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The Count sounded as pleased with himself—as though he himself had created Ionanthe.
Max gave him a sharp look. It was, of course, impossible to keep anything hidden from the members of a court who virtually lived together. Everyone would know by now that he and Ionanthe had spent the night together, and would have drawn their own conclusions from that. Was the Count hoping that through Ionanthe pressure could be brought to bear on him to accept their way of life rather than insist on changing it? It had, after all, been the Count who had been so instrumental in forcing this marriage on them. On them, or on him?
Half an hour later, alone in the Chamber of State, Max reminded himself that he had warned himself all along of the dangers inherent in becoming intimately and emotionally involved with Ionanthe. Now was the time to take a step back, to remember the reason why he was here, playing a feudal role in an equally feudal country that was surely more akin to a Gilbert and Sullivan creation than part of the modern world.
And what of Ionanthe’s own beliefs? Max had no need of anyone to tell him that Ionanthe’s sexual and moral code was a world away from that of her sister, or that she was one of life’s givers rather than one of its takers. But, as he had already discovered, those who by their own decree had long held the right to high office on the island felt passionately about the traditions they upheld, and were passionate in their refusal to allow any change. And Ionanthe was a very passionate woman.
He might not need her support to put in place the changes he planned to make, but neither did he intend to put himself in a position where he was afraid that confidences he let slip to Ionanthe in the intimacy of their bed might be passed on to those who opposed his plans.
It was perhaps as well that he was flying to Barcelona tomorrow.
Tonight would be different; tonight she would not give way or weaken. Tonight she would be the woman, the Ionanthe, she had to be from now on, she had assured herself as she had dressed for the formal dinner that was being held tonight for Philippe de la Croix, a French diplomat who was visiting from Paris.
But that had been before she had seen Max—before he had thrust open the door to their private quarters and come striding towards her, causing her heart to slam into her ribs and her whole body to go weak.
The pleasure he had shown her was not hers alone, she tried to remind herself. He had been married to her sister, after all—a woman who had been far more sexually experienced and desirable than she was herself. The savagery of the pain coiling through her shocked her. So this was jealousy, red-hot and raw, filling her with a fierce, possessive need to obliterate the memory of her sister from his mind and his senses, shaming her with its primitive message. She tried to block the destructive thoughts from her mind, but still they went on forcing themselves onto her, burning her where they touched her vulnerable places.
Today, studying the cooling ashes of last night’s passion, had he compared her to Eloise and found her wanting? Aaahhh, but that hurt so very much, reducing the pain of the rejection she had known as a child to nothing—a shadow of this so much greater agony. W
as it because she had known all along that she would feel like this that she had fought so hard against loving a man?
Loving a man? But she did not love Max. She could not. It was impossible. She barely knew him.
She knew enough of him to know his touch and its effect on her senses. He had marked her indelibly as his, and nothing could change that. If that was not a form of loving then—No. She would not allow it to be. It must not be. She must escape from what was happening to her, from him.
She took a deep breath and announced shakily, ‘I should like your permission to withdraw to my family’s estate. There are matters there that need my attention following my grandfather’s death, and if I delay going there much longer the castle will be cut off by the winter snows.’
In truth Ionanthe knew that there was not likely to be any real need for her to visit the castle. Her grandfather had disliked it because of its isolation, and had rarely gone there after the death of her parents, preferring to base himself here, in his State apartment. Eloise had loathed the castle, and had always treated the simple country people who lived close to it, working manually on the estate as their families had done for many generations, with acid contempt.
Their parents, though, had spent time there—her mother encouraging Ionanthe when she had tried to teach the young children of the estate workers to read. Those had been happy days—until her grandfather had found out about her impromptu classes and roared at her in anger, telling her mother that she was not to encourage the ‘labourers’ brats’ to waste their time on learning skills they did not need.
That had been when Ionanthe had recognised that even her parents were not strong enough to stand up to her grandfather.
Max listened to her in silence. He did not for one minute believe that she really felt any urgent desire to visit the remote castle she had inherited from her grandfather. He suspected, in fact, that the real reason for her request was a desire on her part to distance herself from last night. But he was not going to challenge her on that point. Why should he, when it suited him so well? And yet there was a feeling within him of antagonism towards her announcement—a latent need to assert the right that his body felt last night had given it to keep her close, a surge of male hostility at her desire to separate herself from him.
All merely primitive male ego drives that must be ignored, Max told himself firmly. And to prove that he intended to do exactly that, he nodded his head and told Ionanthe calmly, ‘Of course you may have my permission.’
Her relief was immediate, and visible in the exhalation of her breath. Was it her relief that speared him, conjuring up his swift response?
‘There is, after all, no reason for me to withhold it. I trust that you are thoroughly satisfied now that we have consummated our marriage?’ He gave emphasis to the word ‘satisfied’ rather than the far less dangerous and emotive ‘now’ that followed.
Was this man now deliberately tormenting her the same man who only last night had fed her—fed on the desire he had created within her? She ought to despise him, not be in danger of loving him, Ionanthe told herself angrily.
‘I am satisfied that I have performed my duty.’ It was all she could think of to say in response.
‘Duty—such a cold word, and so wholly inappropriate for—’
To Ionanthe’s relief, before Max could finish delivering his intended taunt someone had knocked on the door, bringing their conversation to a halt and allowing her to escape to prepare herself for the evening’s formal dinner.
If growing up observing her grandfather’s Machiavellian attitude to court politics had taught Ionanthe a great deal about how the world of wealth and power operated, and in addition given her a private antipathy towards it, then her working life in Brussels had given her an inner resilience, equipped her to deal with it whilst keeping her own private counsel. She knew the rules of engagement that governed the subtle wars of status and power that underwrote policy and the way it was managed: via a tightly woven mesh of lobbyists, business interests, law-makers and law-breakers. As a child, witnessing the court of Fortenegro’s crushing need for power as evidenced by her grandfather had hurt her. But now, returning to the island as a woman, and with the experience of Brussels behind her, Ionanthe intended to equip herself with all the information she would need to enable her to work behind the scenes and improve the lot of the people.
Tonight’s dinner, in honour of Philippe de la Croix, would be a good place for her to start honing the skills she would need.
The dinner was to be a formal event, and Ionanthe had dressed accordingly in one of the two designer evening gowns she had purchased for similar events in Brussels. The one she was wearing this evening was a deceptively simple column of dull cream heavy silk jersey that skimmed rather than hugged her body, with long sleeves and a high neckline slashed across her collarbone.
Luckily the ladies’ maid the Count had found for her was a skilful hairdresser, and she had drawn Ionanthe’s dark hair back off her face and styled it in a way that reminded Ionanthe of the Shakespearean heroine in a film she had once seen.
Her maid had insisted that the dinner necessitated the wearing of what she had described ‘proper jewellery, from the Crown Jewels’.
