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He’d lost it earlier in Emmeline’s room. Completely lost it. And he never did that. At least, he hadn’t, not in years.
But oh, dear God, he felt like he was close to losing it again.
He knew there had been issues before she’d arrived. He knew he’d have to make a decision about her, and their future, once he’d spent time with her. But spending time with her didn’t help. Spending time with her was making him mad.
Was she crazy, or was he?
How could one woman appear to be so many different things?
She was just so different than he’d expected. She’d always been beautiful, but she’d never been this fierce or strong. But the Emmeline now under his roof was downright fierce. Feisty. Warm. Complex.
He struggled now to remember the princess he’d met at the engagement party a year ago. She still looked like that Emmeline—well, a healthier, more athletic version—and she was still as intelligent and articulate, but everything else was different.
Her expressions.
Her mannerisms.
Her inflection.
Everything had changed since that evening, but he didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand her.
This was the part that bothered him most.
Which was the real Emmeline? The Emmeline that was so reserved and cool he’d once compared her to a beautiful marble statue—all sleek lines, stunning face and perfect proportions?
Or the warm, engaging, challenging Emmeline here? The Emmeline who blushed easily, spoke quickly and responded to his kiss last night with hot, sensual passion?
Maybe if he was just a man instead of a king, he could choose emotion and passion, but he was a king. And he was responsible for the future of his country.
He needed a proper princess.
He needed the right princess.
And as beautiful as Emmeline was, she didn’t appear to be the right princess after all.
While he welcomed passion, he needed suitability. He needed predictability. Strength of character.
And the Emmeline that was here appeared strong, but was it real, or an act?
And the fact that he didn’t know just nine days before their wedding was a huge red flag.
How could he afford to risk his country’s future on an enigma? A question mark?
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But if he was going to end this, then he needed to do it soon. He’d accept the blame, pay the penalty and be free. The longer he put it off, the worse the repercussions would be.
In her suite, Hannah felt positively sick. Anxiously she paced the living room, stomach churning, nerves stretched to breaking.
Zale thought he knew the truth. He thought he knew everything. But he didn’t, and Hannah should have told him.
She should have confessed who she really was and asked him to forgive her for her part in the deception and then headed to the airport to get a flight home.
But she hadn’t done that. She’d allowed him to walk away thinking that maybe finally everything would be okay.
Hannah was still pacing when Lady Andrea gently knocked on the door and opened it. “Your Highness? Your stylists are here to prepare you for your sitting. Shall we get started?”
Hannah opened her mouth to protest but closed it, knowing she was in too deep now. And the only way she’d get out of this in one piece was for Emmeline to arrive so Hannah could escape.
“Yes.”
Nearly three hours after the clash with Zale, Hannah still sat in a chair before the dressing-room mirror, watching Camille, Emmeline’s personal hairstylist for the past seven years, spritz a tiny bit of hairspray on Hannah’s hair to discourage flyaway strands.
It was all Hannah could do not to wiggle as Camille ran a light, practiced hand over Hannah’s hair, ensuring all the ends hung straight. “No more do-it-yourself color, oui, Princess?” she said, tapping her on the shoulder. “If you want to go darker, or put in streaks, next time ask me. Oui?”
“Oui,” Hannah agreed, thinking at that point she’d agree to anything just to get the marathon session over. She’d wanted a diversion, but two and a half hours in this chair while Camille colored, cut and then blew her hair dry using a large round brush to make it straight and glossy, was just too much. Hannah rarely did anything special with her hair, and was amazed that Emmeline could tolerate having her hair professionally styled every time she stepped out in public.
Teresa, Emmeline’s personal makeup artist, had spent a half hour on her face and she moved forward now as Camille stepped back to apply one last coat of mascara and then another dab of soft gold gloss over Hannah’s matte rose lipstick.
“Perfection!” Teresa murmured, nodding approvingly as both she and Camille critically examined their handiwork, looking for any flaws. “What do you think, Your Highness? Anything you’d like changed?”
