Love Islands…The Collection. Jane Porter
was so surprised she stepped forward. ‘Father.’ She reached out.
Her father glanced back at her and the bland mask dropped back into place. He didn’t answer her.
‘Perhaps you will visit us soon.’ She faltered over her words, her father’s quiet rejection slicing even deeper.
She didn’t dare look at Eduardo.
He bowed again. ‘I wish you well, Your Highness.’ He stepped away, disappearing into the throng.
Shaken, Stella blinked, struggling to regain control and hide her hurt. She vowed once more to give her child everything she’d never had. Support. Compassion. Love.
Her victorious feeling died. Only ash was left.
Eduardo turned to her. ‘Stella?’
‘We’d better get mingling again.’ She was aware that he was looking at her intently, but she needed to get her game face back on before she could look at him.
‘Why don’t we dance?’ he suggested. ‘They’re expecting us to.’
Oh, he had to be kidding. ‘I can’t dance. I never dance.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No, and my first time isn’t going to be here.’
Anger surged. She’d just been publicly rejected by her father—she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself in front of the world. She might be able to wear a designer dress, but she couldn’t move with the grace these glamorous women had spent their lives perfecting. She’d show them just how much of a fake—and a failure—she was.
‘But it’s a ball.’
‘Then find another dance partner,’ she snapped viciously. ‘There are a million here for you to choose from. Wasn’t that the point?’
She’d had enough.
He put both hands on her waist, just as she was about to push past him and stalk out. She glared up—wordlessly demanding that he let her go. But her gaze was caught—and locked—in his. His hold on her tightened.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly.
His question snuffed out her anger. All that was left was the hurt her father had inflicted. His rejection always hurt, and it never eased, but tonight’s public blanking had been so much worse. And now this?
‘Don’t...’ she whispered. His concern made her emotions impossible to control.
‘Don’t ask if you’re okay?’ His eyebrows lifted.
Desperately she tried to hold herself together. But that tender tone from him...that intensity... She couldn’t bear to be exposed to anyone, but especially not to him. She ached to twist away and hide from the understanding in his eyes. He made her too vulnerable. He made her want more than he’d ever want to give.
‘Eduardo—’
‘You’re the only one I want to dance with,’ he professed, relinquishing her waist only to take her hand in his. ‘So we’ll leave.’
THE BEST THING about a palace ball was the fact that Eduardo only had to walk up a couple of flights of stairs and a few paces down the corridor and he’d be in his own apartment, alone with his crushed wife. He wanted to smooth the stark agony from her eyes. He wanted to smash some sense into her father’s skull.
In the corridor on his level, where they could still hear the music from the ballroom, he turned her to face him. She avoided his eyes—focused her fierceness on his body instead. She ran her hands up his chest, pressed her mouth to his. He understood that she wanted physical release—to feel good and forget. But staying silent and burying that hurt wasn’t going to help in the long run, and he wanted to offer her more than a five-minute fix.
‘No one ever taught you how to waltz?’ he asked.
‘I wasn’t interested.’ She stiffened and tried to pull away from him.
‘Too busy being the tough soldier?’ He firmly kept her close, despite the tension building in her body.
‘Didn’t find a partner,’ she corrected bluntly.
‘You’ve found one now.’ Eduardo angled his head and whispered, ‘Dance with me. Please.’
A flush faintly stained her pale skin. She quickly glanced up at him, awkwardness flashing. ‘I’ll trample on your toes.’
‘I’ll live.’ He kept one hand on her waist and clasped her fingers, lifting her arm so they stood in formal waltz position. ‘You start on the left foot, count one-two-three. It’s easy.’
‘You say everything is easy,’ she muttered, looking down at their feet.
‘One-two-three,’ he answered, keeping time with the music wafting up the staircase.
Slowly she took the smallest of steps.
‘One-two-three...’ He smiled, but fell silent after a couple of bars because she already had it.
Of course she did.
He didn’t speak for a long time, just let the music work its magic. Their bodies were made to move together. She was the perfect height for him in those killer heels, and he loved her lithe strength brushing against his. But more than that he loved feeling comfort creep into her. Slowly the tension receded from her body. As she relaxed he cradled her closer, so that they swayed to the graceful tune of the strings. Not really dancing, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t for the look of it, but for the feel.
He’d been so preoccupied with everything these past two days he’d not thought about her father. She’d not mentioned him either. But after witnessing their interaction just then... He didn’t care what the General thought of him, but Stella deserved so much better.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I should have arranged a meeting with your father before tonight. I should have been to see him.’
‘It’s not your fault. Not your responsibility.’ Her lashes lifted. ‘And I shouldn’t have to make an appointment to see my own father.’
Her desolation haunted him. A lump blocked his throat. He didn’t know what he could say to make this better for her. It was such a fundamental pain.
‘I don’t know why I’m surprised. Don’t know why it still gets to me when it’s always been the same.’ She tried to smile but failed.
‘He doesn’t talk to you?’
‘Only to give orders. He’s never once told me he’s proud of me. Never once said Well done, or Congratulations,’ she mumbled. ‘He waited more than half his life to get the wife and son he wanted. But he lost his wife. And he didn’t get a son. He got me. I’ve always been a disappointment.’
The hurt in her voice burned. He drew her closer still, wrapping his arms around her, wanting to protect her. But the wound was already there. ‘He should be so proud of you.’
‘Nothing I’ve done has ever been enough.’ She turned her face into his neck, hiding her eyes from him. ‘He doesn’t care. He never has.’ Her fingers curled into his shirt. ‘I won’t let that happen to our baby,’ she whispered rawly.
‘Nor will I,’ he promised.
He felt her body shake in a broken sigh. Was she crying? He bent to look into her face, but her eyes were resolutely closed.
‘I’m tired,’ she said.
‘I know.’ He lifted her into his arms.
‘I can—’
‘Just