Why hadn’t Izzy told her that Liam MacCarthy was gorgeous?
Tall, with dark hair he’d clearly tried to tame today in deference to his royal clients, cornflower-blue eyes and fair skin. And the most beautiful mouth...
She shook herself. Ridiculous. Liam MacCarthy was here to take her portrait, that was all.
Nothing could possibly happen between them. They were from different worlds and she’d learned from Rufus that getting involved with someone not from her own background led to heartbreak.
She ought to just let him get on with this. Let him take the portrait her grandfather wanted, then leave.
But he was the first man in years who’d made her feel a spark. Who’d fenced with her, responded to teasing.
She’d liked his quick wit. The way he’d quoted Shakespeare at her and picked up her veiled references—unlike José, who’d simply looked blank and turned the conversation back to cars.
Liam MacCarthy intrigued her.
Which was exactly why she should be on her utmost regal dignity with him. She couldn’t afford to react to him as a man.
‘Where do you want me?’ The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Oh, no. That sounded like flirting. ‘To sit for the portrait, I mean,’ she added swiftly. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to stand.’
He gave her an assessing look, and heat curled up through her, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. ‘If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to take a range of shots.’
Back to the formal ‘ma’am’.
Of course he wouldn’t call her Rina, the way her sister did—short for Vittorina, her family pet name. He wouldn’t even call her Vittoria. To him, she was Your Royal Highness or ma’am.
Sometimes, protocol really grated on her; yet, at the same time as it made her feel boxed in, she recognised that it protected her.
He directed her to sit, to stand, to change position. He changed the lighting and worked almost in silence. Vittoria felt herself growing more and more twitchy, then her impatience finally burst out. ‘Do all your sittings take this long?’
‘That depends, ma’am, on my subject.’
She met his gaze; he masked it quickly, but for a moment she was sure she could see the same heat in his eyes that she felt pulsing through her.
‘The sitting goes more quickly for both of us if my subject talks to me,’ he said. ‘Like the ones I did of the Shakespearean actors. They declaimed their favourite speeches from their favourite roles.’
Sometimes it felt as if she were playing a role. But she didn’t have any new speeches. ‘So is this where I tell you all about San Rocello, its exports and its history?’
‘You could—but that’s the economist in you talking.’ He paused. ‘Tell me what you love doing. Tell me about your passion.’
Passion. Something else she had to suppress. A queen couldn’t be passionate. A queen needed to be diplomatic and sensible. A royal first and a woman second.
Looking at his mouth, she could imagine it moving in passion, and she had to suppress the sudden shiver of desire.
Things weren’t meant to be this way, and it tipped her off balance. It also made her cross with herself. She’d been trained to react with dignity and calm. A queen-in-waiting. But something about him made her react to him as a woman—something deep and primeval and which she didn’t really understand. She wasn’t sure whether it scared her more or excited her.
What did she say?
She glanced round the room.
Thankfully someone had put a silver bowl of roses on a low table and she seized on them gratefully. ‘Roses,’ she said. ‘They’re my passion.’
‘Sadly, it’s slightly too early in the year for roses, or I’d suggest a few shots by the roses I assume are in the palace gardens,’ he said. ‘But you can tell me about your favourite rose. Describe its colour, its scent, the touch of its petals.’
His voice was husky and incredibly sensual, and her mind was translating his words into something else entirely.
Please don’t let the heat she could feel in her cheeks actually be visible.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Call me Vittoria.’ The words came out before she could stop them.
‘Vittoria,’ he said softly.
And, oh, she could imagine him saying that as he drew her into his arms for a kiss...
She shook herself. ‘I was lying about the roses.’
‘Would I be right in guessing books are your passion?’
Yes, and she didn’t get anywhere near enough time to read. Which made her feel even more trapped and frustrated—but she didn’t want him to guess that. It was private. Something she needed to keep to herself. She shrugged. ‘You saw me reading when you came here.’
‘And the palace has a library?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Show me, Vittoria.’
It wasn’t so much a command as a request. A temptation. She didn’t dare move.
‘When Saoirse was small,’ he said, ‘her favourite story was Beauty and the Beast. She loved the film, too, and she used to sing the soundtrack all the time. Mum and I took her to see the stage show for her birthday when she was seven. I remember, it was a matinee. Not the sort of thing your average thirteen-year-old boy would put up with, but I went because I knew it’d make my mum and my sister happy. She loved every second, and she loved it even more when we went for dinner afterwards and the waitress lowered the lights and came out carrying an ice-cream with a fountain candle. The whole restaurant sang “Happy Birthday” to her.’
The yearning in his eyes as he shared the memory made Vittoria’s heart crack a little.
‘That was a bright spot. And I used to tease her that she should have been called Belle.’ His eyes met hers. ‘And I have a feeling that might be who you really are. The princess who loves stories. The princess whose dream is a castle filled with books.’
He was the first person she’d ever met who’d seen that.
