Their Christmas Royal Wedding

by Nina Milne

  Enough justification. She wanted to kiss him, wanted it with an intensity she had never experienced before. Desire pulsed through her, seemed to make her veins fizz, propelled her forward so she was standing flush against him, so close she could smell his unique scent, and slowly she lifted a hand and placed it on his chest, on the thick cable-knit wool of his sweater.

  Slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, his dark brown eyes fixed on hers, as if she were the only woman in the universe, and she wondered if it was possible to drown in anticipation. Her skin heated, her nerves end tingled and, wow, he hadn’t even kissed her yet.

  Then his lips touched hers, his fingers tangled in her hair and she was lost. The kiss was gentle, his lips firm against hers. She pressed against his body, his muscles hard, and he deepened the kiss, gave a small groan and her head whirled as she lost herself in the moment.

  Time stood still and Gabi had no idea if the kiss lasted a minute or hours...but then a cold breeze gusted and penetrated the fog of desire and he broke the kiss. Gabi opened eyes she hadn’t realised she’d closed and stared at him.

  So much for just a kiss, nothing more. But she mustn’t show how affected she was; she had to remember that for Cesar this was ‘normal’, that he’d shared millions of similar kisses with other women, more beautiful and sophisticated than Gabi could ever hope to be.

  Play it cool.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That was a prize worth winning. Now how about a rematch but this time no prizes?’

  ‘Sure.’ There was something elusive in his voice but his expression maintained his usual easy charm. ‘Let’s get back to the top and when you’re ready I’ve arranged for lunch in my quarters in the palace.’

  * * *

  An hour later Gabi followed Cesar through a side entrance and into the Aguilarean palace, caught a glimpse of her reflection in an enormous black gilded mirror and gave a small gasp of horror.

  ‘You’re sure no one will see me?’

  ‘I’m sure. This is my private entrance.’

  ‘Thank goodness. If Maria saw me now she’d...well, I’m not sure what she’d do but she wouldn’t be happy.’

  ‘Well, Maria isn’t here and personally I think you look beautiful. I like the windswept look.’

  ‘Wind-battered more like.’ As they entered his apartment she glanced round. ‘Is this where you lived before you left on diplomatic duties?’

  ‘Yes.’ His glance around was perfunctory. The room was comfortable without being ostentatious, the furniture sleek but comfortable. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall was state of the art. Gabi liked it, she realised.

  ‘Lunch should be here any minute.’

  ‘In which case I will hide in the bathroom until it is,’ Gabi stated firmly, suiting action to word.

  Five minutes later she heard Cesar’s, ‘All clear,’ and she exited. ‘That looks delicious.’ The table had been set beautifully with a centrepiece of flowers, silver cutlery and starched napkins.

  ‘I think the kitchen staff want to impress you,’ Cesar said.

  ‘Consider me impressed.’ Gabi grimaced. ‘I should have come out and thanked whoever brought it. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s OK. Daniella didn’t realise you were hiding.’

  ‘She just thought I was in the washroom—Maria would say that’s worse. I’m not sure royalty are supposed to use washrooms.’

  She sat down opposite him. ‘This is incredible.’ A tantalising aroma of tangy lemon and thyme wafted up from her plate, where a portion of risotto was perfectly presented. In the centre of the table was a simple green salad. Gabi served herself and took a mouthful and closed her eyes in astonishment. ‘The dressing is sublime.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘I love it. I wish I could cook like this.’ She took another mouthful and looked at him. ‘Can you cook like this? I mean, does royalty get taught how to cook?’

  ‘It is not part of the royal curriculum, no. There are royal chefs who prepare every meal.’ He shrugged. ‘I do remember wanting to learn how to bake but I couldn’t convince anyone to show me how.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  Cesar gave a small laugh. ‘My parents don’t work like that. You met them, albeit briefly. Can you imagine either of them baking cookies? I very much doubt either of them has even entered the royal kitchens, unless it was for some sort of publicity shot.’ He nodded. ‘I think once my mother did pose with Flavia and me with a bowl and a wooden spoon. In fact, I think that’s what triggered my desire to bake. The hope she’d actually make good.’

  The words were matter-of-fact, said with a suggestion of lightness, but Gabi sensed an undercurrent of sadness, and an image of a young Cesar flashed across her brain. A small dark-haired boy who had truly hoped his mother would make good, make the publicity illusion into truth.

  ‘Wasn’t there anyone else? I mean, how does a royal childhood work?’

  ‘There were many nannies.’ Again there was a shadow in his eyes. ‘And a royal agenda devised by our parents. An agenda that did not include baking. The idea being we had more important things to do, and achieve. That it was our privilege and our duty to act for Aguilarez and the ability to bake a cake would hardly advance our country in any way.’

  ‘But that doesn’t sound like much...fun.’

  ‘Fun wasn’t a priority in our childhood.’

  Gabi wondered if that was how her father had thought, understood more now why her mother had panicked, hadn’t wanted to bring her child up in the royal household, bound by royal rules.

  ‘Is that what you believe? How you would want to bring up your children? Because that isn’t my plan. I am going to be a hands-on parent and if my child wants to bake then my child will bake. And I don’t care if it advances Casavalle or not.’

