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‘Is it PMT?’ Francesca asked sympathetically. ‘I think it’s that time of the month, isn’t it?’ Rachel stared at her blankly and she gave her an impish little smile. ‘One of the things it helps to keep track of, when considering your wardrobe choices.’
Rachel’s mind ticked over and she shook her head. ‘I don’t have PMT.’
‘No?’ Francesca was already in the enormous walk-in wardrobe that was now filled with clothes for a queen.
‘I’m late,’ Rachel said quietly. And she was never late. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise her. She and Mateo had not been using any birth control, since he’d been upfront for his need for an heir as soon as possible. And yet somehow, in the midst of all the busyness of being, Rachel had forgotten she could fall pregnant. Mateo seemed to have forgotten it as well, for he’d certainly never mentioned it.
And yet here she was, just two months into her marriage, and her period six days late. She shouldn’t be shocked, and yet she was.
‘I was thinking something bright today,’ Francesca said. ‘To make you stand out in this endless rain...’ She brandished a canary-yellow coat dress Rachel had never worn before. ‘What do you think?’
Could she really be pregnant? And how would she find out? Rachel’s mind raced. She couldn’t exactly pop out to the nearest chemist’s, at least not without a security detail and half the palace staff knowing what she was up to.
She glanced at Francesca. ‘Francesca, can you be discreet?’
Her stylist didn’t miss a beat as she answered, ‘My middle name.’
‘Could you go to the chemist for me?’
‘The chemist?’ Francesca’s eyes narrowed. ‘What for?’
Rachel swallowed dryly. ‘A pregnancy test.’
Francesca, to her credit, merely gave a swift nod. ‘Of course.’
Just twenty minutes later, Rachel knew. It felt strangely surreal to perch on the edge of the sunken marble tub in the adjoining bathroom and wait the requisite three minutes to read the test. She’d never taken one before, and she’d spent ten minutes studying the instructions before she’d done what she’d needed to do.
And now she had turned over the little stick, seen the two blazing pink lines, and knew. She was pregnant.
‘This is good news, yes?’ Francesca asked cautiously as Rachel came out of the bathroom. She knew the expression on her face wasn’t one of undiluted joy. ‘The King needs an heir...’
‘Yes, it’s good news.’ Her voice sounded a bit wooden.
‘You want to be a mother?’ the stylist pressed.
‘Yes.’ Rachel was sure of that. She might have given up on the hope of motherhood years ago, when her romantic possibilities had been nil, but one of the reasons she’d said yes to Mateo’s unconventional proposal had been for the possibility of children.
‘So...’ Francesca waited for Rachel to fill in the blanks, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to talk of something so private and sacred to anyone—but Mateo. And she didn’t know what she was going to say to him.
She spent all afternoon in a daze, going through the motions of her meetings, her mind elsewhere. Mateo was engaged on other business until the evening, so it wasn’t until dinner that she had the chance to talk to him, and by that time she was resolved.
Agathe was otherwise engaged, which meant it was just her and Mateo in one of the palace’s smaller dining rooms, the curtains drawn against the night and the rain, candles flickering on the table between them.
A member of staff served them the first course and withdrew. They were seated at opposite ends of the table that seated twelve, a dozen silver dishes between them along with all that hadn’t been said.
Rachel gazed at her husband’s face and felt an ache of longing for how she’d hoped for things to be. Oh, how she’d hoped. And yet one glance at Mateo’s set jaw forced her to acknowledge that those were all they’d ever be. Hopes. Disappointed hopes.
They ate the first course in silence, as had become their habit in recent weeks, and Rachel tried to work up the courage to say what was on her mind—and heart.
Finally, when their main course had been delivered, she forced herself to speak.
‘Mateo, I need to talk to you.’
He looked up, his expression already guarded. ‘Yes?’
‘Two weeks ago you left my room at the hospital, saying, “I can’t do this.”’ She paused, waiting for him to respond, or say anything, but he simply remained silent, his jaw tense, his eyes narrowed. ‘What was it you couldn’t do, Mateo?’
‘Why are you asking?’