So, instead of ignoring his request, she nodded and beckoned to him to follow her.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SECOND THEY were in the palace library, Liam’s face lit up. ‘What a fabulous room. This is perfect. This is where I want to take a photograph of you for Izzy. But you’ll need to lose the diamonds.’
‘Lose the diamonds?’
He sighed. ‘All right. I’ll take one with the diamonds, for your grandfather. But do you have a maid or something who can bring you pearls instead?’
‘Pearls?’ And now Vittoria knew she sounded stupid. As if she were parroting his words.
He took his phone from his pocket and drew up a photograph. ‘Like this,’ he said.
The subject of the portrait was instantly recognisable. ‘Princess Grace of Monaco.’
‘It’s by Yousuf Karsh. One of the two photographers whose work I admire the most,’ he said. ‘The simplicity means people focus on the subject, not the trapping. And what I want is you without the diamonds, with a book in your hand, sitting on that window seat. Then I want you to read me your favourite poem.’
No more ‘ma’am’, she thought. He’d forgotten the protocol completely, to the point where he was bossing her about and telling her what to do. But this was Liam MacCarthy all fired up, seeing a vision he wanted to capture behind his lens. Was this what drove him? She found his purpose and focus irresistible.
‘Take the portrait for Nonno, first,’ she said, ‘while someone fetches the jewellery you want me to wear.’ She went to have a quiet word with the footman who waited at the doorway, then followed Liam’s directions and posed for a portrait that he deemed suitable for her grandfather.
There was a discreet cough and the footman placed the jewels Liam had asked for on a low table.
‘Thank you,’ she said. In her view, the staff weren’t the inv
isible servants they might have been a hundred years before. She’d been brought up knowing that their staff did their job so she could do hers, and without them life would be a lot less smooth. They deserved her respect as well as their salary.
‘That’s perfect. Grazie,’ Liam added.
She liked the fact that he’d thanked her staff, and she liked it even more that he’d bothered to do it in their own language. This was a man who didn’t take things for granted, then. She knew from the dossier that his flat in Chelsea was worth a lot of money, but she now also knew he’d worked for it.
‘Do you need help with your jewellery, ma’am?’ he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘This is the twenty-first century, not two hundred years ago. Princesses are perfectly capable of dressing themselves.’
Amusement glittered in those gorgeous eyes. ‘To be fair, two hundred years ago, with all those tiny buttons down the back of a dress, princesses would’ve needed someone to help them.’
‘And how would you know about...? Oh.’ It dawned on her. ‘You did a photo shoot.’
He inclined his head. ‘Plus, Saoirse did a module on the history of fashion, and part of the assessment included being involved in an exhibition of Regency clothing at the V&A.’
Which obviously he’d taken an interest in, and probably attended. She liked that.
But the idea of him taking off her jewellery made her feel flustered. It was too intimate. ‘I can manage,’ she said, taking off the tiara and putting it on the table next to the pearls. Her earrings and necklace were next. She replaced them with the simple pearl studs and single string of pearls. And how ridiculous that her hands were shaking slightly. Why on earth was she imagining him lifting her hair away from her nape and pressing a kiss on the skin he uncovered, before fastening the pearls round her neck? Crazy. She never had thoughts like this, particularly about someone she’d only just met.
‘Is this what you had in mind?’ Worse still, her voice was slightly quavery. She really hoped he hadn’t noticed.
He stepped back, narrowing his eyes, and assessed her.
She thought—hoped—it was a professional gaze.
‘Take off the cloak, the sash and the badge,’ he said.
Her dress would be more than acceptable at any society event; it was shoulderless, but perfectly demure. She’d be exposing far more skin if she wore a swimsuit. So why did it make her feel as if she was undressing for him when she took off the cloak, sash and badge?
‘And your shoes,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to sit on the window seat. Draw your feet up and look out of the window.’
She did so. Despite the fact there was a footman in the room with them—and if anyone walked in, they’d simply see a photographer working with his subject—this felt incredibly intimate. As if they were alone. Nobody but the two of them in the whole world. Everyone and everything else just dropped away; she was only aware of Liam. His nearness. The way he looked at her. His mouth. His breathing.
And it was the first time in so long that she’d felt herself at the palace. Unfettered. Unstifled. Just Vittoria.
She’d already worked out that, as a portrait photographer, Liam tended to see a little more deeply and pick up more cues than the average person. Would he see that this was the real her, not the princess? And, if so, what would he do about it?
‘One more prop,’ he said, and took a book from the nearest shelf.
It was a slim volume in red Morocco binding, tooled with gold.
And how incredible that he’d chosen a book at random that she would have picked, given the choice: a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Liam asked her to change position on the window seat several more times, then frowned. ‘No. I know what’s wrong.’ He stepped forward. ‘May I?’
She didn’t have a clue what he intended, but now he was really up close and personal. His eyes were stunning, and his pupils were so huge that she couldn’t see his irises. Was that because of the lower level of light in the room? Or did he feel that same crazy attraction that made her pulse skip?
