by Kim Lawrence
Of course, there had never been any official acknowledgement of her miscarriage, but she’d known that her personal loss was the subject of palace gossip and speculation.
She had tried not to care, to rise above it, but as she’d looked around the table she’d known full well that there wasn’t a single person present who didn’t know the details, a single person who hadn’t discussed her fertility.
Despite her outward composure her voice had shaken a little with the effort to control the surge of emotion inside as, looking at the woman seated opposite her, she’d deliberately pitched her words to reach the entire table as she’d remarked how much she loved children and hoped to have several.
The approving smiles that had followed this group-share announcement had faded when she’d gone on to explain that she would be following her own parents’ example, that she wanted to adopt as well as give birth, but that she didn’t plan on doing either just yet.
By the time she’d finished speaking the entire table had been sitting in shocked silence, broken finally by the King himself, who had announced quite simply that adoption for a member of the royal family was not an option, before proceeding to make a lot of pronouncements about bloodlines and breeding that had made her blood boil before he’d risen and left the table, indicating that the discussion was over.
So Dante hadn’t leapt to her defence. She’d been prepared to cut him some slack as there hadn’t been much opportunity once his father had gone into regal-pronouncement mode.
She hadn’t expected to have Dante intervene on her behalf, she could defend herself, and the first lesson on royal protocol that she had learnt was that you didn’t contradict the King, although she had seen Dante calmly face down his father, with an emphasis on the calm, when it had come to something he’d thought important. Dante had always emerged the victor without raising his voice, no matter how loud his father had got—but this had never happened when there were people present outside the immediate family, as there had been that night.
But she had been quite glad of his silently supportive arm around her shoulders as they’d returned to their apartments. It wasn’t until the door had closed that she’d realised that the arm hadn’t been supportive, more restraining, and Dante had been quite royally unhappy with her.
In fact he’d blamed her for reacting the way she had and making a situation where none had existed.
And now there was a situation.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked her now, scanning her face.
‘A bit light-headed, that’s all.’
‘This is not a good idea,’ he said, dragging out one of the ornately carved chairs that were set at intervals along the wall.
‘No,’ Beatrice said, resisting his efforts to push her into it. ‘I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing. I really am fine. Please stop looking at me as though I’m an unexploded time bomb. The baby is fine. I am fine.’
‘You are not fine—you escaped and now you’re back. The doors have closed and locked and you’re wondering what the hell you were thinking of.’ He smiled at her shocked expression. ‘You think I have never felt that way?’
‘You?’
He tipped his dark head and gave a faint twisted smile. ‘I sometimes feel as if the walls are closing in on me.’ His dark eyes lifted to the ornately carved ceiling high above.
‘What do you do?’ she asked, fascinated by the new insight. Did Dante ever think about escaping?
‘I used to escape in your arms, inside you, cara.’
‘Dante?’ Her stomach clenched with helpless desire as their eyes met.
He stroked her cheek with one finger. ‘Lately I remind myself that I am here to change things, that I can knock down walls, change mindsets. So long as no one guesses I don’t have a clue what I’m doing I might become a man my son is not too ashamed of.’
She was moved beyond words and for several moments could not speak. ‘You do know what you’re doing,’ she protested indignantly.
‘Do I?’ he said, self-mockery gleaming in his eyes. ‘Frankly,’ he continued in the manner of someone making a clean breast of it, ‘it doesn’t matter so long as people think you know what you’re doing.’
She took an impetuous step towards him and almost stumbled. He caught her elbow to steady her, his own heart thudding hard in reaction to the burst of adrenalin in his bloodstream.
‘Be careful!’ The surge of protective concern edged his voice with gravel.
It was possibly good advice.
‘Those heels are a little high, considering…’
Her smile of gratitude half formed froze in place as the warmth in his eyes hardened. ‘Considering what?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’ he said, seemingly oblivious to the danger in her voice.
‘Please do not try and wrap me up in cotton wool, Dante. I am a woman, not an incubator, and I’m pregnant, not ill.’ Having made her point, she hoped—it was hard to tell from his expression—she didn’t dwell on the subject. She took a deep breath and moved the conversation on. ‘So, who is there tonight, again?’
Him going over the guest list gave her the opportunity to gather a little of her composure.
‘Wow, it sounds like a fun evening.’ Her mocking smile faded as she looked up at him, conscious of the gaping gap that had grown between them as they’d walked. Was there ever a time when she could have bridged it without a baby?
If so, it had gone, because without the baby she would not be here.
She damped the beads of moisture along her upper lip as she struggled to banish the questions and doubts swirling in her head.
‘What am I even doing here?’
‘Is that a rhetorical question?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, just a mild panic attack, but don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behaviour.’
‘No, don’t.’
Her blue eyes fluttered wide. ‘What?’
