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Would he still be marrying her if it weren’t for a misplaced sense of obligation to Etienne? A feeling that he’d wronged a man long-dead, by sleeping with his step-daughter? But she didn’t need to ask the question. She suspected she knew the answer. Despite their overwhelming attraction, Hakim would have kept her as a lover, rather than a wife.
Their wedding was taking place out of duty and obligation. She had been busy falling in love with him and he’d been, what? Attracted to her, yes. But enough to marry her? No. Hakim would never make such a permanent decision were it not for his overdeveloped moral code. His reasons were becoming more and more clear to her.
But as for Phoebe? She wasn’t at all sure why she was going along with it. Certainly, Etienne had nothing to do with her decision. And though her desire for Hakim would have made her agree to just about anything, she knew that the powerful sexual attraction was only a piece of the puzzle. For a niggling worry had begun to build inside her. A worry that her feelings were far more entangled than she would like.
The realization that she was falling in love with her fiancé was an unwelcome one. Hakim was not the kind of man to return such feelings. He might have been loyal to Etienne, but when it came to her, his motives were clear. Property and sex. He saw her as an object. One that had been thrust upon him to care for, and that he felt he’d wronged by sleeping with. Worse, by sleeping with her as her first time. Taking her virginity was tantamount to a marriage proposal, in Hakim’s mind. She saw that now.
She sighed heavily. She didn’t need to ask him why he was marrying her then. She already knew.
“Yes?” He prompted, flicking his wrist so that he could check the time on his gold watch. She got the message loud and clear. He was busy, and she’d taken up a lot of his valuable time already. She stood, forcing an over bright smile to her face.
“How in the world do you keep that pool so cold?”
It was not what he expected, and he laughed. He leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s temperature controlled, Phoebe.”
She rolled her eyes. Of course it was. This was no royal magic. Some mythical cold spring beneath the sand. The hot water must have been pumped out and replaced with cold. Everything had an explanation. Even their marriage. She just had to make sure Hakim never knew that her motivation differed from his.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since agreeing to marry Hakim, Phoebe found that many aspects of her life were silently but effectively micro-managed by a small team of staff. Though they were nothing like Etienne had been, the sense of being responsible to a host of others did not sit well with Phoebe.
And yet, in accepting Hakim’s proposal, she had known her life would change forever. She stood like a statue as a group of attendants continued to piece her gown into place. The dinner for Becca was spontaneous, and it was to be quite small, but Phoebe was apparently expected to appear in full finery.
The dress was, indeed, fine.
The fabric was raw silk, and a burnt orange so deep in shade that it was almost gold. It sat demurely high, but was fitted to the waist, then it flared to just above the knees. A sheer gold bolero completed the look. Her hair was piled high on her head, in a sophisticated yet fashionable bun.
Becca walked in as the last button was fastened, and she froze, when she saw Phoebe.
“You are a vision, your highness,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
Phoebe eyed her dubiously. “Are you sure? It’s not really my usual style.”
“Stunning,” she reiterated, walking around Phoebe so that she could see the dress from all angles. “I can’t believe it, but you really do look like a princess. I feel like I should bow or something.”
“Don’t you dare,” Phoebe laughed. “You’re my normality touchstone. If I ask you to, you’re fully expected to pinch me, okay?”
“I don’t know. Won’t that get me arrested or something?”
Phoebe shook her head. “I’ll protect you.”
Becca had enjoyed shopping in the up market boutiques of Karut. Without the strictures imposed on Phoebe, she’d been free to select a dress that was both wild and glamorous. It was black, and fell like a bell from her shoulders, in a perfect imitation of a nineteen sixties dress. She’d teamed it with lime green accessories, and a hint of hot pink lipstick. She was half Grace Kelly, half Vivienne Westwood, and completely show-stopping.
“I don’t know if I want you to show me up so much,” Phoebe joked, toying with the collar of her dress.
“Who are you kidding, Phoebe? With you in the room, no one’s going to look at me.” She put an arm around her friend’s waist. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Don’t be. You’ll be perfect. And if it gets too much, just do what we used to do at school.”
“Picture Mr. Denby in his underwear?” She joked.
Becca giggled. “That could definitely get you arrested.”
In the end, Phoebe didn’t have time to feel nervous. From the moment Hakim escorted her into one of the many formal rooms of the palace, she had been held captive. Every guest wanted to spend time meeting the woman who would become Sheikha. She discovered, though, that she had a rather helpful little aid to oil the machine of social interaction, too. The man stood at her elbow and muttered accented, but useful, information to her between guests, so that she could at least appear to have a level of preparation.
“You are doing well,” Hakim said with an admiring lift of his brows, after Phoebe had spent at least an hour of her life making banal small talk.
