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‘But is the bride?’
Rafe checked his watch. She was only five minutes late. Not long in the scheme of things. But the curl of tension twisted his gut. He’d wanted no hesitation. No sign that being at his side was other than where she was meant to be. He shook it off. What did it matter when he had a lifetime as Lauritania’s King ahead of him?
‘I’ve been meaning to ask, what is that hideous thing on your chest?’ Lance pointed to a pale blue and white ribbon. An enamelled, gem-encrusted star with insignia pinned to Rafe’s jacket. ‘Looks like a vulture.’
‘Order of the Raven.’
The country’s highest civilian order in the country. Since Rafe didn’t have a drop of blue blood in his veins, the decision had been made to confer him with something. For outstanding service to business. He could have laughed. He’d been serving the country for years and it took his marrying their Queen to recognise him.
‘You’re becoming one of them.’
There was the dull sound of disappointment in his friend’s voice. It had been the boyhood promise they’d made after Rafe had saved Lance from a beating meted out by the sons of some counts or other.Neverbecome like the aristocracy here. From that day, Rafe had fought back with fists, carrying the pride of his working-class background. Together he and Lance had become a force none of the other boys had been able to reckon with.
‘I’ll never be one of them.’ He fixed his friend with a heated glare. ‘I’m better.’
Lance shook his head. ‘Always the ambition with you.’
The truth of that cut closer to the bone than it ought. ‘If that’s how you feel, what are you doing here?’
‘Ensuring my oldest friend’s making the right decision.’ The silence between them lingered ominously for a few beats. Then Lance clapped his hand on Rafe’s shoulder, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial way. ‘And women. The best man always gets laid at weddings. It’s a rule.’
Rafe laughed; the tension broken in the way Lance knew best until the organ swelled in a glorious crescendo as the doors of the Morenberg Cathedral cracked open. Trumpets commenced some suitably wedding-like heraldry. The whispers of the crowd drowned out by the music announcing the arrival of his soon-to-be wife. He turned; his bride stood silhouetted in the door. His heart quickened its pace to racing speed.
Lance chuckled. ‘My friend, it looks like you’re royally screwed.’
Rafe didn’t understand what he meant. Lise crossed the threshold of the cathedral doorway, a shadow backlit by glorious sunlight. The voluminous skirt of her dress filling the entryway, nipping tight at her slender waist. She began her slow procession down the aisle, the prime minister at her arm. But as she walked closer, he realised what Lance had seen the moment she’d stood in the doorway. When she’d walked into the soft light of the cathedral nave she hadn’t moved out of the shadows. Her wedding dress was an inky black.
He ground his teeth. The perfectly fitted morning suit too tight, too hot under the stage lights. Of all the humiliations in his life he’d had none worse than this. He wanted to tear off the badge of chivalry she’d bestowed on him only days before, the meaningless trinket that it was. Symbols? She’d given him one of her own. Not even a pretence that this was a day to be celebrated in any way. What she wore was an utter repudiation.
Rafe breathed slowly and reminded himself that the world watched every expression they displayed. As his bride approached, he smiled. Wide, doting and fake to the very core. He glanced over at his parents, who were beaming as if her slight meant nothing.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said. Her face was pale and soft focus behind the black lace-edged veil that fell past her fingertips, spilling to the floor and trailing behind her. And to any objective observer, she did. The gown’s bodice fitted to accentuate her slender frame, the elegant swell of her breasts. All the harshness of the colour softened by a feminine ruffle of dark, sheer fabric round her neck that dipped in a demure vee exposing a bare hint of cleavage. The coal-dark satin of the remainder of the gown shimmering with encrustations of jet beading. Up close it was an extraordinary piece of workmanship. It didn’t stop the beat of anger drumming in his veins.
The archbishop took his place in front of them as the music died. ‘Are we ready?’
He’d spent his whole life planning for a moment like this. Four years manoeuvring for this exact day. Yet it was Lise, not him, who gave a curt nod to commence the ceremony that would seal their future together.
The archbishop intoned a prayer and began. ‘We have come together today to witness the marriage...’
With that sentence the hallowed space melted away. The talk of love, joy, tenderness. Of children. Those words should have been a mockery, but somehow weren’t. Even the anger burning through him mellowed. Rafe turned to Lise and took her hand in his, as he’d been instructed he should. The tremble in her frigid fingers unmistakeable. Her blue eyes wide and brimming with barely contained tears. And the moment ceased to be about a country, a queen or a king. It centred on the two people in front of the altar, a man and a woman. The vows passed in a blur of false promises. Rafe placed the wedding ring on Lise’s slender finger. Her skin soft and delicate as she gently slid the bright gold band on his own with no hesitation.
‘...I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife.’
Rafe raised Lise’s veil, uncovering a face as pale as if she’d been cast in moonlight. Her perfect mouth a soft dusky pink. He gazed into the blue eyes searching his face. Pupils wide and dark. The barest blush sweeping across her cheeks before fading away. He raised his left hand to cup her face, which tilted up to him. Her skin, silky and warm under his fingertips, her lips parted. For the briefest of seconds, he believed she wanted this. Him. Then the look passed.
‘For pity’s sake, kiss the bride,’ Lance murmured.
Not today. Their first, real kiss would be in private, not watched by millions. He wanted her to crave it,begfor it. Forhim. So he dropped his head and brushed his lips across the smooth skin of her cheek. Relishing her soft exhale as he did.
Rafe turned to the assembled crowd. The coronation came next but that was a mere formality. He didn’t need to feel the heavy weight of the consort’s crown on his head to know the unassailable truth. It hummed through his blood with a heady roar. Better than making his first billion. Better than drinking the whole case of whisky Lance had stashed in the back of the car outside. For every slight these people had given him, each one of them would know.
The country was his. He ruled them all.
Long live the King.
CHAPTER THREE
LISETOYEDATthe plate of food at the wedding banquet showcasing Lauritania’s delicacies, a headache burgeoning at her temple. Other people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Wine flowed freely. There was a sense of festivity she didn’t feel. Three hundred or so palace intimates and foreign dignitaries celebrating a marriage she didn’t want. A wedding arranged for her brother, not her.
