by Robyn Donald
Rosie pulled herself together to smile, to assume what she hoped was the happy air of a newly betrothed woman. ‘Thank her, and tell her I’m not so sure about many sons, but if the ones we have are as brave and handsome as you I’ll be content.’
And was surprised to see a tinge of colour along his arrogant cheekbones as he relayed this to the housekeeper, who laughed and bustled away, still chuckling. He pulled out a chair for her, and waited until she sat down.
‘I didn’t expect you to go ahead and announce everything without talking to me about it,’ she said quietly.
He sat down, the sunlight sifting through the flowers to give his black hair a dark ruby sheen. The warm light played over his classic Mediterranean features, their beauty reinforced by uncompromising strength. Eyes so close to gold shouldn’t be cold, but Gerd’s were right then.
Rosie’s heart clamped painfully. What had she done?
Too late now to ask herself that question. She’d made a decision and now she had plenty of time—all her life—to repent it.
Or make the most of it…
A note of exasperation coloured his voice. ‘I am sorry if the speed of the announcement bothers you. Perhaps I should have offered you time to become accustomed to the idea of marrying me, but I thought you understood that we might not have that luxury.’
Well, she’d left herself open to that. Biting her lip, Rosie nodded. He had made it plain. And she had agreed.
It was time to stop behaving like someone who wanted to be loved. If she kept this up he might suspect that she was longing—aching—for his love, and pride was all she had now.
‘I did.’ Her voice trembled a little, and she had to take a breath to steady it before she could go on. ‘I didn’t realise that a day or so would make any difference.’
‘It might not have,’ he admitted, pouring two glasses of champagne.
He’d seen her in so many ways—exquisite in her balldress, elegant in the softly pastel silk suit she’d worn to his coronation, casual in shorts and a suntop on the yacht.
Naked in his arms…
Every muscle in his body contracted in swift, violent desire. She only had to look at him to rouse that unsparing hunger.
But today she seemed…subdued, her glow dimmed, her face shadowed as though she’d lost some essential part of herself.
He said, ‘I should have told you what I was planning to do. I’m sorry.’
Why had he not? He wasn’t prepared to ask himself that question, nor to explore exactly why he felt uneasy. He had no difficulty in reading the moods of most people, but Rosemary was different; although she seemed bright and open on the surface, it was hard to know exactly what was going on behind that sunny face.
And that was all the apology she was likely to get, Rosie decided wryly as she accepted the glass and put it down on the table. Gerd had been born an autocrat, and his upbringing and position had simply grafted more formidable layers onto a nature already dominant and decisive.
He reached out a hand, palm uppermost. ‘Am I forgiven?’
She put hers into it, watching as it was swallowed up in his tanned fingers. ‘Marriage is—or should be—a partnership, even if by marrying you I automatically become your subject. And partners discuss things with each other.’
‘I stand corrected.’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Little rills of sensation ran up her arm, and her breath came shortly through her lips.
When he released her he said levelly, ‘My private secretary will be arriving in a couple of hours. We’ll be discussing how to organise the wedding, so of course you will sit in on the session.’
Rosie’s heart dropped. His words made the future seem suddenly much closer. However, she’d been the one who wanted to know things. ‘How long will it take for the wedding to be organised?’
‘About a year,’ he said casually. ‘But first there will have to be an official betrothal ceremony. That will be a family occasion in the palace chapel, but it will mark the official start of our life together.’
An opinion that was echoed by the private secretary, a thin, middle-aged man who greeted her with a smile and a shrewd, although respectful survey. He’d probably expected someone six inches taller and elegant, she thought gloomily, someone whose family tree was clotted with titles.
The private secretary went on in his careful English, ‘That will give us time to organise it in a suitable manner, and it will also give you, Ms Matthews, time to become known to the people of Carathia, to learn the language and become accustomed to us.’ He smiled benignly at her. ‘It will be a busy year for you, so it will travel fast.’
Clearly he thought she was panting to marry Gerd.
When the interview was over and the secretary had gone to another room to draft the final announcement, Gerd said, ‘We need to make quite a few decisions before your mother arrives.’
‘Like what?’ she asked warily.
His smile lacked humour. ‘Like a date.’
Faced so brutally with the impact of her agreement, she said, ‘It won’t really matter to me. I don’t organise my diary a year ahead, and as far as I know Mother doesn’t either.’
He nodded. ‘Then there is the question of where you will live for this next year. I suggest that you move into Kelt’s house in the capital. He has already agreed, but of course the decision must be yours. I will supply you with a household.’
Colour drained from her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath before opening them again. ‘Gerd, this is not going to work. A household? I wouldn’t know what to do with a household except the housework.’
‘Calm down,’ he advised. ‘What has happened to that backbone of yours? I’ve always admired your courage and your resilience.’
Rosie flicked him a mutinous glance. ‘Anyone can be courageous and resilient when it’s not a matter of their entire future.’
But the compliment warmed her heart sufficiently for her to listen when he said calmly, ‘I refuse to believe that the bold, gallant girl I know was just a sham. And this is not negotiable. This morning you made me a promise; I accepted your word and acted on it.’
