by Nina Milne
‘Perfect. We’ll have a jazz band. That will set the right tone as well. And it will be wonderful in a marquee. Wait till you see the marquee—it is amazing. Just right to house the very impressive guest list Marcus has come up with, and the perfect backdrop for the wedding of a younger, returning royal.’
‘Excellent. You truly are doing a great job.’
‘So are you,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve won the people over—showed them that you want to bring about change just as Frederick does.’
A twinge of discomfort touched him. ‘I do agree that change is needed, and as part of my deal with Frederick I will support his position, but remember this is all part of the deal. I am here to win my lands back, to regain my right to visit Lycander. No more than that.’
Holly frowned. ‘I don’t buy that,’ she said. ‘I saw you with that little boy at that nursery, and since then I’ve seen you interact with hundreds of people. You do care; you just don’t want to admit it.’
‘Don’t kid yourself, Holly—and don’t give me attributes I don’t possess. I care about these people, but it isn’t my responsibility to create change in Lycander or to undo my father’s wrongs. That is down to Frederick. Once this year is out I will be returning to London and my life.’
How had this conversation got personal? Rising, he hooked his jacket from the back of the armchair. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Marcus. Gotta run. I’ll swing by and pick you up later for the luncheon with the charity commission.’
She nodded and he headed for the door.
Holly watched as the door closed behind him, leant back in the armchair and closed her eyes.
Get real, Holly.
Stefan Petrelli was a businessman. She must not try and imbue him with attributes he didn’t have; he’d made it clear from the start that duty was an irrelevance to him.
A knock at the door pulled her from her reverie and she rose to open it, stepping back in surprise at the identity of her visitor. Sunita. Frederick’s wife. Exotic, beautiful. Ex-supermodel. Fashion designer. Mother of the heir to the throne, three-year-old Amil.
‘I am sorry to turn up unannounced; if it’s inconvenient please say.’
‘No. Come in.’
Pulling the door open, she stepped back and Sunita swept in on a swirl of energy and vibrant colour. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek high ponytail and her vivid orange and red tunic top fell to mid-thigh over skinny jeans.
‘I thought it would be good for us to meet unofficially. I also know how hard it is to arrange a royal wedding, so I’ve come to offer my help. Though I won’t be offended if you refuse it.’
‘No. Your advice would be great. Really useful.’
‘OK. But before we begin can I ask you something? I know about the deal—I understand that this wedding wins you half of Il Boschetto di Sole—but are you sure you’re happy playing the part you’re playing? Because if you aren’t we’ll cancel it.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. Frederick and Stefan may be princes, but that doesn’t mean they get it all their way.’
Holly couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No. I’m good with this. Really.’
‘Good. There is something else I’d like to know. Has Stefan said anything to you about how it is going with Frederick?’
‘You know that proverb about getting blood from a stone...?’
‘Hmm... I also know the one about peas in a pod. Sounds as if they are more alike than they would care to admit. Frederick is being similarly reticent, but as far as I can tell their private meetings are a disaster. Enough that I think Frederick may bail on them soon.’ Sunita wrinkled her nose. ‘The problem is getting them to let go of the past—all those old resentments and feuds that Alphonse fed and nurtured and encouraged.’
Holly frowned. Perhaps she should stop Sunita there... But, damn it, she wanted to know more than Stefan had told her. All he’d said was that his mother’s marriage had been miserable—he’d clammed up about what had happened after.
‘It was awful for both of them when Alphonse divorced Eloise. You see, Eloise was kind to Frederick—tried to be a good stepmum—but as part of the custody agreement Alphonse refused to let her see Frederick at all. Frederick had already lost his own mother, and losing Eloise really got to him. Alphonse used that to pit Frederick against Stefan. And so it went on.’
Sunita sighed.
‘Now they can’t get past it. Even the Amil factor didn’t work. I asked them to keep an eye on him and after an hour I went back, expecting them all to be in a group hug. But instead I walked in to find Amil happily playing in a corner and the two brothers sitting in awkward silence.’
‘Surely they can discuss Lycander?’
‘You would think so. But Frederick doesn’t want Stefan to think he’s blowing his own horn.’ Sunita grimaced. ‘Anyway, I’m out of ideas.’
Holly’s mind raced, imagining a young Stefan and a young Frederick, both of them hurting and having that hurt exploited by their father. The man who should have supported and nurtured and cared for them had instead manipulated them, set them against each other. Stefan had been right. Alphonse did have a lot to answer for.
‘I think I may have an idea...’ she said slowly.
‘I’m listening. And then I promise we’ll move on to wedding talk.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE WEDDING TALK progressed over the next few weeks to the wedding day, which dawned bright and clear with just a nip of chill in the air as a reminder that autumn was well under way.
Holly gazed at her reflection, knowing that Sunita’s expert help had provided the finishing touches to an ensemble that would hold up to any and all media scrutiny. Anticipation panged in her tummy as she wondered what Stefan’s reaction would be as she walked towards him.
As a real bride would have done, she had opted to move to Il Boschetto di Sole for the past few days—to prepare, to ensure the groom didn’t so much as glimpse the dress. Though she sensed that Stefan, unlike a real groom, had welcomed her removal.
