by Jane Porter
“And what do you get out of this, Makin?”
His lips brushed hers, sending an electric shiver dancing up and down her spine. “You.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY were supposed to be having a pre-dinner cocktail with her parents that evening in the elegant wood-paneled chamber her father favored, but her mother hadn’t yet appeared.
Emmeline was sitting on the narrow loveseat with Makin at her side but she couldn’t get comfortable, not when his thigh pressed to hers.
He was warm and making her warmer. And she couldn’t relax. Her thoughts were absolutely chaotic and running wild at the moment.
But then, they had been all day, ever since she’d woken up and discovered that Makin had asked her father for her hand.
Which made no sense. At all.
Why would Makin do that? He said he wanted her. But that made no sense, either.
It really didn’t.
Emmeline shot Makin a mistrustful glance from beneath her lashes. He was big, powerful, wealthy, gorgeous. he could have anyone … and he said he wanted her?
No. Impossible. Her father had to be paying him something. But Makin was one of the richest men in the world. He didn’t need money.
“If your father wasn’t here, I’d kiss that look off your face,” Makin growled at her, his voice pitched so low only she could hear him.
Emmeline cradled her glass of ice water closer to her stomach and hissed, “Stop acting like a caveman. I’m not something you can just tackle and drag next to the fire.”
“No? I quite like the idea.”
She cast him another reproving glance. He didn’t quell in the slightest, but then, Makin was tall, strong, thickly muscled. “You’re unbearable. Now please scoot over. You’re crowding me.” Which was true. They were smashed together on this tiny settee as if they really were a newly engaged couple. A couple in love.
He was a horrible man.
A horribly confident and terribly appealing man.
She wondered yet again what he’d be like in bed.
Emmeline’s insides suddenly flipped, her breath catching in her throat, her breasts exquisitely sensitive.
“It’s called cozy, Emmie.”
“Well, I don’t like it.” Because sitting this close to him, she couldn’t see, hear, feel or think of anything but him. And the way he kissed. And how his hands felt on her. And how she felt when he was holding her.
She liked it when he held her. Liked his mouth on hers, and her body against his and she’d never felt this way about anyone before. She’d never wanted anyone before and she wanted Makin. But she wanted more than just lips and hands and skin. She wanted all of him.
Which was so confusing.
“I didn’t pick this room, or the couch,” he retorted.
True. This was the room reserved for close friends and family, and despite the high ceiling and tall windows framed in rich dark green velvet curtains, the chamber was filled with petite antique pieces that had been passed down for generations. Pieces that had been made hundreds of years ago for people who were definitely smaller than they were today.
“I wonder what’s keeping your mother,” her father said with a frown. “Perhaps I should go check on her?”
“I can go, if you’d like?” Emmeline offered, seeing an opportunity to escape.
“No need for you to race around in your condition,” William answered, setting his drink on an end table. “You stay and relax. I’ll enquire after your mother.”
Makin glanced down at her as the door closed behind her father, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “Nice try.”
She stood up, walked away from him. “This is all so. fake.”
“How so?”
“Our engagement—”
“No, that’s real. I asked for your hand in marriage, and we are getting married tomorrow.” He paused. “By the way, you look incredible.” His voice deepened with appreciation, his gaze slowly drifting over her bared shoulder to the pink-and-plum shirred fabric shaping her breasts and outlining her flat tummy, before falling to a long train of pale pink at her feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look better.”
She glanced down at the asymmetrical neckline of her dress and then lower, to where the plum color gave way to the pink over her hips. It was a very slim, very body-conscious evening gown and in another month or two she’d start to show and she wouldn’t be able to wear it. “It’s the dress,” she said, touching the bodice covered in crystals. “Couture does that for a woman.”
“It’s the other way around, Emmeline. You make the dress.” He held his hand out to her. “I have something for you.”
She shivered as she glanced at him where he sat on the small antique couch. He was huge and the couch was tiny and she could still remember the way it had felt to sit so close, the heat of his hip warming her, the corded muscle of his thigh pressing against hers. “You make me so nervous, Makin.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But every time I look at you, I get butterflies.”
“Then I’ll come to you.” He left the couch, walked toward her and, removing a ring box, he snapped it open.
Emmeline blinked at the enormous diamond ring cradled by the darkest blue velvet.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
Her fingers curled into a fist. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ring. The diamond was huge. Four carats? Five? “Is that what I think it is?” she whispered, mouth drying.
“Yes.”
“I can’t wear that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s ridiculous, Makin. Far too extravagant. Something small and sentimental would have been nice—”
“It’s my mother’s wedding ring.”
“Oh.” She exhaled in a whoosh, and looked up at him apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way—”
“You jump to conclusions too quickly.”
Her heart was racing now. She felt almost sick. “I know. Another fault of mine,” she murmured, putting her left hand in his. She was shaking as he slid the ring onto her finger. The stone was an immense princess-cut diamond, and smaller diamonds crusted the narrow band.
