Constance turned the pages reverently, breathing in that familiar smell of very old parchment and worn leather binding. ‘Yes, it looks like the same edition.’
‘I believe you said your father sold his copy?’
‘Did I?’
‘“We did have a huge library once, at Montgomery House, but Papa sold all the books. Some of them were very valuable. So now the library is home to a collection of cobwebs.” Which I teased you about by suggesting you had meticulously catalogued them.’
‘Good grief, do you remember everything in such detail?’ Constance asked, awed.
Kadar shrugged.
‘And books too, do you memorise those when you read them?’
‘Not everything. Certain things stick in my mind. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘You answered it for me.’
‘Constance, it is not like you to be obtuse.’
She flushed, still slowly turning the pages of the atlas. ‘My father is one of those men who believe that the latest hare-brained scheme in which he invests will finally be the one which makes his fortune. Sadly, his eternal optimism has yet to be rewarded.’
‘That is why you are en route to India? To provide your father with more funds, to permit him to continue this—this financial mania of his?’
Constance closed the atlas carefully. ‘I’ve never considered it a mania, but Mama has always said he can’t help himself.’ Her lip curled slightly. ‘He certainly seems incapable of listening to reason when he is in the grip of it.’ She picked up the atlas, slotting it back into its place on the shelf, and then began to walk along the length of the bookcases, gazing sightlessly at the volumes. ‘Whatever one calls it, the result is that he has sold everything of value that can be sold, he’s deep in debt and the estates which have been in the Montgomery family for generations have been mortgaged to the hilt. Frankly, I believe a spell in a debtor’s prison might be the only thing to bring him to his senses, but his title protects him from that fate which is probably just as well, because Mama would see it as her duty to go with him. Mama thinks—’
Constance broke off to clear her throat. ‘My mother is convinced that the funds which my—my betrothal has provided will be the saving of him. Enough to pay off the mortgage on the estate and all his debts and provide them with a comfortable income. But comfortable has never been sufficient for my father. I don’t really think he’s particularly interested in being rich either. It’s not the money, it is the pursuit of it which excites him.’
‘And will continue to excite him while he has money to fuel his mania,’ Kadar said.
‘Yes,’ Constance said in a small voice, ‘that is exactly what I fear. I knew—I knew in my heart, Kadar—that it was a mistake, but Mama begged me and begged me. And she was so— I think she truly did believe that he would turn over a new leaf as he promised. As he has promised so many times. He doesn’t care who has to suffer and my mother makes it easy for my father to ignore her suffering. But this time there was nothing left, you see.’
‘Except you.’
‘Except me.’
‘So that is why you agreed to this marriage. Not for your father, but for your mother?’
Constance risked a glance at him, but Kadar’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Yes.’ She wandered over to the window to gaze out at the rows of palm trees, noticing with vague surprise the posse of guards climbing the slim trunks with practised ease to set the lanterns in their fronds. ‘You must not think Mama wholly lacking in feelings for me though, it is just that she cares first and foremost and quite foolishly for my father. She really thinks that money will make him happy and that in turn will make her happy, and if one accepts that logic then one can see that she would also believe that a rich husband would make me happy too. It is nonsense of course, but when one is faced with a distraught mother and a father reminding his daughter that he has supported her for twenty-five years and that the time has come for her to—’ She broke off, embarrassed by the sudden well of emotion. ‘‘Well, there you have it.’
‘Indeed,’ Kadar said drily.
‘You think I should have resisted.’ Constance leaned her forehead against the glass pane. ‘I tried. Perhaps not hard enough. I don’t know. I didn’t see the matter quite so clearly until after I sailed, and by then it was too late.’
‘Constance...’
‘I’ve never wanted a husband, Kadar, and do you know what the worst aspect is?’ she demanded.
He shook his head.
‘Acquiring a rich husband is the worst possible thing I could do, because my father has no doubt already spent my dowry. All my marriage will do is provide him with access to a further source of funds. My husband will become his banker. And where does that leave me, Kadar? I’ll tell you where it leaves me—it leaves me in a prison of my own making.’ Her voice quivered. She took a deep breath, refusing to give way to tears. ‘There, now you know the sordid story of my betrothal, and no doubt find the whole situation as distasteful as I do.’
‘It seems to me that of the three people involved, you are the only one who has behaved with integrity.’
Constance sniffed. ‘Thank you, but if I had been true to myself, I would have refused. A wife has no freedom save what her husband grants her. Her body, her mind, even her children, belong to him. My mother told me that if I was an amenable wife, then I would never want for anything.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You could not find a more amenable wife than Mama. She is the kind of wife whom people—my father included, naturally—commend for her unstinting loyalty, her unfailing affection, her many sacrifices and her determination to make light of them. I don’t want to have to be that amenable.’
‘You have never considered the possibility that after you are married, you may come to care for this man to whom you are betrothed?’
‘How is it possible to feel affection for someone to whom one is utterly beholden? And even if one did—though I can’t believe it possible—do you think a husband acquired in such a way would believe it anything other than cupboard love? Or were you thinking of true love, Kadar? Now that really would make matters worse, for it would make one not a prisoner but a slave. I would not be so foolish.’
