‘I completely understand your reservations, Your Majesty,’ Rafe said. ‘Because Sophie is your sister and you love her and care about her welfare and, obviously, I’m not the prospective husband you would have chosen—mainly, I suspect, because I am not royal. But I have a vast fortune at my disposal as well as the ways and the means to protect the Princess as she has always been protected. You need have no fears about her future.’
‘That is not the point,’ snapped Myron, uncrossing his legs and sitting up, ramrod-straight. ‘I have had you investigated.’
‘Of course you have,’ put in Rafe calmly. ‘I would have done exactly the same in your position.’
Myron’s face darkened. ‘And your family is...disreputable, to say the least.’
‘We have a somewhat colourful history, that I won’t deny,’ said Rafe wryly. ‘But I won’t do wrong by your sister and nothing you can say or do will change my determination. Because I intend to marry her, with or without your permission—although it would be better if we could do it with your blessing. Obviously.’ His fingers tightened around Sophie’s as he gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Back in New York, I made a vow to the Princess that I would be faithful and true and I am repeating that vow today, in your presence. For I intend on being the best husband I can possibly be.’
Sophie felt quite faint. Nobody ever talked to Myron like that. Nobody. And nobody ever kept interrupting him that way either. She looked into her brother’s face, expecting to see the first hint of the simmering rage which his courtiers knew to beware of, but to her astonishment there was nothing but a flicker of frustration in his eyes, which gradually became a gleam of reluctant acceptance.
‘You are a strong man, Carter,’ observed Myron slowly. ‘And a woman needs a strong man. Very well. You have your permission to marry my sister. She will come to you with a generous dowry.’
‘No.’ Rafe’s voice was firm. ‘Sophie will bring to the marriage only what she wishes to bring. Some sentimental trinkets or the like, but nothing more than that.’
Some sentimental trinkets?
For the first time since she’d accepted his proposal, Sophie felt a shimmer of apprehension as Myron stepped down from his throne and she watched as the two men shook hands, almost as if they were sealing some kind of business deal. And the thought which had taken root in her head was now stubbornly refusing to shift, because wasn’t that exactly what they were doing? The shimmer became a shiver. What she’d just witnessed had been a kind of battle between two very alpha men who were both used to getting their own way.
She realised now that if Rafe had backed down or buckled underneath the weight of her brother’s arrogant royal power—or greedily accepted a reward—then the marriage would never have taken place. Somehow, Myron would have put a stop to it. He might have threatened to destroy Rafe’s company or found an area of his life to target, an area which was ripe for exploitation. She would put nothing past him, for he had been furious when Prince Luciano had announced that he could no longer marry her. He had been angry on behalf of his jilted sister but there was no denying that he had seen the move as a slight to the royal house of Isolaverde.
But Rafe hadn’t buckled. He had shown himself to be powerful and indomitable. He had stood up to Myron in a way she’d never seen anyone do before and he had won her, as a man might win a big prize at a game of cards.
Pressing her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she told herself to stop wishing for the impossible. To get real instead of trying to spoil her enjoyment before it had even started. Because this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She wanted Rafe—a man who made her feel alive. Who made her senses sing. Who made her think she was capable of anything. Hadn’t he told her that, back in New York, and hadn’t she been almost hugging herself with delight as they’d flown to her island home? And yes, there were limitations to the way he felt about her—he’d been completely upfront about that. He wasn’t promising her love and fairy-tale stuff. He wasn’t spinning lies and pretending to have feelings which were alien to him. And shouldn’t she be grateful to him for that?
But as Myron stood up and prepared to take his leave of them Sophie was aware that gratitude was the very last thing on her mind.
‘Thank you, Myron,’ she said, aware that her voice was lacking the joy she’d expected to feel. All she could feel was a sudden and uncomfortable sensation of flatness.
