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Today though, Sébastien’s words floated around him. They didn’t penetrate. Amadeo’s head was too full of the woman he’d left sleeping early that morning to allow anything else in. His veins were too full too, a lingering thrum of sensation a physical reminder of what they’d shared.
But what had they shared? he mockingly asked himself. Great sex? That was no reason to turn into a zombie. It had to be the things she’d confided in him about her life in Monte Cleure because, along with the constant image of Elsbeth’s beautiful face in the throes of ecstasy, came fantasies of smacking his fist over and over into the King of Monte Cleure’s nose.
It was just as well his family were only constitutional monarchs with no real power over their island, he reflected grimly. If power still resided in their hands, he would be tempted to call up the Ceres special forces and plot a way to topple the bastard.
King Dominic Fernandez was a monster with unlimited power.
But hadn’t he already known the man was a monster, and known it long before he’d kidnapped Clara?
He’d known it but he’d been detached from it. The stories about Dominic had only been words. His loathing of the man had come from his own interactions with him over the years.
He didn’t feel detached from it any more. Now his loathing felt personal.
He’d never had violent fantasies before. They were as disturbing as the frequent urge to cut his day short and return straight to Elsbeth’s bed.
Monday morning, and Amadeo stood at the stone balustrade of his balcony, coffee in hand, watching the sun rise.
The hairs on the nape of his neck rose before she appeared in the garden. Throat closing, he straightened, drinking in the sleep-tousled blonde hair and the short silk emerald robe covering whatever form of nightwear she had on. His loins thickened as he considered the possibility she wore nothing beneath it...
Did she sense his stare or had she come outside hopeful of seeing him? Whatever her reason, she’d barely trodden ten steps barefoot over the lawn when she turned her head.
Dio, the thump of his heart as their eyes clashed.
Was this why he’d come out onto his balcony so early? Was this why he’d woken even earlier than was usual for him? Had a part of him hoped to see her?
This was getting ridiculous. He hadn’t thought making love on Saturday would rid him of the desire he felt for her but had assumed it would go some way to assuaging it. It wasn’t supposed to have made things worse. He was acting like a lust-fuelled adolescent.
That lightened his mood. When he’d been a lust-fuelled adolescent, it hadn’t taken long for his infatuations to pass, the objects of his desire nice and shiny for weeks at a time then the lustre fading until nothing was left and it was time to move on. He’d never allowed those temporary infatuations to control him even at their height.
His current infatuation with Elsbeth would fade too. It certainly wouldn’t last. He supposed a certain limited affection that came from being so closely wound in other’s orbit was to be expected. Sleeping in her bed hadn’t broken any rules, only set a new precedent. His obsession was certainly no reason to break the rules of their marriage and invite her up to his quarters and into his bed on a non-agreed day. That only had the potential to complicate a situation that didn’t need complicating.
Settled in his mind, he raised a hand in greeting.
Too much time passed before she raised a hand in return. More time stretched before he watched her slim shoulders rise and then she started walking back towards him.
Despite everything he’d just settled in his mind, his breath caught in his lungs. The closer she walked to the iron steps that would lead her up to his balcony, the harder his heart thumped.
But she didn’t reach the steps. Instead, she disappeared from view into her own quarters.
It wasn’t her mother’s voice sternly telling her that a princess never made the first move—she knew it was futile to expect the shackles of her past to be thrown off overnight—that had stopped Elsbeth climbing the iron steps to Amadeo, and nor was it the agreement, made at Amadeo’s instigation, of them leading separate lives within the castle walls. It wasn’t even that after well over a month of marriage he hadn’t invited her into his quarters that stopped her. It was the explosion in her heart at the mere sight of him.
The intensity of that explosion terrified her. These were feelings that had no place in their marriage and she needed to get a handle on them quickly. One night of beautiful sex, confidences and falling asleep in each other’s arms did not change the fundamentals of her marriage. Just because Amadeo wanted her did not mean he wanted more from her. He’d proven that by creeping out of her bed without a whisper of goodbye and then spending Sunday at the racetrack. He hadn’t even mentioned he was going, which only proved the fundamentals of their marriage hadn’t changed.
It shouldn’t hurt. But it did. Badly. And it was all her own fault for not asking him to leave her quarters when she’d known how vulnerable her heart had been to him at that time.
The meeting in the Queen’s private offices that Wednesday to discuss the royal itinerary was the first family meeting Elsbeth had been invited to.
Her nerves at what, for her, was a momentous occasion, were quickly soothed by her mother-in-law’s gracious welcome and her father-in-law’s affectionate embrace. She’d seen little of them since the wedding and they were both keen to satisfy themselves that she’d settled into their family and that there was nothing she was unhappy about. Reassurances given, an invitation for a family meal the following week accepted, Elsbeth took her seat next to Amadeo at the huge oval table, and arranged her face. She could only pray he hadn’t sensed the huge thump of her heart at the sight of him, and pray he couldn’t hear its staccato beat, the tempo rising even higher as the cologne she so adored seeped into the air around her.
They led separate lives. They would always lead separate lives. Her brain accepted that. The sooner her heart accepted it too, the less vulnerable it would be to him.
‘How have you enjoyed our break from engagements?’ he asked while the others sat themselves down.
‘Very well, thank you.’ That was good. Her voice sounded normal. To her own ears, at least. She’d spent much of Monday with the castle’s head gardener, brainstorming how to transform her and Amadeo’s private garden into something resembling an English country garden, and then spent Tuesday reading books on the history of the castle. She’d found it fascinating. Unlike the palace she’d grown up in, which had been built entirely in King Albert’s reign centuries before and then considered a masterpiece needing nothing more to be added, the Berrutis predominantly Gothic castle had evolved over a millennia, but especially in the centuries of the early medieval period, by a succession of monarchs determined to put their own individual stamp on it. She’d wondered briefly if Amadeo would want to put his own stamp on it too when he became King but then, because she was absolutely determined not to think about him on her few precious days without his company, wondered no more.
‘And you?’ she added. ‘Did you enjoy your day at the racetrack on Sunday?’
If he was surprised that she knew where he’d spent the day, he didn’t show it. As she was coming to learn, nothing stayed secret for long in the castle. Gossip seeped through the draughts in the old stone walls or, in her case, through the mouths of her staff.