The ring was stunning. It glinted and sparkled as it caught the light.
Tahnoon Al-Koury had given this ring to Yvette, Makin’s mother. Makin now gave it to her. Her heart suddenly ached. “It’s really lovely,” she said huskily.
“And so are you.”
Her head lifted. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m not. Not really.”
“How can you say that, Emmeline?”
“Because I’m not.”
“Have you looked in a mirror?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you see?”
“Faults, flaws—” She broke off, bit hard into her bottom lip. “Makin, I’m not the woman in the magazines. I’m not that beautiful, glossy princess.”
“Thank God.”
Her head jerked up. Her eyes met his.
“I don’t want a wife who is beautiful but fake, Emmeline. I want someone real. And you, Emmeline, are real.”
He was prevented from saying more by the arrival of her parents. Her mother led them to dinner in the Crimson Dining Room. The table, of course, was impossibly elegant, with the royal china being used on top of heavy silver chargers. Crystal glittered beneath the antique chandeliers and dinner was subdued, conversation stilted, for the first half hour of the meal. But the wine was flowing freely, and as the second course was removed, Queen Claire became livelier.
Emmeline glanced nervously at her mother, aware that alcohol always made Emmeline’s father quieter and her mother more chatty. Claire was becoming extremely chatty—practically verbose.
Makin was still on his first glass of wine and Emmeline wondered what he was thinking.
Makin caught her glance and smiled at her, which made her stomach do a funny nosedive.
He was really too good-looking. Feeling jittery and shy, she glanced down
at her left hand resting in her lap to study the enormous engagement ring. It was the whitest stone she’d ever seen, and the exquisite cut continued to catch the light, glinting bits of blue, white and silver fire.
She glanced at him again and discovered he was looking at her, his silver-gray gaze intense.
Tomorrow night at this time they’d be married. Husband and wife. And from what he’d said earlier, he intended to be a real husband to her….
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Claire repeated, gesturing for one of the footmen to fill her wineglass again. “She’s always been a problem. From the time she was an infant. There has never been a baby that cried so much.”
Emmeline felt Makin’s gaze on her again, but this time she looked pointedly away, a small, tight smile on her face. She wasn’t a problem. She didn’t know why her mother always seemed to think she was. It’s not as if Claire had ever taken time to know her. They were rarely alone together. Her parents had busy, important lives and Emmeline had been raised by hired help—nannies and tutors—before being sent to a very small private girls’ boarding school in France not long after she turned fourteen.
The boarding school had a reputation for being strict, but Emmeline had been happy there. There was order to the day and the rules were logical and consequences appropriate to the crime. Emmeline didn’t mind that fraternizing with boys was absolutely forbidden.
School was the place she could escape her mother’s unsmiling gaze and the tension that permeated the d’Arcy family palace.
“You can’t really blame her, Claire, she was quite small at birth,” her father interjected, rousing himself from his usual silence. He glanced at Makin, brow furrowing, bushy gray eyebrows pulling together. “She was not even four pounds when we got her. I think the nanny tried five different formulas before we found one she could tolerate.”
“See? Emmeline has always been impossible to please,” Claire added thickly. “Even as an infant, she had a temper. She’d cry for hours. Refused to be comforted.”
“Babies cry,” William said.
Emmeline glanced at her father, surprised that he was defending her. He rarely took on her mother, but perhaps the wine tonight had given him liquid courage.
William’s expression softened as he gazed at her. “You look lovely tonight, Emmie.”
She was touched by the compliment. Her lips curved in a smile. “Thank you. It’s the dress—”
“It’s not the dress,” William interrupted. “It’s you. You’ve grown up and you are … you look … just like her.”
“Who, Father?”
“William!” Claire rebuked.
But William lifted a hand as if telling his wife to be quiet. “Your … mother.”
“I’m her mother,” Claire corrected stiffly.
“Birth mother,” William amended.
Goose bumps covered Emmeline’s arms and the fine hair at her nape stood on end. Stunned, she glanced at Claire and then back to her father. “Did you know my birth mother?”
“Yes,” her father answered after the faintest hesitation. “And we think, in light of tomorrow’s ceremony, you should know who she was, too.”
Emmeline’s pulse raced. Her hands shook in her lap. “Who was she? What was she like? Did you ever meet her?” The questions tumbled from her as fast as she could say them.
“Of course we met her,” Queen Claire answered brusquely. “We wouldn’t adopt just any baby. We couldn’t raise just any child. We adopted you because you were … different.”
“Different?” Emmeline repeated wonderingly.
Claire took a sip of wine. “Special,” she added coolly. “You weren’t just any baby. You were royal.”
A moment ago Emmeline’s heart had raced. Now her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. “Royal?”
“Your mother was Princess Jacqueline,” her father said, getting to his feet. “My sister.”
Emmeline shook her head. “No … I don’t … no …”
“It’s true,” Claire said flatly, slurring a little as she stared into her now-empty wineglass with some consternation. “William’s baby sister. You were, what? Ten years older than her?”