‘Have you ever been so foolish, Constance?’
‘Oh, yes. I swooned over one of our grooms when I was sixteen,’ she answered lightly. ‘Then there was the Russian acrobat in a travelling troupe—I went to see his performance every single night. And there is a blacksmith in the village at home whose physique makes every female who sets eyes on him working the forge go quite weak at the knees.’
‘You have a penchant for ineligible men,’ Kadar said drily. ‘That is one way of ensuring that you remain unmarried, I suppose.’
He was, embarrassingly, quite right. At least she was still running true to form. ‘And you?’ she said. ‘Do you have a penchant for unattainable women?’
She meant it flippantly, To tease him, to deflect him from seeing any deeper into her mind, but her words made him flinch. ‘Once,’ Kadar replied. ‘Which was more than enough. I will never make that mistake again.’
* * *
He had no idea what had prompted him to make such an admission. Constance was struck dumb. Outside, the sun had fallen, leaving the room mercifully gloomy, the light dim. Too dim, thankfully, for him to see her face. What a pitiable creature he had been back then. His toes curled inside his slippers as he remembered that doe-eyed youth, so certain that love could conquer all. How naïve he had been, how utterly lacking in worldliness. Butrus had been for ever teasing him about it, putting it down to his bookishness. Kadar shuddered. Thank the stars his brother had never guessed.
‘I’m so sorry. I was merely funning, I did not mean—did not think for a moment...’
Constance’s hand on his arm made him jump. He brushed her away, unable to bear her being
close enough to read his thoughts. ‘I am in no need of your sympathy. I do not know how we came to be discussing such a thing.’ Too late, he realised it was he who had introduced the subject. ‘It is quite irrelevant to either of our cases,’ he continued hastily, before Constance could point this out.
He waited but she did not, as she usually did, fill the silence. Did she sense how angry he was that she had unwittingly opened up that old wound? Coming home had brought it all back, that was all. The memories—he had to find a way of ridding himself of those memories. ‘It’s late,’ Kadar said gruffly. ‘It must be past time for your evening meal.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Was her voice teary? He had selfishly been thinking only of himself, forgetting those painful truths she had spilled out earlier. She had every right to tears. He could be furious on her behalf, if it would do any good. If he had any right to be furious. Which he did not. ‘You cannot stargaze on an empty stomach. Let me have something brought here. We can eat together.’
‘It wouldn’t be proper,’ Constance said. ‘Besides, you’ve probably got a thousand things to do. I should go.’
She turned away. She was right, they should not eat together. His meal would be set out in great state as usual in the Royal Dining Salon, and he did have a thousand things to do, but he didn’t want to let her go like this. ‘Constance,’ he said, ‘please stay. I’m trying to apologise.’
‘What for?’
Kadar rolled his eyes. ‘Forcing you to talk about your father,’ he equivocated. ‘I gave rein to my curiosity, even though it was clearly a painful subject.’
‘You didn’t,’ she said, ‘or at least, hardly at all. I blurted it all out, pretty much unprompted. It was embarrassing. It is I who should be apologising.’
She wasn’t crying, but her voice had that brittle tone that made it clear how much of an effort she was making not to. ‘Don’t,’ Kadar said, pulling her into his arms. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. You are the only one who has understood that the kingdom I have inherited comes at a cost to me. To those I can no longer serve, it seems I have been seduced by power, and as to those I now serve—I don’t think any of them ever could understand the appeal of the life I forged for myself.’
‘Have you ever tried to explain the appeal to anyone?’
Once, there had been someone. Had she really understood? He had thought so, but then he had thought them twin souls. Were his feelings so much stronger than hers? She had denied it. But she had not done as he had begged her. Kadar squeezed his eyes tight shut, as if the action would banish the memory. The past was dead, and so too was the life he had forged from its ashes. ‘It is done,’ he said, ‘gone. What would be the point in explaining?’
Silence. Constance’s face was pressed against his chest. Her hair tickled his chin, her body was warm against his, but he had no idea what she was thinking. Now he had a taste of his own medicine, for it made him uncomfortable, her silence. ‘It was a long time ago, and no longer painful,’ Kadar said. No lie, because it ought not to be painful, had not been painful until...
‘But it must be painful,’ Constance exclaimed. ‘If you truly loved her, this woman. What was her name?’
‘Zeinab.’ It was the first time he’d said it aloud in years. It sounded so strange coming from his lips. Just thinking of her name, all those years ago, could conjure her up, but now he still couldn’t recall her face. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.’
‘Did she love you?’ Constance persisted. ‘Why wouldn’t she marry you?’
‘She could not,’ he said stiffly.
‘Oh.’ He could see her struggling to suppress the obvious question, and felt unaccountably relieved when she succeeded, though the one she asked was not particularly welcome either. ‘This woman is the reason you have never married, then?’
‘It is a foolish man who does not learn from his mistakes. Now we will close the subject, if you please.’
‘Of course.’ Constance freed herself from his embrace. ‘I think I’ll go and do some work now, if you will excuse me.’
