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“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.
