by Annie West
Because once she’d loved him with all the desperate, optimistic yearning of her young, innocent heart. She’d been drawn not just by his looks and charisma but by the way he noticed her. Shakil had made her feel special, as if she wasn’t ordinary but remarkable. He’d shared new experiences with her, laughed with her, worked to please her with a generosity and charm that had seduced her completely. Now she realised she’d never really known him.
He tilted his head as if assessing her.
What did he see? An ordinary—too ordinary—young woman. Arden wasn’t in the same league as Princess Ghizlan—beautiful, gracious and glamorous. Arden was a working class mum. She’d never owned a couture dress or mixed with the rich and famous.
Nor was she beautiful. Beneath the bright but untameable hair lurked an ordinary face, a short nose and mouth that, while well shaped, wasn’t wide enough for current tastes. She juggled work and motherhood, was more at home singing nursery rhymes and cooking eggs with toast soldiers than dining in an elegant room like this.
‘You’re not thinking straight.’ His jet eyebrows lifted and his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits, but Arden refused to be intimidated. ‘This is a knee-jerk reaction. When you consider you’ll realise the idea of us marrying is...’
‘Logical? Long overdue? The best thing for Dawud?’
Arden shoved her hands on her hips, whipping up outrage. ‘I was thinking more ludicrous, unnecessary and painful.’
‘You think marriage to me would be painful?’
Arden couldn’t tell if it was shock or fury tightening his face but he morphed from broodingly aggressive to fearsome in the blink of an eye. Idris looked like a marauder planning a raid on some unprotected outpost.
A shiver ripped through her but she stood her ground. ‘You’d find it painful. I’m not cut out to be a royal wife.’
And it would be painful for her, living a parody of the life she’d once imagined with the man she’d loved.
A slashing gesture, like the downward slice of a sword, dismissed her argument. ‘You can learn.’
‘I’m not interested in learning.’ Why couldn’t he see they were mismatched?
He stepped forward, not stopping till she felt his warm breath on her upturned face. Arden swallowed as a frisson of fear skated down her backbone.
‘It may have escaped your notice, Arden.’ He lingered on her name and the frisson became something else. Something that made a mockery of her antipathy. ‘But it doesn’t matter what you’re interested in. What you and I want no longer counts. What matters is what’s best for Dawud.’
Stupidly, her breath caught. He’d touched a nerve. She’d do anything for her son, anything to ensure he had a bright, stable, happy future.
Except what Idris suggested was a recipe for disaster.
She folded her arms. ‘Dawud doesn’t need us to be married. It’s far better if he has parents on friendly terms than ones making each other miserable because they married the wrong person.’
‘Who do you want to marry?’ It was out like a shot. ‘My cousin?’
Arden backed a step and found her way blocked by a chair. ‘No! Hamid is a friend, that’s all.’
‘Then who do you want to marry?’ Idris stalked closer and Arden wondered how she’d ever considered him easy-going.
‘No one. I was speaking in general terms. But that does raise the question of love.’
‘Love?’ He said it as if it was an alien concept.
‘Of course.’ Was he being deliberately difficult? ‘If one of us fell in love with someone later...’
Idris shook his head. ‘There’s no danger of me falling in love with anyone else.’
For a split second the old Arden, the one she thought she’d left behind years ago, waited for him to declare he’d fallen for her all those years ago on Santorini.
It couldn’t be true. That dream was ancient history. Yet her voice was husky. ‘Why not?’
‘I’ve never been in love and nor will I be. No one in my family marries for love.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re renowned for being impervious to romance. Call it an inherited failing.’
‘I see.’ Stupid to feel disappointment. She’d known she’d only been a holiday fling. She’d long ago acknowledged her feelings for him were the product of girlish romanticism in the face of her first real crush.
‘Unless you’re afraid you’ll fall in love?’
Arden’s laugh was short and cynical. ‘Definitely not.’ The reality of becoming a single mother a week before her twenty-first birthday had shredded her romantic fantasies, even if seeing Idris again evoked shadowy memories of what she’d called love. She was too tired just getting through each day to think about romance.
‘Good. Then that’s not a problem.’
Arden shook her head. ‘But there are plenty more.’
‘Such as?’
Was he serious? The whole idea was laughable.
‘Your people won’t accept me as Queen.’
‘My people will accept any woman I marry.’ It was said with a conviction that told her it was the absolute truth.
‘I couldn’t accept the restrictions of being a woman in your country. Your traditions are different to mine.’
That pulled him up short. Arden watched his brow crinkle.
‘It’s true our traditions aren’t the same,’ he said slowly, ‘but change is happening. My country is very different to the way it was four years ago. Besides, as my wife, you’d be able to model change for other women, to lead the way.’
‘Princess Ghizlan would do that far better.’
He shook his head, his lips flattening. ‘How many times do I have to tell you she’s out of the picture? I can’t ask her to marry me in the face of this scandal. The only decent thing I can do, for everyone, is marry you.’
That put her in her place. She was nothing but an albatross around his neck.
