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‘I wanted to offer my congratulations and beg that you satisfy my curiosity once and for all,’ interrupted Georges. ‘Please, do share the story of your rather sudden courtship.’ His voice carried, as did the slight trace of cynicism heavy on his words. ‘Do not tell me it was born of that horrifying trend of using matchmakers!’
The man’s wife was looking thoroughly mortified at her husband’s behaviour and Sofia, for the first time that evening, seemed shocked into silence. It was clear that the man knew something of Sofia’s search in Paris six weeks before and was taunting her with it. It was untenable.
Theo might not have been born to this strata of society, but he knew in an instant that he had more manners in his little finger than this man did. It reminded him of the way that his mother’s family had treated them, before he had turned the little dirt pile he and his mother had bought from her family into an award-winning vineyard. Before he had made enough money to buy out the remaining land his mother’s family owned and shuffled them off to some distant part of Greece, only to be pulled out of their exile when he felt like it. Only his giagiá had taken pity on them, supported them through that first year and then afterwards when his mother became sick. Theo refused to acknowledge the perverse fact that he felt more than justified in seeking his own revenge, but would not counter an attack against Sofia from another quarter. And as such, all temptation to leave Sofia to stew in a mess of his making disappeared.
‘We—’ she started, but he squeezed her arm gently to stop her.
‘Agápi mou, I have heard you tell this story before and your natural instinct towards modesty never does me justice. Allow me?’ He watched her eyes widen just a fraction with surprise, and she nodded.
‘I am sure that you will have heard something of my slightly scandalous reputation,’ Theo confided ruefully to the couple. ‘And I could not lie and say it is not deserved, as I had never thought to find a woman who could live up to the high standard set by my mother.’
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sofia struggle not to roll her eyes, and Louisa struggle not to sigh contentedly. His charm might not have been broadcast in the press, but it was no less potent a skill than his wine-making abilities and he was determined to use it now to its fullest.
‘You see, years ago, when I was a young man, I fell deeply in love. I would have given everything for her, and in some ways did.’ He felt Sofia flinch and could have sworn he heard the beat of her heart pick up in confusion as to where he was taking this fabricated story. ‘But sadly it was not to be. So I hardened my heart, sure that I would never feel the same way again. And I was right.’ He had predicted Louisa’s brief gasp of shock, and had not been wrong as he’d imagined Georges’ avaricious gaze ready for his next words. ‘For when I met Sofia I realised that what I had thought was love was just a pale imitation.’ Louisa melted, Georges scowled, and Sofia...he simply couldn’t tell.
‘From the first moment that I laid eyes on her I knew I was completely ruined...’ He paused to see if even this would bring Sofia out of her perfect façade, and, though she paled just slightly, no outward sign of upset showed. ‘Ruined for other women for ever,’ he concluded. ‘I knew that she was the woman that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. You may dismiss that as pure fantasy. Or something based purely on her beauty. But it wasn’t. Every word, movement, decision, enthralled. Her intelligence, her poise and, just as much, her playfulness. Did you know that Sofia has a naughty streak?’
‘I remember as much from her childhood,’ Georges said critically.
‘Ah, but this is what makes Sofia so perfect, for while a country needs an iron-willed ruler, the people need fun and authenticity. And that is what really drew me to Sofia. This I knew in just a moment, but Sofia needed a little more time than I. Oh, she made me work for it, I assure you, Georges,’ he said, leaning towards the obese man to intimate confidence, while his skin crawled. ‘Over our first lunch together, I produced my finest wine...knowing that I had to seduce her senses as much as her mind and heart. It was a very special bottle of wine for me. There were only three made, from the very first grape of my vineyard in the Peloponnese. The first was for my mother, my child will have the third, but Sofia...she had the second.
‘Unbeknownst to me, in the years before we had met, I had created the perfect blend of wine, solely in preparation for her. The playful notes of blueberry and bay leaves grounded in the rich, deep Greek soil were simply...her.’
Theo realised, as he had spoken, he had caught her gaze with his, the words casting a spell that had drawn the attention not just of the horrible Georges and his poor wife, but also that of the surrounding courtiers and dignitaries. A pin dropped to the floor could have been heard in the silence.
Sofia’s face was upturned to his, only a few inches between them, shock and surprise evident in her eyes. He felt, as much as saw, her draw a deep breath, stealing the air from before him. In the silence everything disappeared. The room, the guests, the past...and he was seventeen all over again, looking at the young Sofia as her unpractised body begged him to take her lips. Need and desire encased them, separ
ating them from the rest of the world. The stark sensuality of her calling to him across the years, the months, days and seconds.
He dipped his head, closing the distance between them, and drank from her lips, tasting all the flavours he had just described. The slight sting from where she had indelicately bitten him earlier making it so much more sweet.
Then she opened for him and he plunged into the soft warmth of her mouth, teasing them both with swift movements of his tongue, delving deep within her and relishing every moment.
The roaring in his ears shifted and morphed into the sound of a hundred hands clapping, and just as many voices cheering. He pulled back, suddenly shocked by his own actions mirrored in Sofia’s gaze and kiss-bruised lips.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘WHAT ON EARTH were you thinking?’ Sofia demanded the moment she collected herself after that kiss, and the moment they were free of Georges and Louisa’s attention.
‘I was thinking that it would be the only thing that might wipe the insidious smirk from that obnoxious man’s face.’
‘You think he is obnoxious? Really?’
‘I do.’
‘He is an important man in the ministerial cabinet, Theo, I cannot afford—’
‘The girl I once knew didn’t give a flying fig for what she could or could not afford, Sofia. Tell me, where has she gone?’ he asked, searching her face, ‘for I cannot find a trace of her anywhere.’
‘People change,’ Sofia replied, turning away from his penetrating stare. Everyone changed. Her father, Theo, herself. No one was who they once were.
But not everything changed, her inner voice taunted her.
No. The way he had kissed her hadn’t changed. The moment his lips had pressed against hers, first in that momentary initial greeting, and then later with that kiss, it had felt like...home. Some imaginary place in her mind when it had just been the two of them, all those years ago, with no concerns other than how soon they could see each other again. His body had called to hers in the same way it had done all those years ago, and she hated him for it. Because he was right. That girl was gone and she could never come back. Not if she wanted to secure a future for her country. They needed the royal woman she had become, regal and poised. So she delved into the inner strength she had forged from the loss of her hopes and dreams and became that woman again.
She barely spared Theo another glance as she visited with dignitaries, accepted their congratulations, agreed to visit with various countries after the wedding—and if her heart stuttered over that precise word or moment to come, then she ignored it as she made plans for a future she could no longer see.
Despite her attempts to relegate Theo to the sidelines, he hovered almost constantly by her side, dishing out the same charm he had drowned Louisa de Fontagne in, showing a peculiar adroitness in conversation with the various ministers and members of the privy council. And slowly she began to form an image of the man to replace that of the boy she had known. One who had skilfully nurtured an international wine conglomerate from a small part of Greece, one who seemed to have lost some of that inner sense of insecurity she had once recognised as being similar to her own, a sense of not quite being rich enough, or good enough...
