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By the time the plane landed at the airport, she wanted nothing more than to tell him she’d made a mistake, run to the nearest terminal and board the quickest flight home.
Except she had no home. She couldn’t just go back to her apartment at the palace. The house she’d lived in with her parents outside of Southampton until her mother’s death had been sold long ago to pay for the last of her university tuition. Both her parents had been single children, their parents dead before she’d even been born.
All she had left now was the man descending the stairs onto the tarmac—her husband—and the unplanned child growing inside her. Would it be her only one? Would she continue in her parents’ stead?
It was enough, she decided morosely as he turned to hold out his hand to her, to make one thoroughly depressed.
Alaric glanced out the window as the helicopter he’d arranged to take him and his new wife to the lake house slowly descended onto the helipad.
His wife.
No need to get sentimental, he reminded himself. That didn’t stop protectiveness from rearing its head as her fingers settled in his and she alighted from the helicopter. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the chalet.
“It’s beautiful, Alaric.”
His hand tightened around hers for a moment before he forced himself to ease his grip. It was the first time she’d spontaneously used his name. It shouldn’t matter.
Didn’t matter, he reminded himself as he guided her down the stone path from the helipad toward the house.
“The one purchase my mother oversaw. She spent a lot of time here.”
The two-story mansion had been built in a private cove with a private beach on Lake Geneva. His mother had fallen in love with the shingled, pale blue exterior and white shutters adorning each window. The color was too bright for his taste, but he’d never been able to bring himself to change it.
As an added bonus, Daxon despised the place. It didn’t matter that the house boasted six bedrooms, an indoor pool and five acres of lakefront real estate. Daxon had berated his wife for choosing a house that looked like it “belonged in a tiny town in Maine” and not in the holdings of a king of Europe. It had been one of the few times his mother had stood up to Daxon. Daxon had retaliated by purchasing a lavish home on Lake Como in Italy and dragging them there for a vacation at least once a year.
However, he reflected as the blades of the helicopter came to a stop and he looked out over the snow-covered grounds leading down to the water’s edge, the marble floors and Greek columns of the Lake Como house had always felt more like a museum than a house. Despite his loyalty to Linnaea, even the palace had at times seemed like a prison, his future written before he’d even been born.
Here, in what Daxon had sneeringly referred to as “the cottage,” had been the closest to home he had ever experienced.
It was, he realized with a small degree of surprise, the first time he had ever brought a woman here.
He glanced at Clara out of the corner of his eye. She’d been extremely quiet since they’d flown out of Eira. At first the silence had been welcome. Between delegating how best to use the funds provided by his brother-in-law’s deposit into Linnaea’s treasury and navigating the upcoming treaty with Switzerland, his list continued to grow.
Somewhere over France the silence had started to creep under his skin. Given Celestine’s behavior and frequent portrayals in the media, he’d accepted over the years that when he finally did marry, his queen would do best by staying in the background of official duties. He knew plenty of royals and dignitaries whose significant others excelled at spending money, wearing the latest couture and providing heirs while keeping as far away from their spouses’ official duties as possible.
But Clara had never been one to stay in the background. No, she’d surprised him from her first day when she’d flatly told him an email he’d dictated to her was too abrupt. He’d been so surprised by her critique that instead of firing her, he’d asked her what she would change. The resulting second draft had not only been much better, but had led to an improved relationship with the member of Parliament he’d been writing to.
So why, he asked himself, as the pilot circled around the helicopter and opened the door, had he shut her down on the way to the plane? She was a woman who done nothing but work tirelessly for his country, who had agreed to marry him to provide the best possible life for their child even when marriage to him had clearly not been her first choice.
Yet he was treating her exactly like he would have Celestine. The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth. But how could they possibly return to their camaraderie of the previous year? It had been pleasant, yes, but once the constraints keeping them in their proper roles had been removed, they’d lost control so quickly.
He’d lost control.
Just like his father.
His fingers moved across the keyboard, each tap a little more forceful than the last. Clara didn’t even glance at him, her eyes trained on the winter landscape outside.
“My mother purchased this when I was ten.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Beneath the monotone he detected a hint of genuine appreciation. A tightness eased inside his chest. He had been concerned about what she would think about the cottage, he realized.
“I didn’t ask you about a honeymoon. I just picked the best location for privacy.”
Clara shrugged, still not looking at him.
“I understand.”