If he said this once more she’d—she’d bite him! She must have been mad and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that this morning, still fogged with sex, she’d have promised him anything.
When she said nothing he went on, ‘So it is decided. You’ll need a social secretary who knows court etiquette. I have someone in mind for that, but the ultimate decision must be yours.’
‘How hard is Carathian to learn?’
‘It’s difficult,’ he admitted, ‘but not impossible. You’ll have lessons, and of course you’ll hear it spoken all the time; you’ll probably be surprised at how quickly you absorb it.’
‘I can deal with learning the language,’ she said trenchantly. ‘But why did you feel obliged to force the issue? Do you need a wife—any wife—that much? And if you do, why on earth—when there must be a hundred or so women out there, much better equipped to deal with the sort of life you lead—did you pick on me?’
He sent her a look that should have quelled the tumbling words, but perhaps he recognised the hurt beneath them because his voice was almost gentle when he said, ‘You know why.’
‘Because we’re good together in bed? How very shallow of you, Gerd!’
Chapter Eight
THE scorn in Rosie’s voice should have flicked Gerd’s imperturbable control, but his steady regard didn’t waver. ‘That is not the sole reason,’ he stated, a cynical smile curling his mouth. ‘I think you will make an excellent Grand Duchess once you’ve got used to the idea.’
He sank a hand into her curls, gently pulling her head back to expose the length of her throat, vulnerable and creamy. ‘And we are more than good together,’ he said in a low, abrasive voice that sent ripples of sensation through her, ‘we are bloody sensational.’
Rosie closed her eyes against his intense, devouring gaze. ‘Don’t you dare use
sex against me,’ she said, but her tone lacked conviction, and she wasn’t surprised by his rough purr of a laugh.
‘Why not? It works so well,’ he parried, and kissed the corner of her mouth, the lightest of kisses, so soft she barely felt it. ‘And I give you licence to use it against me whenever you feel like it. I’d enjoy that.’
No doubt, because he wasn’t a slave to his emotions. He didn’t love her…
Her skin tightened at the drift of his particular scent, that faint, evanescent fragrance that somehow had the power to overwhelm her common sense. The ripples of excitement became torrents, converging, building, heating every cell into molten anticipation. Hunger was like a drug, a reckless need that stopped her brain from working and changed her into some infinitely wanton stranger.
She opened her eyes, miserably aware that the fire he summoned had burnt away the proud rejection she wanted to make. This was Gerd, and she loved him. More than that, she trusted him. He’d promised fidelity; she was sure he wouldn’t break that vow.
And she couldn’t think of anything she wanted more than to be his wife, to bear his children…
So she’d follow her heart. In time he might learn to love her as wholly, as completely as she loved him—arrogance and all, she thought wryly. But she’d have to learn to be content with what he could give her, and if that was his respect and his affection and his lovemaking—well, many women had settled for less and forged happy lives.
Neither of them had had a normal childhood; Gerd’s parents had died young, and, although his grandmother had loved him, she’d been a distant figure, intent on matters of state. Rosie had grown up lacking the loving support most children took for granted. But she knew now that Gerd would be a good father, and together they’d make sure their children didn’t lack the love and security that came when parents were in a committed, stable relationship.
He said quietly, ‘I think it will be better if we don’t make love until you are sure there will be no chance of pregnancy.’
‘I—yes.’ Her voice shook and she said fiercely, ‘Why is everything so complicated?’
Without hesitation he answered, ‘Life is complex, and made more so because we humans are a difficult lot, passionate and unreasonable and wanting things we know we shouldn’t have.’
And Gerd was more complex than most.
Rosie glanced up to see him studying her face, his mouth disciplined into a straight, decisive line, eyes half-hidden by long lashes—yet not so impossible to read that she couldn’t discern the speculation in them.
Did he suspect that she loved him?
The thought brought hot blood to her skin, so embarrassing that she turned her head away and walked across to the window to stare unseeingly out at the blue, blue sea.
What would she do if he could never match her feelings?
If she’d learned anything about him these past few days, it was that his duty to his country would always come first.
Looked at pragmatically, a wife who loved him would be perfect; that he didn’t love her would give him the emotional freedom to concentrate on Carathia and its people and their welfare.
The thought of that was unbearably painful.
But hell, she thought cynically, the sex was good. No, it was more than good; as he’d said, it was fantastic. And she wasn’t her mother, seeking an unattainable, fairytale love.
Or perhaps she was…
She turned her head and looked at him. He met her gaze, his eyes steady and direct.
Did she have the strength to walk away?
‘I’ll try not to disappoint you,’ he said quietly.
Half a loaf is better than no bread.
The pragmatic, sensible thought popped into her brain from nowhere. How many times had she railed at it, demanding the whole loaf?
Now she realised she was going to accept what Gerd could offer.
Mind made up once and for all, she nodded. ‘And I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.’
Vows of eternal love weren’t applicable, she thought ironically, yet this simple exchange went a little way to ease the hungry yearning inside her.
‘So what happens now?’ she asked.
