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Izzy thought about all the times people had said one thing to her and meant another.
Dress like this and you’ll be a star, Izzy.
I love you, Izzy.
Her insides lurched. She wasn’t going to think about that now. Or later. ‘By “filter,” you mean lie? You want me to be like those women out there with frozen smiles and non-existent expressions who don’t actually say anything they mean? Sorry, but that’s just not me.’
‘I’m sorry too. The fact that your sister is marrying the future king makes you of interest to the public.’
‘Really?’ Izzy brightened at the prospect that someone might actually be interested in her. ‘Now that’s what I call a happy ending.’
Disapproval throbbed from every inch of his powerful frame. ‘If this marriage has a chance of being accepted by the public then you will need to be kept out of the public eye. We cannot afford the negative publicity. The focus needs to be on Alex and Allegra. And if your sister is marrying the future king you need to learn how to behave. And how to dress.’ That gaze skimmed her body and she felt as if she’d been singed by the flame of a blowtorch.
Either he was giving off mixed messages or her emotional radar was jammed. There was disapproval there, yes, but there was also something else. A dangerous undercurrent that she couldn’t read properly.
‘It’s not my dress that’s wrong, it’s your party. No one in this place knows how to laugh, dance or have a good time. Those chandeliers are all very well but you could have done with a few disco balls to liven things up.’
‘This is a royal palace, not a nightclub. Your behaviour should reflect that.’
‘So I’m supposed to curtsey?’ Her flippant tone was met with derision.
‘Yes.’ His voice was silky smooth, his manner dangerously cool and his temper ruthlessly controlled. Everything about him was restrained. ‘And the correct mode of address is “Your Royal Highness.”’
She barely heard him. Her mind had ripped itself free of her control and her thoughts flew free as her eyes drifted to the strong lines of his jaw and from there to the sensual shape of his mouth. Something about that mouth told her that he’d know exactly how to kiss a woman. Heat flashed through her and suddenly all she could think of was sex, which shocked her because after her own disastrous experience and the permanent example of her parents’ highly dysfunctional marriage, getting involved with a man definitely wasn’t one of her goals.
For a moment they just stared at each other and then he frowned. ‘After the first time you can call me “Sir.”’
‘The first time’?’ Her heart was hammering and her mouth was so dry that she could barely form the words. ‘There’s never going to be a “first time.” I wouldn’t sleep with you if I was desperate which, by the way, I absolutely am not. I’m not like that. I’m a really romantic person.’
Exasperation flickered across his face. ‘Were desperate,’ he breathed. ‘The correct grammar is “were” not “was.” You use the past subjunctive when stating conditions that are contrary to fact. And I was talking about the correct manner of address the first time you meet me. Nothing else.’
Izzy, who had never heard of the subjunctive and whose only interest in English was its use in writing song lyrics, felt her face burn. ‘Right. Well, it’s excellent to have that cleared up so early in a relationship.’ Utterly mortified by the misunderstanding, which she could see now was entirely her doing and had been caused by the fact that she’d been thinking about sex with him, she ploughed on. ‘Do I seriously have to call you “Sir”? It’s just that the only person I ever called “Sir” is my old headmaster and thinking about him brings back a lot of memories I usually try and forget.’
‘The man has my deepest sympathy. Teaching you must have been a challenge to exceed all others.’ He stood directly in front of the largest painting in the room and Izzy saw the similarities immediately. The same cropped black hair. The same dark, dangerous looks. The same aristocratic lineage.
No wonder he was arrogant, she thought numbly. His breeding went back centuries whereas she was just a mongrel. The product of two people who had each wanted something from the other.
To make herself feel better she wanted to dismiss him but there was no ignoring the width and power of those shoulders. She didn’t want to find him attractive, but what woman wouldn’t? Her insides squirmed and a slow, dangerous heat spread through her pelvis.
It had to be the champagne, she thought. It was intensifying everything she felt. ‘Doesn’t the formality drive you mad? No one actually smiles or moves their faces. It’s like being in a room of those stone statue things we passed on the way in.’
‘Those priceless marble statues date back to the fifteenth century.’
‘That’s a long time to keep your face in one position. And I’m not surprised they’re priceless. Who the hell would want to pay money to have something that miserable staring at you? Sir.’ She added it as an afterthought, seriously worried by how fast the room was spinning. ‘I would curtsey but honestly these shoes are completely killing me so right now I’m trying not to move. If you were a girl, you’d understand.’
He growled deep in his throat. ‘You are the most frivolous, pointless woman I’ve ever met. Your behaviour is appalling and the damage that someone like you could do to the reputation of my family is monumental.’
Izzy, who had been called many things in her life but never ‘pointless,’ was deeply hurt but at the same time oddly grateful because surely she could never truly fall for a man who was so horribly insulting? ‘I happen to think it’s your behaviour that’s appalling. Why is it good behaviour to make someone feel small and inferior? You think you’re better than me, but if someone comes into my house I smile at them and make them feel welcome whereas you look down on everyone. I’ve had more impressive hospitality in a burger bar. You may be a prince and actually far too sexy for
your own good, but you don’t know anything about manners.’ Lifting her nose in the air she was about to say something else when the door opened and a white-faced member of the palace staff stood there.
‘The microphone, Your Royal Highness,’ he said in a strangled voice, addressing himself to the stony-faced prince. ‘It’s still switched on. Everything you’re saying can be heard in the ballroom. On high volume.’
CHAPTER TWO
APPALLED by the realisation that his family and guests had overheard their exchange, Matteo froze. He, who prided himself on his self-control, had lost it. Publicly.
As he re-ran the conversation in his head, he wanted to groan.
