There’d been a moment, as he’d looked up and seen her at the head of the staircase, when he’d been glad she was here. Not because it meant that at last they could have the interview he’d been dreading but because it was good to see her.
The feeling hadn’t lasted.
Eva being here meant unpalatable duty, even if it was for the best.
Then there was the way she’d reacted to him or, more precisely, not reacted. As usual. In her teens she’d been shy but engaging, and everything he’d heard about her from Leo and others indicated she was warm and generous. But in adulthood—with Paul, at least—it was another story.
To others she was charming and gracious, but with him cool and distant. To the extent that he’d wondered why she’d agreed to their engagement. Except he knew the answer to that. It had been arranged by their parents and she’d been left little choice.
It rankled that she didn’t care for him. That she’d never have chosen him for herself.
No wonder she held herself aloof. Never unfriendly, but guarded. Distant.
Unlike the woman leaning too close in his arms.
For a moment Paul wondered what it would be like to accept the implicit invitation in Karen Villiers’s wide eyes and sultry body. And instantly stifled the thought.
Honour dictated there would be no other women while he was betrothed. Even if he and his fiancée had never got more intimate than him kissing her hand.
Fire shot to Paul’s belly as the effects of four years of celibacy made themselves felt.
That was one thing that would change after tonight.
Was it any wonder he felt on edge? He was torn between the almost impossible demands of St Ancilla, and the need to preserve an illusion that all was well here, while keeping a lid on natural masculine desires. After four years of continuous strain he felt perilously close to the breaking point.
As the music reached its closing bars his gaze sought Eva. There she was, dancing with the famous film director who was here checking out locations for his next movie. Paul’s staff had labelled him difficult yet the guy was laughing at something Eva had said.
A dart of something sharp pierced Paul’s chest as he saw Eva’s answering smile. It transformed her composed features into something altogether different.
‘So, Your Majesty,’ said a throaty feminine voice. ‘I thought I’d end the night at the new night club everyone’s talking about. Is there a chance I’ll see you there?’
He looked into Karen Villiers’s face and read the invitation in her saucy smile. Not just to a night club but to something far more intimate.
‘I’m afraid not. I have further commitments tonight.’
Once more his gaze turned towards his fiancée, still deep in conversation with her dance partner, even though the music had ceased. Paul’s brow twitched. What did she find so fascinating about a man so famously self-absorbed? Her slim frame was tilted towards him as if she drank in his every word.
‘Ah, of course. I’d forgotten Princess Eva is here now.’
Paul turned his attention back to the woman before him. Did she really think he’d lope off to a rendezvous with her, leaving his fiancée in the palace? Or that he’d been available for an affair until the Princess had arrived, as if out of sight was out of mind?
Suddenly Ms Villiers’s sex appeal dimmed.
Eva might not care for him much but they understood each other and had grown up with the same values, the same sense of dedication to duty.
He supposed it was remarkable in his case, given the example of his appalling father. Yet maybe it was because of him that Paul had leaned the other way, choosing integrity over dishonesty. Plus, there had been the influence of his mother and tutors, all determined to make him the sort of ruler his father had never been.
Paul realised he was scowling and rearranged his features into a smile. ‘It’s kind of you to invite me. I hope you enjoy yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.’
It took an inordinate amount of time for the ballroom to empty. Finally he was alone with his fiancée.
Eva stood, as still as one of the statues on the wide terrace outside. Only her eyes, an unremarkable smudge of colour between grey and blue, hinted that she wasn’t as sanguine as she appeared.
Paul recalled her surprising hint of concern before the ball and wondered if she’d guessed his discomfort. That would be a first. They’d never been close enough to share secrets or develop a sense of intimacy.
He drew a slow breath. He wasn’t looking forward to this.
‘Do you fancy a nightcap, Eva? It’s been a long evening, but we need to talk.’
Did he imagine that she drew in a sharp breath? Certainly her breasts rose high beneath the shimmery fabric of her royal blue ball gown.
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
She turned and walked with him, nodding to the members of staff waiting outside the ballroom ready to come in and restore it to its usual pristine splendour. She paused before the chamberlain and the chief housekeeper, congratulating them on the success of the event and the staff’s efforts tonight.