‘We go back to the capital.’
‘Must we?’ The words escaped before she had a chance to consider them.
‘Much as I’d like to stay here, we have to.’ Gerd’s tone left no room for objections, but he softened slightly when he said, ‘We need to have official portraits taken as soon as possible—tomorrow morning, in fact. My private secretary has organised a selection of clothes for you to choose from. I’d like you to wear something from a local designer.’
He paused as though expecting further objections, but Rosie nodded. That made sense. What didn’t was the shiver of apprehension that chilled through her.
Gerd went on, ‘In three days’ time, once your mother and Alex and Hani and Kelt have arrived, there will be the official betrothal ceremony.’ His expression indicated this was not negotiable. ‘It’s a traditional ceremony for family and friends, but you’ll need to choose something to wear for that too—something formal.’
Startled, Rosie looked at his uncompromising face. ‘As in long?’
‘No. Formal day clothes—hat, gloves et cetera. I’m sure you know what sort of thing. If not, then the designer will advise you on the correct attire.’
Butterflies tumbled around in her stomach. ‘It sounds as though this is a rehearsal for a wedding.’
‘It’s a long-standing tradition in the country, and a lot of people would feel the marriage was scarcely legal if it wasn’t held.’
Reacting to his dismissive tone, Rosie asked tersely, ‘Are there any other traditional occasions I need to know about?’
‘Not immediately. After a week or so of festivities which we’ll be expected to attend, things will settle down and you can move into Kelt’s house.’ He paused, then added, ‘I suggest you ask your mother to stay with you for a month or so.’
‘My mother?’
‘She is your mother,’ he reminded her coolly. ‘Your only living relative apart from Alex.’
‘Presumably this whole jolly family party thing is because it’s important that my family—what there is of it—and yours are seen to accept the engagement?’
She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘our engagement’.
‘That’s part of it.’ Gerd’s voice didn’t encourage her to go on, but she persisted.
‘And the other part?’
He shrugged. ‘After those damned photographs I want to put as official a slant on our holiday as it’s possible to do.’
Rosie could see his point. In that photo they hadn’t looked like a betrothed couple. They’d looked as though they couldn’t wait to get into bed together.
Although her nerves were strung tight and twanging, she gave a sparkling, mischievous grin. ‘Oh,’ she breathed, ‘I can just see it now—this is going to be such fun! Mother can’t resist provoking Alex in every way possible, but when he lifts that eyebrow of his and cuts her down to size with a few scathing words she loses her temper. And then—pouf! Fireworks to match that display we saw from your windows.’
‘Don’t worry. Alex will be fine.’
‘It’s not Alex I’m thinking of,’ she told him prosaically.
Gerd’s expression hardened. ‘Your mother will be fine too,’ he stated.
And she was. Oh, the tension was there—it always would be, Rosie suspected—but Eva was on her best behaviour, saving her comments for when she and Rosie were alone.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said, looking around the suite allotted to her.
Rosie said aloofly, ‘Don’t worry about that.’
Eva glanced at her. ‘I know what it’s like to marry the wrong man. I’d just as soon not watch you do it.’
Rosie felt uncomfortable. Her mother was a beauty, one of those rare women who defied the years, but her expression had settled into lines of petulance. She’d never spoken befo
re of her husband and the marriage that had only lasted for a few years.
And Rosie didn’t want to discuss it. Her father had been fond of her in his absent way; it seemed disloyal to listen to him being denigrated when he wasn’t alive to defend himself.
‘You won’t be doing that,’ she said with far more confidence than she felt.
Her mother shrugged. ‘At least you’re older—just—than I was when I married your father. But you have to realise that if you marry Gerd there’ll be no divorce. The Carathians haven’t progressed much since the Middle Ages. Their attitudes—especially in the mountain people—are still rock-solid conservative. If it doesn’t work out you’ll have to stick it out.’
When it doesn’t work out, her tone implied. Before Rosie could say anything Eva went on, ‘And, although there’s huge prestige and glamour in being almost a queen, there must also be a lot of boredom.’
Struggling to control the tension that gripped her, Rosie said with a slight snap, ‘I don’t bore as easily as you do. And I didn’t realise you knew so much about the Carathians.’
‘Your father came here several times when he was married to Alex’s mother.’ Eva turned away to concentrate on the view out over the city and the mountains. ‘He found them an interesting study. Until they discovered that stuff they mine for computers they were stuck in a kind of time warp—poverty-stricken and mediaeval. I can’t see that thirty years of prosperity will have changed them that much.’
Possibly not, but Gerd’s plans to educate them would help. Rosie said crisply, ‘I’d already worked that out, although I doubt if they’re quite as mediaeval as Father thought them.’
Her mother lifted her shoulders again. ‘Very well, I’ve said all I had to say. Now fill me in on what’s going to happen.’
Briefly Rosie told her of the formal betrothal ceremony that would cement the engagement in the eyes of Gerd’s subjects, and the events that would follow when she and Gerd would be on show.
‘Quite a programme,’ her mother said with a lift of her brows. ‘Is Alex here?’