‘I have put Rafe in the Ambassadorial suite,’ said Myron, his eyes glittering. ‘Even though I understand you’ve been living together in New York, I suggest we don’t bombard the palace staff with too many changes all at once. A commoner husband is going to take some getting used to and I think it’s best you don’t share a room until after your marriage. Let tradition reign supreme. I think we should adopt a softly-softly approach.’
Sophie glanced up at Rafe, expecting him to object to this as well. To a man with his healthy sexual appetite it would seem old-fashioned and hypocritical to be put in separate rooms. But to her astonishment, he simply nodded.
‘That sounds perfectly agreeable,’ he said.
‘Good. And I should be honoured if you would be my guest at the New Year’s Eve ball we hold here in the palace each year. It will be a good time to introduce you to the great and the good of Isolaverde. We can announce your engagement on New Year’s Day.’ Myron looked straight into Rafe’s eyes. ‘If that also meets with your approval?’
‘Absolutely,’ answered Rafe. ‘I should be honoured.’
But as the King swept from the throne room Sophie couldn’t shake off a distinct feeling of disenchantment—remembering the way the two men had talked about her as if she were nothing but an object to barter. Suddenly, it felt as if she had been slotted straight back into her familiar restricted role of princess. As if the stiff mantle of being a royal had settled over her shoulders and was threatening to stifle her. The woman who had shovelled show and beaten eggs while wearing a silly little Santa outfit now seemed as if she belonged to another life.
She accompanied Rafe and a small convoy of servants through the maze of palace corridors to the luxurious Ambassadorial suite and when they were alone at last, and the servants dismissed, he took her in his arms. It should have felt like heaven to be this close to him again, but Sophie couldn’t shake off the notion that it just didn’t feel right.
‘Now,’ he said, his thumb grazing over her breast and the warmth of his breath fanning her lips. ‘What shall we do next? Any ideas?’
She swallowed. ‘We’ll have to get ready for dinner and my rooms are at the opposite end of the palace to yours, so I’d better... I’d better get going.’
‘Dinner can wait,’ he murmured as he ran his other hand down her spine to cup the curve of one buttock.
This was the point when she normally began to dissolve, when her blood would grow heated and her skin sensitive as she anticipated his lovemaking. But all Sophie could feel was an acute self-consciousness, the easy familiarity all but gone. She felt as if people were watching. Listening. Wondered if the servants were hovering in the vicinity, eager to know if the Princess was being intimate with the commoner she had brought into their midst. She froze. Rafe’s fingers felt alien against her skin as he popped the buttons on her shirt and it flapped open. She felt as if this were all happening to someone else as he unclipped the front fastening of her bra and her breasts tumbled free.
‘Dinner can’t wait.’ She swallowed as she stared down at his fingers—olive-dark against her paler skin as he stroked her breast—but for once her knees weren’t growing weak and her nipples weren’t tingling. For once she could feel nothing. ‘That’s something you’d better get used to,’ she added. ‘It is always served on the stroke of eight and to be late will be seen as an insult to the King.’
‘So? That gives us a couple of hours.’ He nuzzled her neck with a lazy kiss. ‘Plenty of time for what I have in mind. I hav
en’t made love to you in hours, Sophie—and I’m beginning to get withdrawal symptoms. But if you’re telling me that we’re on a tight schedule, then maybe we won’t bother with bed. Maybe we’ll do it...right here.’
She couldn’t stop him. She told herself she didn’t want to stop him and that much was true. Because she kept thinking that her familiar passion would return as his lovemaking progressed. So she let him push her up against the wall and slide her panties down over her thighs, and helped him as he carefully tugged the zip down over his straining erection. She even stroked on the condom just as he’d taught her to, but she didn’t get her usual thrill of pleasure as he made that first stifled groan when he entered her.
She did everything she always did, wrapping her legs around his back, feeling the swing of her skirt against her naked thighs and burying her face in his neck as he thrust deep inside her. But today she couldn’t free herself of a slight sense of guilt. She’d always seen herself as others saw her, because that was the way she’d been brought up.
