Читать книгу Not Fit for a King? - Jane Porter - Страница 9

HANNAH told herself she was relieved that this impossible charade was nearly over. She told herself she was glad to be going in the morning. But part of her was disappointed. Zale fascinated her.

In her dressing room, Hannah touched up her makeup and adjusted the tiara before following her lady-in-waiting through soaring galleries and elegant chambers on the way to the Grand Dining Hall.

They walked briskly, her skirts whispering with every step. Passing through the Empire Room, Hannah caught a glimpse of herself in a tall mirror over the high white marble fireplace.

The reflection startled her. Is that how she really looked? Elegant? Shimmering? Pretty?

She shook her head at her reflection and her reflection shook her head back—pink cheeks. Deep blue eyes. High cheekbones above a generous mouth.

Hannah couldn’t believe she really looked like that. Didn’t know she could look like that. She’d never felt beautiful in her life. Smart, yes. Hardworking, of course. But her father had never placed any value on physical beauty—had certainly never encouraged her to wear makeup or dress up—and for a moment she wanted to really be the beautiful girl in the mirror.

What if she was a princess in real life?

Would it change everything? Would it change her?

The lady-in-waiting paused outside tall paneled doors that opened onto the Grand Dining Hall. “We’ll wait for His Majesty here,” she said.

Hannah nodded, eager to see King Zale Patek again. She shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t feel anything.

Suddenly King Patek and his attendants were there and the atmosphere felt positively electric.

Hannah’s breath caught in her throat as heat and energy crackled around them. Tall, lithe, strong, Zale Patek practically hummed with life.

She’d never met a man so vitally alive. Had never met a man with such confidence. Lifting her head she looked up into his eyes and the expression in the rich amber depths made her heart turn over.

“You look lovely,” he said.

She inclined her head. “And you do, too, Your Majesty.” “I look lovely?”

“Handsome,” she corrected, with a blush. “And royal.”

He lifted an eyebrow but Hannah was saved from further conversation as the doors to the Grand Dining Hall opened simultaneously, revealing an immense, richly paneled hall easily two stories tall.

“Oh,” Hannah whispered, awed by the medieval grandeur of the room. The huge room was lit almost exclusively by candlelight. Ivory tapers flickered in sconces and tall silver cande-labras marched down the length of the table. Stone fireplaces marked both ends of the room and magnificent burgundy tapestries covered the richly paneled walls. The high ceiling was an intricate design of gold stencil against dark stained wood.

Zale looked down at her, a hint of a smile at his lips. “Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm.

She looked up at him and her heart did a funny little hiccup. Beautiful face, beautiful eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist, long muscular legs. A fantasy come to life.

Would it be such a bad thing if she were to enjoy playing Princess Emmeline for just one night?

Would it ruin everything if she liked Zale a little? Tomorrow morning she’d be heading home and would never see him again, so why couldn’t she just be happy tonight?

Together they entered the crowded hall where the guests were already seated at the longest dining table she’d ever seen.

She could feel all their eyes on them, and conversation died as they walked to the two places still empty in the middle of the table. “Such a big table,” she murmured.

“It is,” he agreed. “Originally it was built to accommodate one hundred. But five hundred years ago people must have been considerably smaller—or perhaps they didn’t mind a very tight squeeze,” he answered with a hint of laughter in his voice, “because I don’t think we ever seat more than eighty today.”

A uniformed butler drew out a chair for Hannah while another held out Zale’s and then they were sitting, and Zale leaned toward Hannah to whisper. “And even then,” he added, “as you can see, eighty is still quite snug.”

Snug was an understatement, she thought an hour later, feeling excessively warm and more than a little claustrophobic as the five-course meal slowly progressed. Her teal gown was too tight and pinched around her ribs, and Zale was a big man with very broad shoulders and he took up considerable space.

And then there were her emotions, which were all over the place.

Everything about him intrigued her, and it was impossible to ignore him, even if she wanted to. At least six foot three, he dominated the table with his broad shoulders and long legs.

All evening she was aware of him, feeling his warmth and energy even without touching him.

And then when they did touch—a bump of shoulder, a tap on the wrist and that one time his thigh brushed her own—her head spun from the rush of sensation.

Working for Sheikh Al-Koury, Hannah had arranged numerous events and dinners, and had sat next to countless wealthy men, and yet no one had ever made her feel like this before.

Nervous. Eager. Self-conscious. Sensitive.

Next to Zale she could hear her heart thud, feel the warmth of her breath as she exhaled, tingle with goose bumps as he turned his head to look into her eyes.

She loved that he did that. Loved that he was strong enough, confident enough, to look at a woman and hold her gaze. It was probably the sexiest thing she’d ever experienced.

But even when he wasn’t looking at her, she liked the way he watched others, studying the world intently, listening with all of him—heart and mind, ears and eyes.

