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‘She said something about there being a possible baby shower before the year was out,’ she whispered. ‘I got the feeling that was what she meant. That she wanted to...that she wanted to have your baby.’
A ragged breath erupted from his lungs. It sounded like a caged beast breaking free and Rosie had to concentrate very hard not to take an instinctive step back. She had seen Corso many times during her life—admittedly only through the eyes of someone who was young and untutored—but she had never seen him look anything like this before. Naked fury darkened his brilliant eyes, followed by a spiky glint of anger. She wondered if he was going to thank her for telling him before it was too late, but maybe that was naïve because there was nothing resembling gratitude on his hard features. He looked utterly magnificent but also utterly terrifying.
Don’t shoot the messenger, she wanted to say, but of course—she didn’t dare.
He was nodding his head, like someone doing sums inside their head, before coming to some kind of calculation. His words were slow and measured. ‘This is the beginning and the end of this conversation. Do not ever speak of it again. Not to anyone,’ he instructed. ‘Believe me, I will know if you have broken this confidence and I will make you pay. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Rosie?’
She nodded. He was asking her to keep this a secret. To collude with him.
She thought how differently he could have put it. He could have made it sound like a strengthening bond between them, but it was nothing like that. His words were a warning—maybe even a threat. As if the already wide chasm which existed between them had opened up even wider. As if he were standing on the deck of a giant ocean liner which was moving slowly but irrevocably away from her.
And she should not forget that he had also insulted her. He’d accused her of jealousy. Of mooning around and being somehow offended because he hadn’t asked her to dance. As if! She’d rather scrub the palace floor with a toothbrush than dance withhim. Somehow she couldn’t imagine ever seeing him again after tonight, let alone speaking to him. And wouldn’t that be for the best? To finally put Monterosso and all its bittersweet memories behind her. To forget that once she had eaten chicken pie with a crown prince, and try to get on with the rest of her life, wherever that took her?
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness,’ she emphasised sarcastically, but her formal acknowledgement of his title must have reassured him that she meant what she said, because he nodded with patriarchal acceptance.
‘Good. I think that is all. And now, if you will excuse me, people are expecting fireworks and I must signal for them to begin.’
And that was that. No thanks. No further acknowledgement. Nothing but a cool gaze before the Prince swept out from within the curtained recess. After a couple of moments Rosie did the same and watched as he walked towards the front of the palace balustrade, and people parted to clear a path for him, as they always did. She could see Tiffany glancing towards him as he lifted his hand in command for the fireworks to begin.
But he did not look in Tiffany’s direction. Not once. Rosie saw a trace of discomposure cross the supermodel’s exquisite features, just as Corso brought his hand down with the rapid and irreversible movement of a guillotine blade.
As the palace clock struck midnight, fireworks exploded and Monterosso was lit up with silver and pink, with green and blue and crimson. The colours splintered the dark blue sky like bright, kaleidoscopic comets but as the chimes began to die away, Rosie could hear the sound of boots coming towards them...and they were running.
Running.
She knew something was wrong the instant she saw the marble-white faces of the King’s inner guard as they sped towards Corso, who was regarding them impenetrably—though in the moonlight she thought she could see the dawning of comprehension hardening those rugged features. And suddenly Rosie guessed what was happening as, to a man, the guard sank to their knees before him, their solemn pronouncement echoing through the shocked silence of the partygoers.
‘The King is dead!’
And then.
‘Long live the King!’
Corso’s strained features reflected the enormity of what was taking place and Rosie wondered if she had imagined the bitter acceptance which briefly darkened his extraordinary eyes.
