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She held onto it now, that pain, and stood with a rictus smile on her lips, for she didn’t want it tainting the one glorious night they had shared.
‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon...’ Julius said, and gave her his formal public smile.
‘I will.’
She nodded, fighting to control herself. His manner was just too reminiscent of the way her mother had dismissed her all those years ago.
All the parts of her she’d held in check, every single hurt and insecurity, came bubbling up, and instead of turning to go bitter words slipped out.
‘Not evenonepersonal text?’
‘We can’t be having this conversation,’ he told her.
‘Why not? You’re just talking to your liaison aide.’
‘Well, you don’t look like one.’
He meant her hair, her dress, the freckles popping off her shoulders, the nipples like studs under the cotton. He was trying to convey all of that right now with his one arch comment, even while he ached to take off her sunglasses so he could better read her expression. But he couldn’t do it today.
Beatrice smiled politely and nodded. And then from her sweet lips, and for his ears only, she said the one word you should never say to the next in line to the throne.
It was recognisable in most of the languages she spoke and it began with a B.
Julius’s response was supremely polite as he simply nodded.
And Beatrice had never been more grateful for her dark glasses, for it felt as if his eyes were piercing hers, and she could see the anger flickering in his jaw.
‘Ms Taylor.’
What had she done?
‘Beatrice!’ Jordan called out. She had found, of all things, a shawl. ‘Esther keeps one in the car...just in case.’
‘Jordan...’
‘I shouldn’t have tried to force you to come.’ She directed a pale tentative smile at Beatrice, and it was clear to her that Jordan had been having a nosy little re-read of Beatrice’s file and basic security checks. ‘But now you’re here...’
Oh, please don’t be nice.
She was actually appreciative of the stern doorman who directed her to take off her hat and glasses, and she put the shawl around her shoulders as she stepped into the royal marquee.
Prince Julius was not there to mingle casually with staff and their partners. His back was to her, and Beatrice’s back was to him while she stood listening to Esther, who was equally excited to be having a boy as her husband, who was currently walking around with Julius.
‘What have you bought?’ Jordan asked Beatrice.
‘Not much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to get some tulip bulbs.’
‘You’ve been to the soap stall...’ said Jordan.
Julius turned as Jordan inhaled the contents of Beatrice’s little paper bag. He was angry, tired, turned on—and something else...
He was worried that the festival was hard for her, and that he had just made it more so.
And why the hell couldn’t she have worn grey, as she always did?
Her shoulders were red—they would hurt tonight—and it would seem from the soap Jordan was now waving around that Beatrice had decided to venture away from her usual carbolic.
And that, he acknowledged, put him in the position of being able to understand how she must feel, looking through endless images of him and his dates...
