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‘No.’ Not a single woman on the planet could ever accuse him of that. She stared at the dark shading of stubble on his jaw, even though it was mid-morning and he must have shaved, at the broadness of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. She was almost suffocated by how masculine he was. All that testosterone made her quite giddy. ‘You’re the epitome of masculinity. That suit. The bold red tie sayingleader. Does your valet choose the colour based on what duties you have to attend to? Red for ruling, blue for official visits, yellow for meeting children...’
‘Now you’re questioning my sartorial choices? What makes you assume I keep a valet?’
‘I’m sure all princes have them. To...darn your socks if they get holes in?’
‘My socks do not require darning.’
‘No, they’re probably woven from magical thread by some goddess. I imagine that’s your style, impeccable as it is.’
Behind Alessio, his secretary jumped from his chair. He might have looked stricken, but instead he appeared to be choking.
Alessio stood too, and she was forced to look up at his imposing form, the energy around him almost palpable. Not so impassive now, with his jaw hard, nostrils flaring. Even if he wasn’t a prince, this man could rule any room he entered.
‘Stefano. Please attend the oracle and request the goddess weave me more socks whilst I deal with Signorina Barrington’s mocking of me.’
‘Any particular colour, Your Highness?’
‘Black.’ He turned and speared Hannah with a hot glare. ‘The colour of my righteous anger.’
Alessio began to pace, something blazing and unfamiliar bubbling in his chest. After years of attempting to inject calm and order into the palace and his life, this woman seemed intent on destroying it in the space of a day. He could not allow anyone to witness it, sending Stefano away before the man fell about laughing, which would have led to jokes at his expense for weeks.
‘Alizarin Crimson,’ Hannah said.
‘What?’ He didn’t understand her, not at all.
‘That would be the colour of righteous anger. It’s a deeper colour than simple red...solid, less flash. Now, if you were plain angry, the light version of cadmium red would suit better. So I suggest you should have sent Stefano for red socks rather than black.’
Alessio kept up his pacing, unable to sit still. No one questioned him any more, no one mocked him, or disagreed with what he said. After years of chaos in the palace, his rule was absolute. That was by his design, and his demand. People knew what he expected of them and complied. No arguments. Gone was the frustration at ideas cast aside, attempts to thwart his father ignored by those who sought to profit from Lasserno’s losses. Graft, corruption and sheer negligence had been rooted out ruthlessly. Stefano argued he should release the reins, relax a little. Allow people to see the man rather than the Crown Prince. But that was the way to chaos, no matter what the press made up about him. The standards he set were highest for himself. His recent life was about calm and control. This? Hannah Barrington seemed designed to torment him.
‘I don’t want to speak about socks. What’s the point of these ridiculous questions?’
All the while she’d sat there in her own chair. Wearing black leggings, and some kind of soft grey top which clung to her slender form, sheer enough so he could see the trace of a bra. No colour on her, yet she was the most vibrant thing in the room, and he couldn’t look away. Right now she wasn’t looking at him, instead gently sweeping an infernal pencil over the page as he wore a path through the carpet, burning through his frustration. She didn’t seem to notice. Nibbling on her plum-coloured bottom lip. A slight frown on her brow. Such focus on a piece of paper, not on him.
‘I’m trying to engage in conversation,’ she said, ‘which would be easier if you participated by conversing back.’
‘I am speaking to you.’
She glanced up at him briefly, her gaze searching. Flickering over him as if in a quick and efficient study, then back down at the page in front of her. ‘Conversation is a different thing entirely. It’s an exchange. You’re not exchanging, you’re...dictating.’
He stopped behind the armchair in which she’d placed him. Gripped the back till his fingers crushed the exquisite fabric. He’d not sat all day, but had been solving a thousand small problems, and a few large ones, on the move. Reviewed the longlist of candidates for Lasserno’s new princess. Whilst he’d wished to be anywhere but here, the thought of stopping for the brief hour he’d allocated to her today had been almost pleasant. Yet she’d kept talking, and those questions had dredged up memories and feelings he hadn’t experienced in years. It was as though, if he let her speak any more, he might tell her everything that had plagued him since his mother’s death.
‘So you converse by asking about a valet? What other staff will you be enquiring about? Whether I have my own personal fingernail-buffer?’
He couldn’t see what she was doing, the book in which she drew tilted the wrong way. She looked up again from her page. Cocked her head. Fixed her attention to his hands again. Her lips parted, then she went back to drawing.
‘Thatwouldtell me a lot about you, but you strike me as...assured rather than vain.’
He couldn’t help a bitter laugh. At least there he hadn’t taken after his father. A man always seeking approval, adoration. Being feted for his looks. Searching out women to worship him. His wife’s love had never been enough. In the end coldness and hatred was all that had fuelled their doomed marriage.
‘So long as my suits fit, I have little interest. I don’t need to appear on best-dressed lists year after year.’ Unlike his father, who’d eschewed the court-appointed royal tailor for Savile Row. Almost putting the man and his family out of business, when they’d tended royalty in Lasserno for over a century. Alessio had rectified that slight, supporting locals who had a long and proud tradition rather than looking outside the country for what was easily supplied here.
Anyhow, what did a suit matter when all he wanted to do was spend the limited time available to him on horseback, as if to outride the weight of responsibility that some days seemed as if it could crush him? His suit was a mere costume he wore, the trappings of a leader. It said nothing about the man at all.
Hannah stopped drawing, looked at him again. Long, slow. Her gaze drifting over his face, lower. To his hands. Fixing itself there. The way she studied him took on a life of its own. His heart beat a little faster. An odd sensation stirring in his gut, almost like excitement. He released his grip on the chair in front of him and stood straighter. Was her assessment of him an artist’s, or a woman’s? Did she like what she saw? He didn’t know why that last question was so important to answer, because the answer was meaningless and changed nothing.
‘Your suit fits...exquisitely.’ Her voice was soft, breathy, almost as if what she said surprised her. The tone of it stroked over his skin, touching him everywhere. Alessio relished the sensation. It was like being handed an unexpected gift.
Hannah placed her sketch pad and pencil face down on the carpet. Stood, pursed her lips. ‘And I think that’s half the problem. Let’s start again. Your Highness, could you please take off your suit jacket and have a seat?’
