looked down, steeling himself against the forest-dark beauty of her eyes and resenting the fact that he found her so enchanting, even while inside he was quietly simmering with rage. ‘This isn’t supposed to be about what I want, Zabrina,’ he said coolly. ‘This is supposed to be your home, not a prison, and if you want your groom to stay on then that, of course, is your prerogative.’
The music came to an end and the Petrogorian Prime Minister stepped in to ask Zabrina to dance and willingly she resumed her progress around the floor with the portly leader, even though she wanted to stay with Roman and ask him...
She swallowed.
Ask him what? He was being perfectly reasonable, wasn’t he? Telling her she was free to do as she wished. Telling her Stefan could stay as long as she wanted. She didn’t imagine it would go down very well if she started quizzing him about why he was adopting that tone of voice.
What tone of voice was that?
Dark?
Disapproving?
Yes, both those things.
But if he felt that way, then surely that was his problem. If she tried to accommodate him—to gauge his mood and to modify her behaviour accordingly—wouldn’t that be setting an awful precedent, tur
ning her into the kind of woman she didn’t really like? Or respect. And it wasn’t going to be that kind of marriage, she told herself firmly. A meeting of minds and bodies, hopefully, yes, but ultimately it was a transaction. She needed to keep her independence and sense of self-worth, or else she suspected she could easily fall into a deep hole of useless yearning for someone who saw her simply as a means to an end.
She did her best to put on a credible show as a future queen that night—her mother would have been proud of her. She danced with everyone who asked but made sure she conversed with plenty of the women too, admiring their gowns and jewels and talking about various charitable endeavours. But with Roman there was no more dancing. She told herself it wasn’t deliberate and that she was imagining his cool and sudden distancing himself from her. But as the clock chimed out midnight, and she and the King left the ballroom to the tumultuous applause of their guests, Zabrina realised that she hadn’t really had a chance to talk to him again.
Servants converged on them, walking both ahead and behind as they made their stately progress towards her suite. But when they arrived outside her door, Zabrina turned to the King, licking her lips and slanting him a nervous smile. ‘I wonder, shall we have a...nightcap?’
If she had suggested that he suddenly broke into an impromptu rendition of the Petrogorian national anthem, he couldn’t have looked more—not shocked, exactly, but certainly slightly appalled. As if she had just come out with a highly irregular proposition and had somehow let herself down.
One Night Before The Royal Wedding (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 11