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‘You knew their names.’ He swore under his breath—so much for covert surveillance. ‘They stayed behind. Your sister could be a press target. You are safe with me.’
Strangely, considering how objectionable she had initially found their presence, she felt oddly comforted by this information, and felt quite guilty about the fact.
‘Safe?’She slung him an ironic look and, rubbing the bridge of her nose, pushed back in her seat, digging her head into the soft leather upholstery to ease the muscles of her aching neck before she turned her head in his direction.
‘You really think it will be that easy? I just reappear and it’s all happy families? Your family must be planning your next marriage. Won’t me being here throw a spanner in the works?’
‘Oh, I think they were doing that before you left.’
She had been joking but, looking at his face, she wasn’t sure he was. Of course it made sense. He was going to be King one day and he needed a queen and why wait? It was all about continuity.
Ignoring the sharp stab of something that could be jealousy, or loss, or hurt, she managed a flippant comeback to prove to herself as much as him that her heart was not broken.
‘So, any prospective candidates standing out yet?’
‘Perhaps you’re better placed than most to decide what would make my perfect bride.’
‘Are you flirting with me?’
Before she could react to his wicked grin, she realised that while they had been speaking they had entered the palace proper. The cars in front of them and behind had peeled away at some point, and they were now drawing up between the two elaborate stone fountains that stood outside the porticoed entrance to the private apartments she had left eight months ago.
She sat there, fighting a deep reluctance to get out of the car. Once she did it would all seem real, which up to that point it hadn’t. She felt as if stepping onto the gravel would be akin to ripping a scab off a healing wound, releasing the pleasure and pain of past memories.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself this was the new, improved Beatrice. Sane Beatrice who did not lose her mind, or become malleable mush when breathing the same air as Dante.
‘I am a bit tired after the journey,’ she said, setting the scene for when she excused herself. A bit of aloneness was looking very tempting right now.
‘Ah…’
She looked at him, bristling with suspicion. ‘Do you mind translating that “Ah” into something I won’t like?’
‘There is a reception tonight for the French ambassador and his wife. It was arranged some time ago and it was deemed to be diplomatically unwise to cancel. We have already postponed once. Mother had a headache—actually she was hung-over.’
‘Fine, don’t worry, I can amuse myself.’
‘Ah…’
She regarded him with narrowed eyes.
‘The point is that should the ambassador become aware that you are here your non-attendance could be construed as an insult.’
‘You even sound like a diplomat.’
‘A bit harsh, Bea.’
She fought off a grin. ‘Couldn’t you say I had a headache or something?’ She wasn’t at all sure she didn’t, she decided, rubbing her temples with her fingertips before she gave a resigned sigh. ‘All right, tell me the worst.’
His expression tensed. ‘There is no question of you attending if you feel unwell. I will have the physician visit. In fact, this might be a good idea. You’ve had a long day and you shouldn’t overexert yourself. Stress isn’t good for the baby.’
‘I’m fine,’ she promised, adopting a businesslike tone. ‘So, who will be at this dinner?’
As he listed the guests she gave several eye-rolls, interspersed with theatrical sighs.
‘So basically, the snootiest, stuffiest—’
‘I’m sure you’ll cope admirably,’ he cut back with an utter lack of sympathy that made her eyes narrow. ‘Just be yourself.’
She opened her mouth and closed it, realising that this was almost like talking to the man she had fallen in love with, the one who didn’t give a damn about protocol. They had always shared the same sense of humour, and appreciation of irony.