It was the sort of thing Paul usually did. And it proved how easily Eva fitted into his world. On the face of it she made the perfect partner. He had no doubt that she’d support her husband in every way she could, sharing the burdens of royalty with grace and goodwill.
His gaze snagged on the pale shoulder bared by her dress and the sweep of her slender neck up to her neat chin. Standing beside her, he was aware of her suddenly as a desirable woman rather than a life partner in a dynastic marriage neither of them had asked for.
Then she turned, caught him watching, and the remnants of her smile died.
One thing was clear. Eva didn’t desire him. Sometimes he wondered if she even approved of him. Did she think he was tarred with the same brush as his dead father? Bitterness coated Paul’s tongue at the thought of his old man, repugnant in so many ways and still the source of most of Paul’s problems.
But he was being unfair to Eva. His fiancée might be cool and self-contained but she’d never been disapproving or disagreeable. Simply distant.
Paul gestured for her to precede him into the King’s study. It had changed since his father’s day, devoid now of the massive gilded desk and rows of unopened books. In their place was a modern desk, filing cabinets, framed maps of the country and a couple of comfortable lounges, which was where he led her.
‘What will you have?’ he asked as he un-stoppered a single malt.
‘Whisky would be good, thanks. With a touch of soda.’
Paul shot a startled look at his betrothed. ‘Whisky?’ The most he’d ever seen her drink was a glass of wine over dinner.
Eva shrugged and once more his attention was drawn to the expanse of pearly skin left uncovered by the gown that sat off her shoulders. It wasn’t revealing in the way Karen Villiers’s dress had been—blatantly provocative—yet Paul felt a tangled thread of desire snarl in his belly.
Tonight Eva’s air of untouchability was tempered by something else. Something deeply feminine and alluring.
As for untouchable, he recalled the feel of her in his arms, poised and regal, yet disturbingly warm and unquestionably feminine.
Four years of celibacy...
That must be the reason.
Abruptly he turned and poured two whiskies. Large ones.
Dutch courage?
He told himself this would be straightforward. Yet he had to tread carefully so as not to turn a perfectly sensible idea into a diplomatic nightmare.
‘Please,’ he gestured to the leather sofas, ‘have a seat.’
With one last unreadable look his way, Eva subsided in a wave of royal-blue silk. The colour suited her, he decided as he leaned forward, passing her drink.
As ever she took it carefully, her fingers never touching his.
Paul jerked upright, teeth clenching. As if he needed a reminder that he wasn’t her personal choice of husband! She might not say it out loud but her body language made it abundantly clear.
How on earth did she expect to get through their wedding night? By closing her eyes and thinking of her duty as a Tarentian princess?
He swung away and stalked to the window. Floodlights illuminated the perimeter of the palace gardens in the distance. A far cry from when his father had been King and they’d spent a fortune lighting up all the ornate gardens throughout the night, wasting precious energy.
‘Paul? What is it? You said you’d explain. Is everything... Are you all right?’
He spun on his heel, surprised by the note of concern in Eva’s voice. Or had he imagined it?
‘I’m fine.’ He lifted the tumbler of whisky and swallowed, letting the fiery warmth burn its way down. ‘But I have something important to discuss.’
Now it came to the moment, this was more difficult than he’d anticipated, though he was doing the right thing.
It struck him how weary he was of always doing the right thing. Of the onerous treadmill on which he ran, juggling the demands of his nation, his family and his father’s creditors. For four years he’d done his best, achieved things he’d never believed possible, snatching success from the jaws of disaster. His father, dead from a massive stroke less than six months after his abdication, hadn’t lived with the consequences of his actions. Nor had his mother returned to St Ancilla to support her son. Instead she lived a life of genteel retirement in Paris.
‘I’m listening.’ Eva was ramrod-straight, the glass cupped in her hands.
Because she feared what he might say? Yet it was Eva who’d benefit from what he must do, Paul who would pay the consequences.
He hefted a deep breath, looked down at the drink in his hands then up at his betrothed.
‘I’m releasing you from our engagement, Eva. It’s over.’
Copyright © 2020 by Annie West
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ISBN-13: 9781488073021
Chosen for His Desert Throne
Copyright © 2020 by Caitlin Crews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chosen for His Desert Throne Page 17