As one of the staff leaned over to take her plate, Hannah startled and bumped Zale.

He glanced at her with a half smile, and that barely there smile captivated her as much as his whiskey-colored gaze.

This man would be a force to reckon with—so alive, so vital—and she envied Emmeline, she did.

Imagine being loved by a man like King Patek. And that was the appeal, wasn’t it? Zale wasn’t a boy. He was a man. And unlike Brad, her college love, Zale was mature, successful, experienced. He was a thirty-five-year-old man in his prime.

To be loved by a man who knew what he wanted.

To be loved by a man who knew he wanted her.

Her chest squeezed hard, tight and she dragged a hand to her lap, fingertips trailing across the exquisite beading of her gown as she tried to think of something else. Something besides Zale and what was quickly becoming an impossible infatuation.

Zale’s gaze met hers and held. The air bottled in her lungs. Her heart thudded in her ears.

“Not every dinner will be as long as this,” he said to her in English, his voice pitched low. They’d been switching back and forth between French and English all night for the benefit of their guests but whenever he spoke to Hannah it was in English. “This is unusually drawn out.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, careful to speak without a hint of her Texas twang. “It’s a beautiful room and I have excellent company.”

“You’ve become so very charming.” “Haven’t I always been?”

“No.” His lips curved in a self-mocking smile. “You didn’t enjoy my company a year ago. It was our engagement party and yet you avoided me all night.” His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Your father said you were shy. I knew better.”

This was a strange conversation to have here, now, with eighty people around them. “And what did you know?”

He looked at her intently, his narrowed gaze traveling slowly over her face until it rested on her mouth. “I knew you were in love with another man and marrying me out of duty.”

Definitely not a conversation to be having at a formal dinner party. Nervous, Hannah rubbed her fingers against the delicate beading on her skirt. “Perhaps we should discuss this later …?”

“Why?”

“Aren’t you afraid someone will overhear us?” His gaze pierced her. “I’m more afraid of not getting straight answers.”

She shrugged. “Then ask your questions. This is your home. Your party. Your guests.”

“And you’re my fiancée.”

Her chin lifted a fraction. “Yes, I am.”

He studied her for an endless moment. “Who are you, Emmeline?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so different now. Makes me wonder if you’re even the same woman.”

“What a strange thing to say.”

“But you are different. You look me in the eye now. You have opinions. Attitude. I almost think I could get an honest answer out of you now.”

“Try me.”

His eyes narrowed, strong jaw growing thicker. “That’s exactly what I mean. You would have never spoken to me like this a year ago.”

“We’re to be married in ten days. Shouldn’t I be forthright?”

“Yes.” He hesitated a moment, still studying her. “Romantic love is important to you, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Isn’t it important to you?”

“There are other things more important to me. Family. Loyalty. Integrity.” He looked into her eyes then, as if daring her to disagree. “Fidelity.”

Her brows pulled. “But doesn’t romantic love incorporate all of the above? How can one truly love another and not give all of one’s heart, mind, body and soul?”

“If you loved a man, you’d never betray him?”

“Never.”

“So you don’t condone affairs … no matter how discreet?” “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t hope to take a lover later, after we’re married and you’ve fulfilled your duty?”

Hannah was appalled by his questions. “Is that the sort of woman you think I am?”

“I think you’re a woman who has been pressured into a marriage she doesn’t want.”

Her jaw dropped slightly, and she stared at him unable to think of a single response.

Zale leaned closer, his deep voice dropping even lower, his amber gaze intense. “I think you want to please others, even if it comes at a terrible price.”

“Because I’ve agreed to an arranged marriage?”

“Because you’ve agreed to this marriage.” His eyes held hers. “Can you do this, Emmeline, and be happy? Can you make this marriage work?”

“Can you?” she flashed, flustered.

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I have discipline. And I’m older by ten years. I have more life experience and know what I need, and what I want.” “And what is that?”

“I want prosperity for my country, peace in my home and heirs to ensure succession.”

“That’s it? Peace, prosperity and children?”

“I’m a realist. I know I can’t expect too much from life so I keep my desires simple. My goals attainable.”

“Hard to believe that. You were the star footballer that carried Raguva to the finals of the World Cup. You don’t achieve success like that without big dreams—”

“That was before my parents’ death. Now my country and family come first. My responsibilities to Raguva outweigh everything else.”

The fierce note in his voice made her tremble inwardly. He was intense. So very physical. Everything about him screamed male—the curve of his lip, the lean cheek, the strong masculine jaw.

“I need the same commitment from you,” he added. “If we marry there will be no divorce. No room for second thoughts. No means to later opt out. If we marry it’s forever, and if you can’t promise me forever, then you shouldn’t be here.”

