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Hannah’s mouth dried. Her heart raced. She should have never agreed to play princess here. Zale Patek of Raguva would not like being played the fool.
Reaching the dais, she gathered her heavy teal and blue skirts in one hand and sank into a deep, graceful curtsy. Thank God she’d practiced this morning with one of her attendants. “Your Majesty,” she said in Raguvian, having practiced that, too.
“Welcome to Raguva, Your Royal Highness,” he answered in flawless English. His voice was so deep it whispered through her, smooth, seductive.
She lifted her head to look up at him. His gaze met hers and held, demanding her full attention. She sucked in a quick breath of surprise. This was the thirty-five-year-old king of Raguva, a country adjacent to Greece and Turkey on the Adriatic Sea. He looked younger than thirty-five. Furthermore, he was ridiculously good-looking. The photographs on the Internet hadn’t done him justice.
Impressions continued to hit her one after the other—short dark hair, light brown eyes and a slash of high cheekbone above a very firm chin.
The intelligence in his clear steady gaze made her think of all the great kings and Roman rulers who’d come before—Charlemagne, Constantine, Caesar—and her pulse quickened.
He was tall, imposing, powerfully built. His formal jacket couldn’t hide the width of his shoulders, nor the depth of his muscular chest. He’d been born a prince but had trained as an athlete and become a star footballer through dedication to his sport. But he’d walked away from his incredible success when his father and mother had died in a tragic seaplane accident five years ago that had taken the lives of all onboard.
She’d read that Zale Patek had rarely dated during the decade he played for two top European football clubs because football had been his passion and once he’d inherited the throne, he’d applied the same discipline and passion to his reign.
And this man, this fiercely driven man, was to be sparkling, enchanting Princess Emmeline’s husband.
At the moment Hannah didn’t know whether to envy her or pity her.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she answered, slowly lifting her head to look into his eyes. His gaze met hers squarely and she felt a sharp jolt to her heart, her chest squeezing tight in protest.
It was like a thunderbolt of sensation—hot, electric—and her knees buckled, and her whole body felt weak.
Trembling in her heels, she watched King Patek rise and descend the steps of the dais. He reached for her hand, carried it to his mouth, brushing his lips across the back of her knuckles. The touch of his mouth sent yet another shudder through her, her body tingling from head to toe.
For a moment silence hung over them, surrounded them, an intimate, expectant silence that made her grow warm and her cheeks burn. Then King Patek turned her around to face his court. Applause filled the Throne Room and before she knew it, King Patek was introducing her to the first of his many advisors.
Moving down the crimson carpet, the king would pause to introduce her to this important person or that, but the sensation of his skin against hers made it impossible for her to concentrate on anything. The names and faces blurred together, making her head swim.
Zale Patek was in the middle of introducing Emmeline to yet another member of his court, when he felt her hand tremble in his. Glancing down at her, he saw fatigue in her eyes and a hint of strain at her mouth. Time for a break, he thought, deciding the rest of the introductions could wait until dinner.
Exiting the Throne Room, Zale led her through a sparsely furnished antechamber, and then a small reception room, ending in the Silver Room, a room that had been a favorite of his mother’s.
“Please,” he said, escorting her to a petite Louis IV chair covered in a shimmering silver Venetian embroidered fabric. An oversize silver and crystal chandelier hung from the middle of the room and Venetian mirrors lined the oyster-hued silk that upholstered the walls.
It was a pretty room and it sparkled from all the silk, silver and glass, but nothing in the room could compare to the princess herself.
She was stunning.
Beyond stunning.
As well as cunning, manipulative and deceitful, which he hadn’t learned until after their engagement.
It’d been a year since he last saw Emmeline—at the announcement of their betrothal in the Palace of Brabant—and they’d only spoken twice before that, although of course he’d seen her at various different royal functions while growing up.
“You look lovely,” he said as Emmeline sank gracefully into the fragile chair, her full teal and aqua skirts clouding around her, making him think of a mermaid perched on a rock. And like the sirens of lore, she used her beauty to lure men in—before dashing them on the rocks.