The door opened and her father entered. A scrutiny of his face satisfied her that he looked well; Jessica Alderney was still in residence, keeping a strict eye on him, and he already looked the better for it.
‘You look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And, Holly, I wish to thank you for this; you are doing a good thing for the Romano family—past, present and future. Of that I am proud, and you have my gratitude.’
The words warmed her soul, made it all worthwhile.
‘Time to go.’
He held out his arm and she took it, tried to quell the butterflies that danced in her tummy.
She followed him from her childhood home, then paused on the threshold and blinked, nerves forgotten. There, in full glory, instead of the horse and carriage she’d been expecting, sat a pink limousine. ‘Papa...?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Did you not order this?’
‘No.’
It dawned on her that the only person who could have done this was Stefan. She gave a small chuckle and suddenly the whole ordeal ahead felt easier.
The afternoon took on a surreal quality as she climbed out of the limousine and smiled her well-practised smile at the selected photographers. Entering the chapel on her father’s arm, she inhaled the scent of the fresh-cut flowers she’d chosen—a profusion of pink and white atop elegant stems.
The pews were filled with dignitaries and Il Boschetto di Sole staff. And out of the corner of her eye she spotted Sunita, bright and exotic in a golden salwar kameez, declaring her Indian heritage with pride, sitting next to Frederick, whose blond head glinted in the sunlight that shone through the stained glass. Amil looked adorable in a suit and bow tie.
Eyes forward and there Stefan stood—drop-dead, heart-stoppingly gorgeous—in a tuxedo that moulded his form, emphasised
the intensity of his presence, his lithe, muscular power and the deep grey of his eyes. The black hair was nearly tamed, but the hint of unruliness added to his allure.
This man would soon be her husband, and she walked towards him now, watched by the world.
Remember Sunita’s advice. Stand tall. Picture happy scenarios.
Il Boschetto di Sole in her father’s hands. Stefan and Holly posing for the camera with a tiny dark-haired baby in Holly’s arms. A girl. And they didn’t give a damn...were engulfed in love for their daughter...
Whoa—hang on a second. What was Stefan doing in her happy picture? Idiot! Surely she wasn’t stupid enough to delude herself that this was for real? Yet the vision was hard to shake...
At a gentle squeeze on her arm, Holly realised that she’d slowed down, that people were looking at her askance.
Come on, Holly. It had been a blip—nothing more. The important part of that happy scenario had been the baby. Stefan was merely an unwanted intruder, sneaked in by a brain that had been temporarily dazzled by this marriage fiction.
Reset button and resume walk.
She reached Stefan, kept the smile on her face, revelled in the appreciative look in his.
Fake, fake, fake.
This was a show for the public—a term of the deal he’d agreed with Marcus. The vows were a dream, the solemnity of the words underscoring her hypocrisy, and no amount of justification could quiet her conscience. All she could do was tell herself that she would make sure that some good came from this marriage—that it would benefit Lycander and give her father Il Boschetto di Sole.
‘With this ring...’
Stefan slipped the ring over her finger, and as the simple gold band slid over her knuckle she felt panic war with disbelief. Fake or not, here and now, in this chapel, they had pledged their troth. And, even though she knew that the words did not bind them for ever, for the next twelve months they were joined as man and wife.
‘You may kiss the bride.’
The words seemed to penetrate the dreamlike fog of the past half-hour and she raised trembling hands to lift her veil—though a part of her wanted to keep hidden. Stefan’s hands helped her, pushed the veil back and then cupped her face. His clasp was firm and full of reassurance, his grey eyes full of appreciation and warmth.
Fake, fake, fake, her brain warned her.
But then his lips brushed hers and sweet sensations cascaded through her body until, in a mutual recall of their surroundings, they both stepped back. He took her hand in his and they made their way back down the aisle, through the arched stone door around which honeysuckle grew, permeating the air with its scent and outside into the graveyard.
History seeped into the air from the weathered gravestones and the stone walls and spire of the chapel itself—a place that had witnessed generations of happiness and heartache. Here she and Stefan, Prince and Princess of Lycander, greeted their well-wishers until they were whisked off for photos.
Her realisation that these photos would go down in Lycandrian history threatened to call on her panic, but somehow she kept the smile on her face, remembered all the coaching, placed her hand on his arm and looked up at him in a semblance of loving wife, absorbed in the way he looked at her.
Fake, fake, fake.
But her awareness of him was, oh, so real, and nigh on impossible to ignore with their enforced proximity. His nearness played havoc with her senses. Each and every one was on high alert, revelling in the idea that for a year they were husband and wife.
As the hours wore on, through the reception and the four-course dinner, her head whirled. Gleaming cutlery clinked, conversation flowed, and the sound of laughter mingled with the pop of champagne corks. Dish followed dish—exquisite artichoke hearts, melt-in-the-mouth medallions of wild boar, crispy potato rosti and simple buttered spinach. The marquee glowed, illuminated by the warm white glow of fairy lights.