He didn’t want her to go, which is why he stopped himself from asking her to stay. Night-time was dangerous territory. Daylight was safer. ‘Tomorrow, if you like, I will show you my plans for Murimon. Not the paper version, but the real locations. We can head out at dawn. Until then, Constance.’
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Until then, Kadar. Goodnight.’
* * *
After she had gone Kadar had some food brought to the library, but ate only a little fruit. Opening the window, he stepped out onto the small terrace above the piazza, drinking in the soft, warm night air. Constance had unsettled him. She was the only person who seemed to care anything for his thoughts and his feelings, the only person who saw the man and not the Prince, but her understanding, while it touched him, also disturbed him, stirring up feelings he was working hard to repress. Because they belonged to the man, and not the Prince.
What was the point in regretting what he had willingly given up? What was the point in hankering after a life that was no longer his? As much point as remembering a love that never was! He gave an exclamation of disgust. That again.
It was all this talk of marriage. It was Constance’s talk of amenable wives. Her description of her mother. The kind of wife whom people commend for her unstinting loyalty, her unfailing affection, her many sacrifices and her determination to make light of them. Yes, he had known another woman determined to become such an amenable wife, and he was certain that her attempts to do so would have stripped her of everything that was beautiful and unique about her. Thank the stars he had not been here to witness it.
Constance had said she didn’t want to be that amenable, but she knew, as he knew too, that she would have no choice. Did his Nessarah bride feel as Constance did? Kadar groaned, dropping onto the stone wall which separated his library terrace from the main piazza. He had tried to think of his marriage in the abstract, a contract which would give him the funding he needed to make Murimon into the kingdom it deserved to be, and provide his people with the dynastic stability they desired. The reality was that he found the thought of carrying out his role in providing that dynastic stability utterly distasteful. This betrothal was a purely commercial contract between a prince and a princess, between the kingdoms of Murimon and Nessarah, but the marriage would be made and endured by two people, a man and a woman. A man and a woman who felt absolutely nothing for each other. A woman who, as Constance had so rightly pointed out, had no choice. And a man determined to feel nothing. Ever again.
Kadar stifled a yawn, glancing up at the central edifice of the palace. Was Constance up there, looking at the stars? He wished he could be with her, but he did not trust himself. Last night he had been unable to resist temptation, having found her there so unexpectedly. But tonight, if he went up to that roof terrace, he would be deliberately courting it. He wanted her. She wanted him. It would be so easy to give in, to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that the promise to marry was not his promise, that he could not be untrue to a woman he had not chosen until the day when he made his own personal vow. Their wedding day.
Once again, Kadar shuddered at the thought. It disturbed him that his blood heated when he thought of Constance, and yet it seemed to freeze in his veins when he tried to imagine making love to the woman who was to be his wife. Who might, at this very moment, be having the exact same thoughts about him. And as for Constance...
Kadar cursed under his breath. This was pointless. He had no right at all to interfere in her marriage, even if the thought of her enduring—no, he could not think about that. Would not. He found the very notion unbearable. Which was worrying in its own right.
Chapter Seven
Constance had decided to dress formally for this morning’s outing. Acutely aware that her presence by Kadar’s side would be noted, discusse
d, and much speculated upon by all they encountered, she was determined to do him credit as his court astronomer, and equally determined not to be perceived in any other, more compromising role. Her tunic was fashioned from straw-coloured cotton with a high, rounded neck. Her matching wide pantaloons were tucked into her long brown-leather riding boots, and her hair was carefully braided and tucked under a keffiyeh of the same cotton, held in place with a silk scarf of darker gold. It was her coat which lent this simple and demure outfit the gravitas commensurate with her office. Dark blue silk patterned with golden leaves, it fitted tightly to her waist, and was fastened with a long row of pearl buttons. Heavy gold brocade bordered the hem, the edges of the long sleeves at their widest point, the edges of the deep side pockets, and the slits formed in the side of the full skirt. It was a truly beautiful garment, surprisingly light, rich and yet austere, lending her just the touch of authority she was hoping for. One final adjustment of the headband which she was unaccustomed to wearing, and Constance was ready.
* * *
Kadar was waiting for her in the stables. He too was formally dressed. His tunic and trousers were fashioned from white silk, his cloak and headdress a deep, dark regal red. Standing as yet unnoticed in the doorway to the courtyard, Constance was reminded of her first sight of him in the Royal Saloon—was it really less than two weeks before? Latent strength had been her first impression then as now, in the set of his shoulders, in the straightness of his back, the long length of those muscled legs so clearly outlined beneath the thin silk trousers tucked into his long boots. Then he had turned, just as he did now, and her heart had skipped a beat just as it did now, and the heat of desire had taken her by surprise, just as it did now, her body responding on some visceral level to that combination of ascetic good looks, forbidding authority and the latent sensuality she now knew lay just beneath the surface. Fire, barely contained by a cool, impenetrable façade. That was what was so very appealing, Constance decided, the knowledge that there was a vulnerable man beneath that princely veneer he showed to the world. Kadar was a challenge. She would have to work very hard to remember that he was not her challenge, she told herself sternly. The task of bringing that restrained passion to life belonged to another woman.
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