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Marriage.
All conversations, all rows, all roads led to that. And the pressure did not come solely from his family but from the people, who longed to see their reckless Prince settled.
‘I don’t require a wife in order to make decisions.’
‘You need to temper your ways. At least in the eyes of the public.’
‘So as long as I am discreet I can carry on as before?’ Rafe checked, and there was no disguising the disgust in his tone.
But his mother was unmoved. ‘You have your father’s heart, Rafe,’ Queen Marcelle responded matter-of-factly. ‘No one expects you to be faithful—we all know that your love is reserved for your country. And that country wants to see its Prince married and with heirs.’
‘I decide when.’
‘Fine,’ said his mother. ‘Until then, enjoy waving from the balcony!’
They had had this discussion on many occasions, though the news that he could take mistresses, like his father did, was a new development. But not a welcome one. Rafe admired many things about the King, but abhorred plenty.
He had the last word, Rafe knew. But he could not force him to marry.
And yet he could feel the pressure to conform tightening.
Rafe had not been lying when he’d told the King that his country had been on his mind as he’d fallen. Perhaps it was time to take a break from his partying ways, for Rafe was surprised to find himself growing tired of them.
Back on the balcony, he was thinking of one particular beauty. It was too confined here. That must be the reason why his thoughts had again wandered to Antonietta, for usually he allowed himself to get close to no one.
Her tears had moved him.
He wanted to spoil her. He wanted that smile he had seen so briefly to return to her lips.
One more night in Silibri, Rafe told himself.
And he would not be spending it alone.