‘All I want is for you to be yourself.’ Infuriating, foot-in-mouth but always honest self. ‘I get tired…of people…’
‘Polishing your ego?’
He gave a cynical grin. ‘I’m sometimes tempted to announce the world is flat just to watch them admire my amazing intellect.’
She laughed. ‘I’d pay good money to see that.’
‘It isn’t too late to change your mind.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she countered as they passed into the palace proper, as she called it in her head.
The carpet underfoot now was inches deep and scarlet with a border of gold; the crystal chandeliers glittering overhead lit the long corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity, guarded by rows of portraits of more of Dante’s ancestors, ancestors’ wives, children and dogs and, in one case, a leopard with a jewelled collar looking almost as supercilious as its mistress.
If the intention was to impress or intimidate, it did both.
They were the last to join the guests and family in the drawing room, where the mingling involved a lot of diamond tiaras, medals on lapels and stiffly formal conversation.
‘Did all conversations stop just now, or did I forget to put my clothes on?’ Beatrice asked, her cheeks already starting to ache from the effort of maintaining her meaningless smile.
Her comment invited Dante to see her naked, every sleek, smooth, glorious inch of her, and his imagination obliged, which meant his smile was forced around the edges and he felt the need to loosen his tie, an action which, across the room, earned a horrified glare from his mother.
‘Forget the gossips, we owe them no explanations.’
She slung an ‘easy for you to say’ look up at the tall, imposing figure of her husband as she gritted out through a clenched smile, ‘I feel like I’ve stumbled into one of my nightmares. Do you think there are odds on how long I’ll stay this time?’ She took a deep breath and allowed her veiled blue gaze to take
in all the details. ‘Wow, this really is vintage Velazquez. Reminds me of everything I don’t miss.’
‘On the plus side, so is the champagne,’ Dante said, appropriating two flutes from a passing waiter, then, realising what he’d done, slammed them back down on the tray and selected the alternative sparkling water just before the Queen, wearing a staggering amount of diamonds, bore down on them.
‘How delightful you look. Good flight?’ The Queen greeted her with gracious frigidity and raised a pencilled eyebrow when Beatrice drained the glass of sparkling water in her hand.
The King appeared and ignored Beatrice, so she returned the favour.
‘Dante, you are escorting the countess into dinner. You can’t escort your wife.’
Dante smiled at his father. ‘Actually, I can.’ He held out his arm to Beatrice, who, after a pause, took it, and they went to join the other guests who were pairing off to process into the state banquet hall.
‘If looks could kill.’ She had enjoyed the expression on her father-in-law’s face, but she enjoyed even more the feeling that she and Dante were on the same team.
‘They don’t.’
‘Don’t?’
‘Kill. I have conducted pretty extensive research into the subject. There have been occasional reports of minor injuries but absolutely no fatalities.’
Beatrice’s gurgle of laughter drew several glances and several comments on what an attractive couple the future King and Queen made.
‘Thanks for having my back.’
He looked down into her beautiful face and felt shame break loose inside him. She shouldn’t be thanking him; it should have been something that she took for granted…but why would she? He had never had her back when it had counted.
He watched as she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, and felt the shame mingled now with pride. When had he ever acknowledged the courage she had shown?
She had wanted to blend in but she never would, he realised with a rush of pride, because she was better than them. Better than him, he decided, not immediately identifying the tightening in his chest as protective tenderness.
He didn’t want her to blend in!
‘I’m here if you need me.’
Under dark brows drawn into a straight line above his hawkish nose, she struggled to read his expression but made the obvious assumption he was worried she was going to fall apart. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to fall apart.’
It seemed to Beatrice that the present King had decided to deal with her presence by directing every comment he made to a point six inches above her head. For some reason Beatrice found it very funny.
Absence had not made the King any less angry than she remembered. Her glance drifted from father to son, where Dante sat with his head bent attentively to catch what the person on his left was saying.
Despite her experience of a toxic stepfather, she had known what a proper father should be like. How could Dante know when all he had was his own father, who was a distant, cold figure, to go by?
What sort of father would Dante make?
It was a question she had asked herself the first time around, and it had bothered her because she simply couldn’t see him that way. But now? Her eyes flickered wide as she realised how surprisingly easy it was to see him in that role. Had he changed, or was it the way she saw him, thought of him, that had altered?
What did they say? Expect the worst and hope for the best? Actually, against all expectations, this evening was not so bad, as her experience of official engagements went.
A fact in large part due to the conversation she’d struck up with one of the guests of honour, who protocol decreed had been seated to her right.
The ambassador’s wife, an elegant young thirty-something Frenchwoman, who Beatrice soon discovered was a new parent and self-confessedly besotted.