Zale abruptly pushed back his chair and extended a hand to her. “But that’s enough serious talk for one evening. We’re supposed to be celebrating your arrival and the good things to come. Let’s mingle with our guests, and try to enjoy the evening.”

The rest of the night passed quickly with everyone vying for an opportunity to speak with King Zale and the glamorous, popular Princess Emmeline.

But finally by ten-thirty, with the last guests departing, Zale escorted Emmeline back to her suite on the second floor.

It had been a strange evening. Perplexing, he thought, glancing down at her golden head with the delicate diamond tiara.

He’d been ambivalent about her arrival. He’d needed her here for duty’s sake. Raguva needed a queen and he needed heirs. But at a purely personal level, he knew she wasn’t the woman he would have ever picked as his wife.

Zale knew his faults—hardworking, no-nonsense, intensely dedicated—but he was loyal. It was a trait he respected in himself, and valued highly in others.

He realized belatedly that Emmeline might not.

He knew she’d never been spoiled by her parents. If anything, her parents had been hard on her, holding her to an exacting standard that she could never meet, which made Emmeline desperate to please. The world might see her as a glowing, confident princess but her father had warned Zale that she could be difficult and at times, terribly insecure.

King William d’Arcy’s warning had worried Zale as he did not need a difficult and insecure wife, much less a fragile, demanding queen.

But Zale’s late father had wanted this match very much. In his eyes, Princess Emmeline had been the perfect choice for Zale, and although his father had died five years ago, Zale wanted to honor his father’s wishes, hoping that once the beautiful Emmeline reached Raguva she would settle in, settle down and become the ideal bride his father imagined her to be.

They’d reached her suite and for a moment neither said anything. “It’s been a long day,” he said at length, breaking the uncomfortable silence, even as he wondered how he could marry her with so many doubts.

But she was here, another part of his brain argued. She’d come when she’d said she would, and she’d behaved perfectly proper tonight. More than proper, she’d been beautiful, approachable, likable.

“It has,” she agreed.

“Tomorrow night will be far less formal. There is no state dinner, just a quiet dinner together, so that should be relatively easy.”

She nodded, looking up at him, her blue eyes dark with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. “I’m sure it will be.”

He stared down into her face, wondering how this warm, appealing woman could be the remote, cold Emmeline of the past year.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked now. “Anything that hasn’t been provided?”

“Everything has been wonderful.”

Her answer baffled him even more. “No special requests? You’ve my ear now. I’m happy to oblige.”

She shook her head.

“You’re happy to be here then?”

Her full mouth curved into a tremulous smile. “Of course.”

He didn’t know if it was the inexplicable shimmer of tears in her eyes, or that uncertain smile, but suddenly Europe’s most beautiful princess looked so very alone and vulnerable that Zale reached for her, putting his hand low on her back and finding bare skin.

Her head tipped back, her blue gaze finding his. Zale’s hand slipped lower, his palm sliding down warm satin skin.

He heard her soft intake of breath as he drew her closer, holding her against him, her full, soft breasts crushed to his chest. He dropped his head, covering her mouth with his.

It was to have been a brief kiss, a good-night kiss, but when her lips trembled beneath his he felt a rush of hunger. Desire.

Power.

He drew her closer still, molding her to him with pressure in the small of her back.

She shivered against him and his pulse quickened, blood pounding in his veins, making his body hot, and hard.

The need to possess her filled him, consuming him, and ruthlessly he deepened the kiss, taking her as if she already belonged to him.

The insistent pressure of his lips parted hers, and the tip of his tongue flicked the softness of her inner lip making her squirm. The urgent press of her hips against his made blood roar in his ears and he nipped at her mouth, small bites that made her shudder with pleasure.

God, she was sensitive. Responsive. Her body trembled against him, and he slid his hand from the small of her spine down, lower, over the pert curve of her backside, which made her gasp, her nipples hardening, pebbling against his chest through the thin silk of her gown.

Blood coursed through him.

Desire pounded through his veins.

She was deliciously smooth, deliciously curved and he wanted more of her, all of her. His body throbbed.

God, she was hot and tasted sweet. He wanted to rip her gown off her, strip her voluptuous body bare and explore her curves and hollows—like the dip of her spine, the space behind her knee, the softness between her thighs.

He wanted between her thighs. Wanted to part her knees as wide as he could—

Reality returned. What the hell was he doing? They were in the hall. In full view of the hidden cameras broadcasting images to his security detail.

His hand stilled on her hip. He removed the other from beneath her breast.

Slowly he lifted his head to look into her eyes. They were dark and cloudy, her lips swollen, her expression dazed.

“I’m afraid we’ve given my security a show,” he said, voice pitched low and rough.

Color rushed into her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He brushed a blond tendril from her flushed cheek, finding her nearly irresistible. “I’m not. Good night, Your Highness.”

She looked at him for an endless moment. “Goodbye.” Then she slipped into her room and closed the door.