  ‘I take it you know how to bake?’

  ‘I do. My Aunt Bea taught me, though she didn’t let me lick the spoon and it was what she called “functional baking”. So that I would be able to make the meals, make useful things.’ After Bea’s death Gabi had discovered a well-thumbed book on how to raise a child, including a section on functional baking. The find had touched her, made her realise anew that Bea and Peter had been thrown into a guardianship they had been truly bewildered by. ‘I always used to imagine, though, that my mother would have baked gooey chocolate creations with me, with sprinkles and icing and...’ Sometimes the image had been so clear she had almost been able to hear Sophia’s laughter. ‘Not that I am complaining. Functional baking is important too.’

  ‘It would be OK to complain.’ Cesar hesitated. ‘It must have been hard to lose your mother so young, however good your aunt and uncle were.’

  ‘I don’t really remember her, just a few elusive memories that I’m not even sure are true. And there are no photographs. I understand why now—she must have been worried about being recognised.’

  ‘And you had no idea who your father was.’

  ‘None. I know now that my aunt and uncle must have known—they can hardly have missed the fact that my mom married a king—but they maintained complete silence. All they told me was that my mother had never told them the identity of my father.’ They had rarely spoken of Sophia and, soon realising they didn’t like to discuss her mother, Gabi had stopped asking. Now she understood their reticence—the letter from her mother had explained that she had asked for the promise of secrecy, and Bea and Peter had maintained that promise to the end.

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  Gabi nodded. ‘It was. In the end I made up a story; well, actually, I made up lots of stories. My father figured as a doctor, a soldier, a firefighter... Every hero in every book. Then every villain—I had him down as a criminal, a married man, et cetera, et cetera. Eventually I settled on a guy who couldn’t deal with the idea of parenthood.’ She lifted a hand to her face. ‘The worst thin
g was wondering if I’d passed him on the street, or if he was a customer in the shop. The realisation I wouldn’t have known him from Adam.’

  Cesar studied her. ‘I think you would have. If Vincenzo had met you—there is a definite family resemblance.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘No, not really. I met him on formal occasions—he was a formal man. I am not sure if anyone knew him well. Perhaps your mother did, perhaps Maria did, but he wasn’t a man who welcomed or wished for closeness. But he was a good ruler—he and Maria were respected and liked throughout Casavalle.’

  The words were a reminder of why they were sitting here, to consider the idea of a marriage. One that would be like Vincenzo and Maria’s—an alliance made in the hope of winning their people’s respect and liking. A marriage that offered respect and liking but not love. Though she believed that Maria and Vincenzo had achieved a closeness and a mutually supportive marriage.

  But she must be careful not to forget the boundaries, not get lost in the illusion.

  Putting her cutlery down, she gestured to the table. ‘That was delicious. Thank you, and thank you for the replacement history lesson. I truly enjoyed it.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘But now you need to return to Casavalle. Of course. But you are happy to arrange another date? I believe we should attend Antonio and Tia’s wedding together in three days’ time, but if we can fit another date in before that we should.’

  ‘Yes. But if it is OK with you, I’ll arrange it.’ It was time she took some sort of control; before he dazzled her into seeing this proposed marriage in a soft rose-tinted light. ‘I’ll contact you with the details.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CESAR APPROACHED THE Casavallian palace, aware of a sense of well-being, a swell of happy expectation. He frowned, suddenly uneasy though he wasn’t sure why. Campaign Marriage was going better than he could have hoped; the more he got to know Gabriella, the more he liked her, the more he believed that they could make a go of it. So there was no need for unease.

  Instead he needed to continue the good work. He entered the palace, where a staff member greeted him and led him up the ornate winding stairs.

  ‘Princess Gabriella is through here.’ Cesar followed through a state guest apartment, through the richly furnished living area to a spacious kitchen, where Gabriella stood by the marble-topped counter.

  She smiled at the retainer and thanked him and once the grey-haired man had left she turned to Cesar, who surveyed the preparations for their date. Two aprons, a recipe book and an array of ingredients, including a big mixing bowl and two wooden spoons.

  ‘We’re going to bake,’ she explained. ‘It’s what you wanted to do when you were little and I thought it would be fun.’

  Hell, there was that warmth again; the odd sensation of...of what? Being cared for?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I have also alerted the press, who will be allowed to come in and take photos of us in our aprons and take a picture of the fruit of our labours.’

  ‘What are we making?’

  ‘Decadent chocolate cake.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t made it before. Imogen gave me the recipe book, said she’d heard it’s good. I’ve got the ingredients, now I need to read the instruct...’ Her voice trailed off and as he looked at her, he saw a small flush mount her cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly but she shielded the book with an arm as she spoke.

  ‘Come on, Gabi. Tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell... It’s...well...the instructions...they are a little...um...racy.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Racy?’

  ‘Look. It really doesn’t matter. It just implies the cake has some...well...aphrodisiac properties.’

  ‘I think I’d like to see this.’

  ‘No...really.’ Quickly she shut the book and moved it out of his reach as he headed closer to her. Grabbed it as he reached for it and turned to face him with a shake of her head, her back against the counter, holding it above her head, with a half-laugh.