She heaved in a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble the news has caused. To all of us. My life’s not going to be easy either, at least for a while. But it’s not my fault. Nor do I think jumping into marriage is a solution. All I want is what’s best for Dawud.’
‘At last we agree on something.’
His words gave her hope. Maybe he could be persuaded. She hadn’t exactly been tactful in rejecting his proposal. If you could call his statement that they’d marry a proposal!
Arden lifted her lips in a small, conciliatory smile. ‘You’re right. That’s a starting point, isn’t it?’
He gave no answering smile and Arden wondered how often people argued with the Sheikh of Zahrat. Was he so used to having his own way he couldn’t concede there were other options?
‘Look. Why don’t we sit down and discuss some possibilities?’
To her relief he stepped back, allowing her to slip into her vacated seat. Just in time. Stress and weariness had taken their toll. Her legs shook as if she’d run all the way to the top of St Paul’s Cathedral.
Idris settled beside her. ‘You were saying?’
‘Well...’ She slid a fork across the tablecloth, watching grooves appear then disappear in the fine linen. ‘Perhaps he could spend part of the year with you.’
Just saying it stabbed pain through her chest. She couldn’t imagine a day without Dawud. Her breath snared in an audible hiss.
But she had to be realistic. Dawud should have a chance to know his father.
‘As a part-time prince, you mean? Living sometimes in my palace and sometimes in your basement flat?’
Arden’s head jerked up. His voice was cool, almost detached, but surely that was anger she heard?
‘It makes more sense than pretending the three of us can be the perfect family.’
‘I’m not asking for perfection, Arden.’
She bit
down her retort that he hadn’t asked anything. But bickering would get them nowhere. She had to put aside resentment and fear and think of what was best for Dawud. Even if being with Idris made her feel trapped. ‘Sharing him is a workable compromise.’
‘You really think Dawud can go back to the life he used to lead now I know he’s mine?’
Arden stiffened. The heavy silver fork thudded to the table. She worked hard to provide for her boy. ‘Why not? A dose of working class reality to compare with palace life might be a good thing.’
Idris shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. The damage is done now the world knows Dawud is my son. It’s my duty, as well as my wish, to have him live with me. If I don’t I’d be remiss and I’d be thought weak by my people. It would be an insult to you too, if I didn’t marry you. And an insult to Ghizlan if I rejected her then didn’t marry the mother of my son.’
Arden gritted her teeth. ‘I’m a person in my own right.’ She didn’t care what his people or his Princess thought. All she cared about was Dawud.
‘You would let your personal preferences stand in the way of Dawud’s happiness and safety?’
‘You’re exaggerating. I’ve cared for him perfectly well up till now.’
‘That was before.’ A large hand covered hers, clamping it to the table. She was surprised how reassuring that touch felt. ‘You’ve only had one day’s taste of what the press can do. Do you want to put Dawud through that again and again?’
A chill invaded her bones. ‘Surely once the novelty wears off...’
‘Arden, this won’t go away. Ever. Whenever there’s an item of news about my country, or a slow media day, or a significant event for you or Dawud—a birthday, his first day at school, even weekend sports—the press will be there, snapping candid photos. They’ll rehash the story—the difference between my life in the palace and his in London. Every step he takes will be pored over, particularly since he’s so photogenic. Every decision you make as a mother will be scrutinised and judged.’
She was almost grateful for the warmth of his hand as her skin crawled at the picture he painted.
‘Dawud won’t have anywhere to hide. He’ll be hounded, a freak for the press to exploit.’
Arden ripped her hand away and pressed it to her pounding chest. ‘Dawud isn’t a freak!’
‘Of course not. He’s a perfectly normal little boy.’ Idris’s voice curled comfortingly around her. ‘I want him to stay that way.’
‘By making him live in a palace!’
Idris’s chuckle was rich and far too appealing. It reminded her of Shakil, the man who could make her heart turn over with just a smile. ‘You make it sound like a prison. Believe me, Dawud can live a more normal life there than in London. In Zahrat I can protect you both.’
Arden swallowed a clot of apprehension. It was too extreme to contemplate. Yet in her heart of hearts she knew Idris was right. She and Dawud couldn’t go back.
A great shudder racked her.
‘I suppose we could try living in Zahrat, if you helped find us a house.’ Could she work there? Did they even have florists? She put her hand to her temple, where a dull thudding headache had taken root.
‘You would live in the palace. As my wife. It’s the only sensible option. Together we can give him a stable home, no end-of-week handovers and complicated custody.’ Idris didn’t look aggressive now, just coolly composed. As if he knew he held all the aces.
Arden slumped in her seat. She felt cornered, her mind whirling fruitlessly as she sought alternatives to the one Idris presented.
‘This is about Dawud,’ he murmured. ‘About what’s best for our boy.’
Our boy. Not his son, or her son. Our boy.
That one small phrase bridged the gaping chasm between them. It made her feel less alone.
That shouldn’t matter. She was used to shouldering responsibility. Yet there was a disarming allure to the idea of sharing this load.
‘I need to think.’ She slid her hand out from beneath his. ‘I need time.’