He stood next to the table, fingertips pressed to the cloth. “Twelve.” He sounded grave. “She wasn’t planned. My parents had given up on having another. She was quite a surprise.” His voice suddenly quavered. “My parents adored her. I did, too. No one imagined that by sending her away … no one could have dreamed … it was a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake.”
Emmeline’s head spun. “I don’t understand. My aunt Jacqueline died at twenty from a rare heart condition—”
“That was a fabricated story her parents told the public to cover the sordid facts of Jacqueline’s death,” Claire said with great relish. “Your mother died giving birth to you. Now you know the truth.”
For a moment all was silent and then Emmeline spoke. “All these years you’ve known, but you hid the truth from me. Why?”
“It didn’t seem relevant,” Claire answered.
Emmeline exhaled in a rush. “Perhaps not to you, but it’s everything to me.”
Claire banged her hand on the table. “And why is it so important?”
“Because.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” Emmeline rose, stood for a moment with her fingertips pressed to the table. “It’s how I feel. And I have a right to feel what I feel. I have a right to be who I want to be. I think I’m going to have coffee and dessert later. If you’ll excuse me.”
She turned now to Makin and offered him a devastating smile. “Would you care to join me, darling?”
Makin would never forget that moment. He would have clapped if it had been appropriate. It wasn’t.
But this. this was why he wanted her. This was why she was his.
She was brilliant. Stunning. Majestic.
He’d listened to the revelation regarding her birth mother in silence, disgusted that William and Claire had kept the truth from her and even more disgusted that tonight’s dinner was when they’d chosen to share the news.
But they had. And Emmeline had handled it with grace, strength, dignity.
He loved her for it.
She was every inch the royal d’Arcy princess. Daughter of Europe’s beloved Princess Jacqueline d’Arcy.
Jacqueline would have been proud.
He rose to his feet, buttoned his black dinner jacket. “Yes,” he said simply, firmly, and offered her his arm.
Emmeline’s legs felt like jelly as they exited to the hall and she was grateful for Makin’s arm. Grateful for his support.
Her legs continued to feel like jelly as she climbed the stairs to her room and she held his arm tightly, thinking she couldn’t have gotten through this without him.
He gave her confidence. He made her feel safe. Strong. Good.
As if she truly mattered.
And somehow, with him, she almost believed she did.
Emmeline swallowed hard as they approached her room. “Never a dull moment around here, is there?”
“No,” he agreed, opening the door for her and then following her inside.
She wandered around the room for a moment, too agitated to sit.
She wasn’t the daughter of a Brabant commoner. Her mother had been Princess Jacqueline, Europe’s most beautiful royal, and she’d died in childbirth. She’d died giving life to her.
It was terrible. Tragic. But at least Emmeline now knew the truth.
“So now you know,” Makin said quietly, arms folded across his chest. “It was a horrible way to find out, but at least you know. There are no more secrets. No more skeletons in the closet. It’s all out in the open.”
Emmeline turned, looked at him. “If she hadn’t had me, she’d be alive.”
“If her parents hadn’t sent her away to give birth in secret, she would have lived.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, and rubbed her arms. �
�And here I am, twenty-five years later, single and pregnant, too.”
“Yes. But things happen, mistakes happen, and we learn from them. We grow from them. And I look forward to starting a family with you. I think it’s going to be quite interesting.”
Her lips curved in a tremulous smile. “It certainly will be a change.”
“And an adventure.” He smiled back at her. “You’re good for me, you know. You’re shaking things up. Making me feel alive.”
“And you give me confidence. I’m already stronger because of you.”
“You were always strong. You just didn’t know it.”
“I wish it were true.”
“It’s true.” He closed the distance between them, and took her hands in his, kissing one palm and then the other, and finally her mouth.
He was just deepening the kiss when her bedroom door opened and a muffled cough came from the hall.
Makin lifted his head and, blushing, Emmeline faced her father who was standing in the hall holding an enormous garment bag. “It wasn’t all the way shut,” William said gruffly. “I can come back later.”
“No,” Emmeline said, cheeks still hot. “Come in, please.”
William hesitated. “I don’t know if this will fit, but it was Jacqueline’s. She wore this gown for her debutante ball. Mother saved it, and I thought perhaps you might want to wear it for the wedding..” His voice drifted off. He swallowed uncomfortably. “You might already have something—”
“I’d love to wear it,” Emmeline interrupted him, taking the garment bag from him. It was surprisingly heavy. Must have a huge skirt. “But you didn’t have to bring it here yourself. You could have sent it with one of the maids in the morning.”
“I know. Claire said the same thing, but I wanted to see you. To make sure you were okay.”
“Come in,” she repeated, carrying the garment bag to the bed.
“I shall go,” Makin said, “and let you two talk.” He dropped another kiss on Emmeline’s lips before walking out, closing the door quietly behind him.
William stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets. “My timing is terrible.”
“I’m glad you’re here. There are so many things I’d like to know.”