  ‘Nowhere to go,’ he said teasingly.

  And then he realised how close she was, so very tantalisingly close; he could smell the scent of pine from the tree mixed with her clean vanilla-spiced scent, and desire spun his head. As if she felt the exact same thing, her hand dropped to her side, still holding the damned book.

  ‘I don’t think we need any help from the cake,’ he murmured. And then he was kissing her, kissing her as if his life depended on it and it felt...incredible. Magnificent.

  He heard the thud as the book fell to the kitchen floor and she moved against him, and he entangled his hands in her hair, the soft silken tresses against his fingers, deepened the kiss and tasted her gasp of pleasure. Then all that existed was the scale of his desire; he wanted this woman with an unparalleled fierceness and it was only the recognition of the depth of that yearning that penetrated the fog of desire. Reminded him who this woman was. Gabriella Ross Valenti, soon to be Queen of Casavalle. This had to stop here, before he was no longer able to stop.

  He gently disengaged, his breathing laboured. Each jagged breath seemed to accelerate his heartbeat further—just looking at her flushed face, the desire-dazed look in her eyes—and he wanted to kiss her again and hang the consequences.

  OK. Stop right there.

  For once he couldn’t think of what to say.

  ‘I...’ She stopped, reached out a hand to the counter as if to steady herself and tried again. ‘I...we can’t keep doing this—kissing on every date.’ Her voice still hitched. ‘It’s... I’m worried it will mess with my head, fuzz my judgement and I...we can’t afford that. The decision we have to make is too important for that.’

  ‘Agreed. If you decide to marry me I need to know it is for the right reasons; I need to know we entered this agreement on the same page.’

  She smoothed her hair, ran a wondering hand over her lips and nodded.

  Forcing positivity into his voice, he gestured to the ingredients. ‘Now let’s bake this cake.’

  A nod and she leant down, picked the book up off the floor with a rueful look, and found the page with the recipe.

  The first ten minutes were spent in sharing the tasks, whilst fighting off the memory of that kiss. No easy task in itself, as they were of necessity still so close that he could catch a waft of her shampoo. As he read the instructions over her shoulder he had to fight the urge to lean over and nuzzle kisses along the nape of her neck. Knew the smell of cocoa powder as it dusted the air would always bring him back to this moment.

  ‘It’s good practice for children, isn’t it?’ she said and he blinked.

  ‘I think I may have missed a bit of the conversation.’

  ‘I meant that one day I can imagine showing my child how to do this and it got me wondering.’ She turned her face from him, stirred the mixture in the bowl harder and then paused, turned to look at him. ‘Tell me what sort of father you want to be.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is an interview question?’

  ‘Because in a way it is.’ Her voice was serious now. ‘If we get married it’s not like a fairy tale where we waltz off the page into the horizon of happy ever after. We have to think about the reality of what comes after we say we do. This is real.’

  ‘I understand that,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ She stirred with a little less gusto and then handed it over to him to continue. Almost as if it were some sort of symbol. ‘So what sort of father do you want to be? You must have thought about this, thought about the idea of having children?’

  ‘Um...’ He stared down at the mixture in the bowl, searched for inspiration. In truth the furthest he’d got to thinking about children was the general idea of not having them.

  Because the whole ide
a of parenthood terrified him. When he remembered how much he’d craved affection, love, attention, he knew that that was what he needed to give a child. Problem was he wasn’t sure he could, because he’d never been shown how, and the thought of letting a child down was unacceptable. If there was any chance of that he wouldn’t take the risk. An easy choice as he’d had no intention of marriage anyway.

  But now... That had all changed and panic clawed his chest. How on earth could he be a father? The idea threatened to choke him with its enormity. What if he really couldn’t be the father he knew every child deserved, couldn’t offer love? What if he was simply conditioned to repeat his parents’ mistakes?

  Gabriella was studying him. ‘Sorry. I know it’s a big question. But it is an important one. If we are to get married then hopefully we will end up responsible for another human being and that is an awesome and a huge responsibility. And here and now I am willing to put my credentials on the line. I have always wanted children, but only if it would be right for them. I wanted it to be the right time in my life so that I would be able to give them security, a home, as well as love. I wanted them to have a family life with two loving parents and siblings and huge Christmas meals and family holidays and...’ She shook her head. ‘I know I am painting a rose-coloured picture. I know there will be difficulties and arguments and tiredness along the way. I do know it will be real. But I want all that too.’

  A family. Kids in the plural. Christmas lunches. Family holidays. Events completely unlike the ones he’d experienced. Himself and Gabriella with a brood of dark-haired children, children with Gabriella’s wide smile and dimple. With her serious brown eyes, that could light up with laughter. The wave of panic threatened again and he forced himself to stem it as he faced the seriousness of her expression now.

  As she continued. ‘I didn’t have a father and I wanted one so very badly. I vowed that when I had children I would make sure I gave them a good dad, a good man who would care for them, protect them, carry them round on his shoulders, help them with their homework...be there for them. I can’t marry a man who won’t be a good father.’