‘Of course. I’ll come for your decision at nine tomorrow morning.’
* * *
At four the next afternoon, and after a night of soul-searching, Arden became betrothed to Idris, Sheikh of Zahrat in front of a throng of witnesses.
She’d planned to reject him. The idea of tying herself to the man who, accidentally or not, had left her floundering four years before, rankled. She wanted to walk away, defiant, independent and dismissive.
But she, more than most, understood what it was to be utterly alone and unprotected. If anything happened to her... No, Dawud had the right to grow up secure and loved, free from press intrusion, free to accept his birthright if he wished. And from all she’d been able to discover from the Internet, Idris would work as hard at being a good father as he did every other responsibility. He had a reputation for honest dealing and care for his subjects.
Yet her signature on the contract was shaky, like a child’s just learning to write, because she trembled all over, her stomach twisting in knots. Beside her on his throne Idris signed with a slashing flourish that reflected complete ease.
No doubt he was used to signing important papers. But as she stared at the massive parchment with its gilt edging and beautiful decorative calligraphy border, Arden felt she’d signed her life away. Hers and her son’s.
A chill clamped her neck and shoulders and her heart pounded so hard she was surprised no one heard it. She’d had no real choice, yet still she worried—
‘Let me be the first to congratulate you.’
She looked up to see Princess Ghizlan. In an amber silk suit and a fortune in pearls around her throat, she looked every inch the glamorous, aristocratic princess. Everything Arden would never be, despite the costly outfit Idris had provided as an alternative to her ancient jeans.
Surprisingly the other woman’s smile was warm and Arden felt grateful. She’d been alarmed when she’d spied the Princess amidst the serious men in the throne room. After all, she’d been all but jilted because of Arden.
‘Thank you, Your—’
‘Ghizlan, please.’ She turned to Idris. ‘Congratulations on your betrothal, Your Highness. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
There was nothing in her face or his to indicate anything between them but calm goodwill. No tension, no fraught looks. Were they superb actors, Arden wondered, or was it true the match between them had been nothing but a formality? Arden’s head spun. This royal world she’d entered was confusing and unnatural.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was deep and grave, a reminder that this ceremony was about securing his son’s future, not anything as joyous or natural as a love match. He hadn’t smiled once today.
Because this is about duty and respectability. Nothing more.
Arden’s heart gave another heavy thump, rising up against her throat.
‘I wondered if I might steal you away to take some refreshment.’
Arden was on her feet instantly then paused, wavering. Was she supposed to sit beside Idris to accept congratulations? But he was getting up and, frankly, she’d had enough formality.
‘That sounds lovely.’ As she followed the other woman to the lavish buffet her stomach growled. She’d been too nervous to eat.
‘I’m the same,’ said Ghizlan softly. ‘I don’t eat before official engagements then I regret it. They go on far too long.’
Arden cast a sideways look at the statuesque woman now filling a fine porcelain plate with delicacies.
‘You really don’t mind about...me?’ she blurted out, then silently cursed her crassness. This wasn’t the time or place. But she was curious about this poised, beautiful woman who’d so nearly married Idris.
The Princess cut her a swift look. ‘Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.’ She nodded to lounges
in a corner Arden hadn’t even seen.
All she’d noticed on entering the room was the crowd and Idris, tall and unsmiling. Her pulse had tumbled out of kilter as she drank in his spare, handsome features. It horrified her that just looking at him left her breathless.
‘Arden? I may call you Arden?’
‘Of course... Ghizlan. I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted.’ She sank into a seat, carefully holding her plate of delicious-smelling food.
‘I’m not surprised. If you’re not used to these formal ceremonies they can be daunting.’ The other woman leaned close. ‘The trick is to have something else to think of during the boring bits. I do my best planning then.’
A smile tugged Arden’s lips and some of that horrible, wound-too-tight feeling in her stomach settled. ‘It’s good of you to be so nice to me. I didn’t expect—I mean, thank you. I didn’t mean—’
Ghizlan’s lustrous kohl-lined eyes widened, then she laughed, the sound rich and appealing. Male heads turned.
‘You’re absolutely welcome. I suspect I’m going to like you very much.’
Arden plonked her plate on a table and leaned closer. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out that way.’
Ghizlan waved away her words. ‘It’s good to hear someone so frank. You’ll understand once you’re hemmed in by diplomats and courtiers. And you’re right.’ She paused. ‘This is tough for all of us.’
‘I’m truly sorry about that.’
‘It’s not your fault. None of us had a choice once the news came out about your boy.’
Arden searched the beautiful face for signs of hurt but read nothing. ‘It must be especially difficult for you.’
Ghizlan looked away. ‘A diplomatic storm, that’s for sure. But it will pass. Our betrothal hadn’t been formalised, and now, if you and I are seen together on friendly terms things will ease a little.’
Slowly Arden nodded. That was why Ghizlan was here. It wasn’t simple goodwill behind this tête-à-tête. Disappointment stirred. ‘I see. You think this—’ her gesture encompassed the pair of them in the intimate cluster of seats ‘—will help stave off gossip?’