He stretched one hand towards her and she held her breath for a second.
He mussed her hair slightly; his fingers accidentally brushed her skin and made her feel as if she were burning.
She could feel her lips parting. Could see the expression in his eyes change as he looked at her mouth. Could see his own lips parting.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped; it felt as if it was just the two of them, the sunlight filtering through the window and dancing across their skin. It would be so easy to cross that tiny distance between them. All she had to do was stretch up, very slightly, and kiss him...
Then he coughed and stepped away. ‘Ma’am.’
Vittoria felt the colour rush into her cheeks, along with shame. For pity’s sake. Liam MacCarthy was here to do a job, and that was all. She’d probably never see him again. He wasn’t a man she should let herself moon over, particularly as she wasn’t in a position to let herself moon over anyone.
‘Read to me,’ he said, his voice husky, and a frisson went down her spine.
Shakespeare’s sonnets. She didn’t need to open the book, because she knew her favourite one by heart; but she hoped that holding the book would act as enough of a barrier—so he’d see her as a queen-to-be, not the girl who dreamed of reading in a castle full of books. Because she knew Liam MacCarthy wasn’t the Prince who’d build her a library and she had to put her duty first.
‘“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun...”’
The beauty of the poem took over and she lost herself in the words, gazing out of the window.
She reached the bit that always amused her. ‘“I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.”’
And then a soft, husky voice took up the final couplet: ‘“And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.”’
She hadn’t noticed that he’d walked back to her, right up close. She found herself gazing at him, rapt. Those beautiful words, in that beautiful soft Irish accent, held her spellbound.
He reached towards her, and she knew he was going to brush the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. A prelude to a kiss. This time, he wouldn’t hold back. This time...
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter hour, and he drew his hand back.
‘Thank you, ma’am, for your patience and co-operation.’
* * *
How stupid was he?
Liam was aghast at how he’d nearly made a complete mess of this—you never, ever, crossed the line between a professional relationship and a personal one. Especially when your subject was the granddaughter of a king. A woman who was about to become the queen of her Mediterranean realm.
He started to pack up his camera gear in silence, not trusting his mouth to come out with the wrong words and really drop him in it.
‘Good afternoon, Mr MacCarthy,’ she said, and he hated the way that the gorgeous, soft, sunshiny woman he’d almost kissed had turned back so quickly into the dignified, starchy princess he’d first met. Izzy had said her sister was stifled by the palace, and he could see that for himself. There was a huge difference between the almost shy girl in the library and this formal, regal woman who was very much in control of herself.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, giving her a clumsy half-bow.
‘Give my regards to Princess Isabella when you see her next.’
Then she swept out of the room, where the temperature felt as if it had just dropped twenty degrees. The footman lingered until Liam had finished packing up his camera gear, then escorted him back to Matteo Battaglia’s office.
‘I trust all went well, Mr MacCarthy?’ Signor Battaglia asked.
‘I think so,’ Liam said. ‘Obviously I need to do some post-production work on the digital files and develop th
e negatives, but I’ll take digital copies of the prints and give you an encrypted link to a gallery on my website so King Vittorio can choose which ones he’d like me to make finished prints of, then I’ll courier the negatives and final prints to you in a couple of days. You have my details if you need to get in touch in the meantime.’
‘Of course. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’
Liam was pretty sure that he wasn’t supposed to ask to say goodbye to the king or to Vittoria. What was the protocol? Meeting Vittoria di Sarda had driven way too much out of his head. ‘Please thank His Majesty and Her Royal Highness for their co-operation,’ he said instead, and shook the Private Secretary’s hand.
Then he brooded all the way back to his hotel, where he collected his travel baggage, settled his bill and checked out. He brooded all the way on the ferry back to mainland Italy. He brooded all the way on the plane back to England and then the train and the Tube back to Chelsea. Thankfully Saoirse was out somewhere, so he brooded all the way to his darkroom; and he especially brooded when he developed the negatives.
The shots in the Throne Room were good. But the ones he’d taken for Izzy... Well, that wasn’t true. He hadn’t taken most of them for her. He’d taken them for himself. And they were spectacular. The best pictures he’d ever taken in his life. That last one, when he hadn’t been able to resist finishing the sonnet for Vittoria, and she’d looked all dazed and sweet, and he’d been right on the cusp of kissing her...
God, he was an idiot.
No way would a princess even have a fling with him, let alone anything else.
And that last picture wasn’t going to be seen by anyone except himself.
He’d hung the ‘processing—do not disturb’ sign on the door of his darkroom, so Saoirse wouldn’t disturb him when she came in. He had enough time to finish developing the negatives as well as doing the post-production work on the digital files. Focusing on the technical side of things meant his emotions were perfectly buried by the time he emerged.
He followed his nose—takeaway pizza, he was sure—to find Saoirse, Izzy and Pietro in the kitchen.
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