‘Sorry, I must be boring you. We have very little conversation between night feeds, teething and the general brilliance of our son,’ she admitted, glancing fondly to where her husband was holding a stilted conversation with the Queen.
‘I’m not bored.’ Beatrice grinned and lowered her voice. ‘But if you get onto the best vintage this decade to lay down for an investment… I might doze off,’ she admitted with a twinkle as she glanced to the retired general seated on her left, who was giving all his attention to his glass of red.
It was refreshing to be around someone who was so obviously happy. Maybe it would rub off, she thought wistfully. ‘Did you have Alain here?’ she asked. The opening of the new maternity wing of the hospital had been one of her last official duties, frustrating as usual because her expressed wish to speak to some staff and patients without the photographers had been vetoed. ‘Or did you go back home?’
‘Oh, I didn’t give birth. I can’t actually have children. We adopted.’
At the opposite end of the table Dante was conscious that several people had begun to eavesdrop on the young women’s conversation, though they themselves seemed unaware of the fact. It was as if people were shocked that nobody had told the women that this event was business, not pleasure.
‘Really? My parents adopted too.’
As Beatrice’s voice floated across the table, he was aware of his mother looking tenser by the moment.
The ambassador leaned across; he was smiling. ‘Thank you.’
Dante lifted his brows.
‘These formal events are a trial for Lara—she finds them something of an ordeal… The Princess has drawn her out.’
Dante was aware of something like proprietorial pride breaking loose inside him as he nodded, and found himself wondering how differently things might have worked out if his family had decided to consider Beatrice’s natural warmth and genuine interest in people a positive rather than a handicap.
And you threw that warmth away. So, what does that make you?
Maybe it was true that you didn’t value what you had until it was no longer there, but now she was there, and he was determined that she would stay. She was the mother of his child; her place was with him. It was an explanation that he could live with. It meant he didn’t have to delve too deeply into his tightly boxed emotions.
‘Listen to them.’ The ambassador’s voice cut into Dante’s bitter reflections.
Dante was, as were several other people who had tuned into the animated conversation between the two attractive women.
‘So you’re adopted?’
‘No, my sister was adopted. My mum and dad had given up on getting pregnant by that point. They adopted Maya as a newborn, then a couple of months later Mum discovered that I was not a grumbling appendix.’
Lara Faure laughed and clapped her hands.
‘So, you are almost twins.’
‘That’s what we say, except definitely not identical. Maya is dark and petite and I’m…’ her brows hit her blonde hairline ‘…not! The irony is that Mum is dark and petite. I take after our dad, who was tall and blond, before he went bald, so I hope I haven’t inherited that from him.’ Her hand went to her head, where her frequently disobedient hair appeared to be in place, before dropping. Her fingers curled around the stem of her water glass as she swirled the contents, giving the impression she was breathing in the scent of wine as she lifted it to her lips.
‘Your hair is natural!’ the Frenchwoman exclaimed, her envious glance on Beatrice’s glossy head.
‘I had some blue streaks when I was at school.’ The admission freed a grin. ‘And was a redhead for about five minutes. That’s about the limit of my rebellion, but these days, yes, this is au naturelle.’
‘How lucky. Mine costs me a fortune and far too many hours to maintain. I’ve forgotten what colour I actually was.’ The woman patted her elegant head and gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Your sister is the brunette, you said?’
Beatrice nodded.
‘I always w
anted a sister. I was an only child. We hope one day we will be able to give Alain a brother or sister…’
‘Maya and I are best friends and sisters,’ Beatrice said, her voice warm with affection as she thought of her sister. ‘We squabble, but I know…’ She paused, becoming belatedly aware that the table had grown silent and that everyone was listening to every word she said. Well, too late to stop now, even though she knew she’d strayed onto a dangerous subject area. ‘I know that she is always there for me.’ She put down her glass and kept her eyes steadily on the woman beside her and imagined the thought bubbles of disapproval above the collective regal heads.
‘And I’m sure you have always been there for her. You know, I have a few friends coming for brunch next week, you might know some? We have started up a book club, and on the side we have some pet projects at the moment. You might know that I am…was a violinist before the arthritis…?’
She briefly extended a hand displaying swollen knuckles while in a sentence she dismissed an unfair roll of the dice that had robbed her of a short but glittering career, and the world of someone considered one of the greats in the music industry.
Her bravery was humbling, and Beatrice knew this was someone she would like to know.
‘They have a great system in place here for music in schools—an innovation of your husband, according to my sources?’
Beatrice said nothing, aware that the other woman’s sources were a lot better than her own.
‘But the younger appreciation of music starts, the better, so we are hoping to raise some money for instruments to introduce music lessons into the nurseries in a fun way.’
‘That sounds great,’ Beatrice began, her smile deepening as she realised that she’d made a friend.