Always be aware that someone could be watching you, Sophie, her mother used to say primly. Because someone usually is.
So that now, part of her was observing a princess pressed up against the wall with her panties down by her ankles, as Rafe thrust in and out of her.
She felt him begin to shudder and she whispered soft and muffled words in Greek to him. Words of excitement and encouragement and she kissed his lips hard and passionately when he came, hoping that would disguise her own lack of orgasm.
Neither of them spoke for a moment and when the last of his spasms had died away, she pulled out of his embrace. Awkwardly, she stooped to pick up her panties, her hair falling over her flushed face as she stepped into them again. ‘I’d... I’d better go,’ she said. ‘And...settle in.’
‘Sure.’
His face was curiously guarded as she put her bra and shirt back on and tidied up her hair, but he said nothing more as she left for her own section of the palace. And even the sight of her familiar rooms did little to soothe feelings which were ruffled by more than her scary lack of reaction to Rafe’s lovemaking. Was her prolonged taste of freedom responsible for the sense of alienation she now felt in the environment she’d grown up in?
She looked at the canopied white bed, positioned beneath a soaring golden ceiling which had seemed so impossibly high when she was a little girl. She picked up a photo of her parents at a ball they’d attended before she was even born, her mother wearing the dazzling ruby and diamond necklace which Sophie had been destined to wear when she married Prince Luc. A necklace which now belonged to another woman...
Putting the photo back down, she showered Rafe’s scent from her skin and then walked over to the wardrobe. The lavish clothes she found inside were worlds away from the cheap shorts and T-shirts she’d worn at Poonbarra, where she’d blended in and felt like everyone else. Running her fingertips over the soft fabrics, she put on a floaty dress of a blue so pale it was almost white, and went down to dinner.
The meal was held in the State banqueting room—a setting designed to show the palace at its most splendid. Old gold and cream roses were massed into glittering crystal vases and tall gold candles flickered all the way along the centre of the table. It felt like a jolt to be back amid all this lavish and very obvious luxury again and Sophie tried to shake off the feeling of being on show. She was next to Myron, who she could tell was making a big effort to be nice to her. She kept expecting him to berate her for her impetuosity in running away, but instead he asked her about life at Poonbarra—and it was all she could do to keep the wistfulness from her voice. And she detected an undeniable sense of relief in his attitude towards her. Was the King glad that his troublesome little sister was soon to be off his hands at last—passed from the care of one powerful man to another?
Rafe was seated next to Mary-Belle—with the Isolaverdian Prime Minister on the other side. Sophie watched as he charmed both her little sister and the high-ranking politician who had recently approved an extension to the country’s world-famous oceanographic museum. Who knew Rafe was such an expert on marine science, or that he’d once scuba-dived in the Galapagos? She sat and listened as he made her sister giggle. Over the top of her golden goblet she saw him smile at something the premier had said and Sophie’s heart began to pound beneath the delicate material of her silk-satin dress. He looked so gorgeous sitting there, but she thought he also seemed...distant. There were no meaningful looks slanted at her from across the wide expanse of the table. No suggestive smile. And whose fault was that? Had he noticed her lack of response earlier, or had he been so caught up in his own passion that he hadn’t noticed? She wondered if she should have faked an orgasm, yet something deep inside her baulked at the thought of doing that—because wasn’t this relationship of theirs supposed to be based on honesty?
Except it didn’t feel so honest right then. It felt as if she was hiding stuff away from him. As if she knew it would appal him to realise the direction of some of her thoughts.
It was no better when the evening broke up and they were each assigned a servant to take them to their separate suites. Rafe gave her only the briefest of kisses before they parted—but what else could he do in front of all those silent, watching faces?
She slid between the cool sheets, wondering if he would steal through the vast palace to find her, so that they could try to make right that awkward one-sided coupling of earlier. She stared up at the ceiling, realising that this was the first night they’d spent apart since that moonlit seduction in the swimming pool. Were these cold and gilded walls responsible for deadening her physical response to her lover, or was it that a lifetime of conditioning was hard to throw off overnight?
Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, thinking about the sparkling engagement ring which Rafe would slide on her finger on the first day of the new year.
And she couldn’t shake off the thought that it seemed all wrong.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
UNDER THE CURVING arches of a galleried ballroom an orchestra played and Rafe looked around him. Beneath the low murmur of voices, he could hear the occasional aristocratic laugh and bell-like sound of champagne glasses being chinked. Even for a man who had attended more than his fair share of dazzling occasions, the Isolaverdian New Year’s ball was quite something.
He could sense people’s eyes on him—at least, everyone’s except Sophie’s. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze as much as possible. He wondered if she was remembering that unsatisfactory episode of lovemaking yesterday, when she’d been about as responsive as a block of ice in his arms. His mouth flattened because that had never happened to him before—a woman staying ice-cool even while he was deep inside her body. And Sophie wasn’t some random lover he could just forget about, or decide that maybe they weren’t so compatible after all. He shook his head as someone offered him a glass of champagne. She was the woman he had vowed to make his wife and he knew it was a lifelong commitment.
A middle-aged blonde—a fortune in emeralds dazzling around her neck—was making no attempt to hide her interest and even though he was used to being stared at, it had never felt like this before. He was aware that his every movement was being observed, his every comment noted and analysed. Was this what being royal was all about—along with all the damned rules and endless protocol which seemed to make this palace seem like a giant institution? Was that the reason Sophie had been so uptight the moment she’d stepped back on familiar territory? Why she was scarcely recognisable as the warm woman he’d grown to know?
He glanced across the ballroom as she strayed into his line of vision. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, her dark hair studded with sapphires and a matching midnight-blue gown hugging her slim figure. But she looked cool and aloof as she greeted the high-born guests and once again that feeling of unease settled over him.
He had asked her to be his bride b
ut he couldn’t deny that doubts had started to creep into his mind since they’d arrived here in Isolaverde. Back in New York, it had all seemed ridiculously simple. He’d been on a high—amazed to find a woman whose company didn’t irritate him and dazed from the non-stop and amazing sex. They’d each dragged out their demons and shone daylight on them and confronting them had seemed to diminish them. She’d told him she wanted a family and marriage; well, so did he. And the cherry on the cake as far as he was concerned was that neither of them was chasing after that disappointing fairy tale known as love.
But in the high-octane buzz of the city it had been easy to forget that Sophie was a royal, while here it had been in his face from the moment they’d touched down. And nothing was ever going to change that. He wanted children of his own—but hadn’t he overlooked the fact that any child he sired with Sophie would be royal by birth? As soon as they were born, wouldn’t expectation be heaped all over their innocent heads? Could he willingly subject any child of his to a life beneath the glare of the spotlight?
Sophie was walking towards him and he could see people bobbing into curtseys as she moved past. ‘So. There you are,’ she said.
‘Here I am,’ he agreed, his eyes capturing hers. ‘And I’m all yours. Dance with me?’
She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips as he took her into his arms and the orchestra swelled into a slow and sensuous waltz. He could smell a different scent on her skin, something warm and spicy, and he felt the punch of his heart as he drew her close.
‘Having fun?’ he questioned.
‘Of course!’ Her voice sounded bright. ‘How about you?’
‘This is certainly a very elaborate production,’ he said dryly.
Now what did he mean by that? Sophie glanced up into Rafe’s hard-boned face but his shuttered features gave her no clues. She thought how unapproachable he looked this evening, even though she kept trying to tell herself she was imagining it. But deep down she knew she wasn’t. Things had been awkward between them since that disorientating episode of sex when she hadn’t felt a thing. They hadn’t discussed it because neither of them had acknowledged it—and hadn’t she been secretly praying he might not have even noticed? That his own pleasure had been powerful enough for it to have passed him by? But the truth was that he hadn’t laid a finger on her since.
A Royal Vow of Convenience Page 13