Once the food was cleared away, the jazz band started to warm up and Holly looked at Stefan.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
And so they went onto the dance floor, to the smooth strains of a saxophone and the deep velvet voice of the singer as he crooned out the words. She’d hoped that dancing to jazz wouldn’t be as tactile as to any other music, but in fact it was worse. The sensual sway of their movements, the to and fro, the distance and the proximity, messed further with her head.
Was he equally affected? Every instinct told her that he was. Each time he pulled her into his body she could sense the heat rising in him, see the scorch of desire in his eyes as they focused solely on her. When his hands spanned her waist, circling the wide belt of satin, she felt lighter than air—and yet heavy desire pooled in her gut.
Finally the first dance came to an end and they moved off the dance floor. She kept a smile pinned to her lips even as her head whirled. He walked beside her, coiled taut, and she knew his body was as tense as her own.
‘How long until we leave for our honeymoon?’ he asked, his voice a rasp.
She gave a shaky laugh. A laugh that tapered off as the word ‘honeymoon’ permeated her desire-hazed brain.
‘About the honeymoon...’
‘Yes. We agreed on Paris—nice and clichéd, plenty of romantic social media opportunities.’
Desire faded into a background hum as she met his gaze a touch apprehensively. ‘There may have been a slight change of plan.’
Now an eyebrow was raised. ‘Define “slight”.’
‘Actually, do you think we could discuss it later? People are watching us now and we need to mingle.’
Coward.
Perhaps, but it would be foolhardy to spark a potential argument now.
There was a pause and then he nodded. ‘OK. I’ll look forward to my surprise destination.’
* * *
Three hours and much mingling later, they were once more in the back of the pink limousine. Stefan handed Holly a glass of pink champagne—her first of the whole day. His too, for that matter.
‘To pink limos,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to say thank you. It’s fabulous.’
‘I’m glad you like it. I gather it is not, however, taking us to the airport so we can catch a plane to Paris?’
‘No...’ Holly took a deep breath and apprehension returned to her blue eyes.
As the silence stretched he took the time to study her. She had changed out of her wedding dress into her ‘going away outfit’. A simple cream linen dress. Her hair now hung loose in all its golden glory, and she still looked every bit as beautiful as she had when she’d walked down the aisle, a vision in ivory satin and lace.
‘You’re going to have to tell me some time,’ he pointed out.
She took another sip of champagne—presumably for fortification. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. We’re staying here.’
Stefan closed his eyes and then opened them again, pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on keeping his voice calm. ‘Why?’
‘Because the past few weeks have all been about being in the public eye, being on show. I thought it might be nice to explore Lycander differently. I reckon it would look good to the public as well—fit well with the “returning prince” theme. What do you think?’
He thought she wasn’t speaking the whole truth; there was something in the way her gaze had fluttered away from his for an instant.
‘Wouldn’t you like to go to Paris? Explore there.’
‘One day I would, yes.’
Damn it. Maybe she didn’t want to go there on a fake honeymoon; maybe she wanted to save Paris for when she could do the clichéd romance for real.
‘But now you want to remain in Lycander?’
‘Yes. I’ve realised that even though I have lived here all my life there are still so many places I haven’t seen—and I think it will be fun.’
A study of her expression yielded nothing but apparent sincerity, and he did believe her. He recalled how she had described her exploration of London. But he suspected there was an additional ulterior motive, and wariness banded his chest at the idea he was being manipulated in some way.
Well, if he was then he’d never give something for nothing. He shrugged. ‘OK. If that’s what you want. We can find Lycander’s equivalent of the Chelsea Physic Garden. But I want something in return.’
It was her turn to look suspicious, and her forehead creased as she sipped her drink and looked at him narrow-eyed over the rim of the glass. ‘Like what?’
‘Take the marketing role at Lamberts.’
‘Jeez. Why can’t you let that go? We’ve been through it. There is no point—I will be taking up residence on Il Boschetto di Sole in a year.’
‘I understand that; I am simply suggesting that this year you take the chance to do a job you enjoy—give it a try. It will be good experience that will help with Il Boschetto di Sole. One year. Where is the harm in that?’
Holly hesitated, twisting a tendril of hair around her finger. She considered his words and then suddenly she grinned. ‘What the hell? You’re right. Why not? I can’t live on Il Boschetto di Sole during our marriage, and I do want to try marketing, and it will be good experience. I’ll do it.’
‘Good.’ He raised his glass and a smile tilted his lips. ‘To your new job.’ And to his private hope that it would be the first step for Holly to veer from the path of tradition and duty. ‘It’s important to enjoy life—grab the good times whilst you can.’
This he knew.
And just like that the atmosphere in the limousine subtly changed. The air became charged with a shimmer of awareness—he’d swear he could almost see it—a pink glitter of desire. And he knew that really all their talk had simply been to put off an inevitable decision—a decision they had been headed for ever since he’d seen her walk down the aisle...ever since he’d lifted her veil and kissed her.
Holly stilled, her blue eyes wide as their gazes met and locked. Then slowly—so slowly, so tentatively—she shifted across the seat. The swish of her dress against the pink leather mesmerised him.
