The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald
with satisfaction. ‘What is it, cara mia?’
‘Do you have a moment?’ she questioned.
The faintest glimmer of a frown creased his brow. Millie, as much as anyone, knew just how tight his schedule was. ‘What’s on your mind?’
She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth—that she was feeling lonely and isolated, and that a night-time dose of passion did not compensate for those feelings. But she could not tell him. Gianferro was far too busy to be worrying about her problems—which to an outsider would probably not look like problems at all. And why would they?
To an observer, she had everything. A gorgeous husband who made love to her with such sweet abandon that sometimes she seriously thought that her body could not withstand such pleasure. She lived in a Palace and she could have whatever she pleased. The things which other women dreamed of were hers for the taking…even if, ironically, they were not what she coveted.
‘I want you to cover your exquisite body in jewels,’ Gianferro had murmured to her huskily in bed one night.
‘But I’m not into jewels!’ Millie had protested.
‘No?’ Lazily he had drifted a fingertip from neck to cleavage, and she had shivered with anticipation. ‘Then I shall have to be “into” them for you, shan’t I, Millie?’ His black eyes had glittered. ‘I shall buy you a sapphire as big as a pigeon’s egg, and it will echo your eyes and hang just above your glorious breasts and remind me of how I bury my mouth in them and suckle on their sweetness.’
When the man you loved said something like that what woman wouldn’t be putty in his hands? Suddenly the idea of a priceless necklace did appeal—but only because Gianferro would choose it. For her and only her. As if it meant something—really meant something—instead of just being a symbol of possession. An expensive bauble for his wife. A material reward for her devotion to duty as his Queen because he was unable to give her what she really craved—for him to love her. Properly. The way that she loved him.
And she did.
How could she fail to love the man who had awoken the woman in her in every way that counted and set her free? She had been living in a two-dimensional world before Gianferro had stormed in with such vibrant and pulsating life.
He had taken her and transformed her—moulded her into his Queen and his wife. At least externally he had. Inside she was aware of her own vulnerability—of a great, aching realisation that he would never return the love she felt for him.
Sometimes she looked at him in bed at night, when he was sleeping, and could scarcely believe that he was hers. Well, in so much as someone like Gianferro could be anyone’s.
He was everything a man should and could be—strong and proud and intelligent, with a sensuality which seemed to shimmer off him. The leader of the pack—and weren’t all women programmed to desire the undisputed leader? Especially as he treated her like…well, like a princess, she supposed. Except that she wasn’t. Not any more. She was now the Queen.
The Coronation had been terrifying—the glittering crown which had been placed on her head at the solemn moment had seemed almost as heavy as she was. But at least she had been expecting it—had been warned about the weight of it—and Alesso had suggested she practise walking around the apartments with it on her head.
‘It takes a little getting used to—the wearing of a crown, Your Serene Majesty.’
It had seemed more than a little bizarre to be wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a priceless heirloom on her head! Millie’s eyes had widened. ‘It weighs a ton!’ she’d exclaimed, as she had lowered it onto her blonde hair.
‘Do not tilt your head so. Yes, that is better. Now, practise sitting down on the throne, Your Majesty,’ he had instructed, and Millie had falteringly obeyed, feeling like one of those women who had to carry their crops home on top of their heads!
At least she hadn’t let anyone down on the big day—herself included. The newspapers had praised the ‘refreshing innocence’ of the new young Queen, and Millie had stared unblinkingly at the photographs.
Was that really her?
To Millie herself she seemed to resemble a startled young deer which had just heard a gunshot deep in the forest. Her eyes looked huge and her mouth unsmiling. But then she had been coached in that, too. It was a solemn occasion—heralded by the death of the old King—not a laughing matter.
Afterwards, of course, there had been celebrations in the Palace, and Millie had overheard Lulu exclaiming, ‘I can’t believe I’m sister to a queen!’ and had seen Gianferro’s brief and disapproving frown.
At least that had dissolved away the last of her residual doubts about Lulu. She could see now that her sister would not have made a good consort to Gianferro—she was far too independent.
And me? What about me? Millie had caught a reflection of herself in one of the silvered mirrors which lined the Throne Room. I am directionless and without a past, and therefore I am the perfect wife for him. The image thrown back at her was a sylph-like figure clad in pure and flowing white satin. In a way, she looked more of a bride on her Coronation day than when she had married—but she had learnt more than one lesson since then, and had toned down her make-up to barely anything.
Yes, her husband revered and respected her, and made love to her, but he was not given to words of love. Not once had he said I love you—not in any language. And Millie was beginning to suspect that was because he simply did not have the capacity for the fairytale kind of love that every woman secretly dreamed of. How could he?
He had been rigidly schooled for the isolating rigours of kingship, and his mother had been torn away from him at such a crucial stage in his development. A mother might have softened the steeliness which lay at the very core of his character—shown him that to love was not a sign of weakness.
Millie had tried from time to time to talk to him on a more intimate level, but she had seen his eyes narrow before he smoothly changed the subject. Don’t even go there, his body language seemed to say. And so she didn’t. Because what choice did she have?
Only in bed, when his appetite was sated—in that brief period of floating in sensation alone before reality snapped back in—did he ever let his guard down, and then it was only fractionally. Then he would touch his lips to her hair almost indulgently, and this would lull her into a sense of expectation which would invariably be smashed.
She wanted him to tell her about his day—to confide in her what his thoughts had been—just as if they were any normal newly-wed couple, but it was like drawing blood from a stone. They weren’t a normal couple, nor ever would be. And he didn’t seem to even want to try to be.
Gianferro was looking at her now, as she hovered uncertainly in the door of his study. It was a gaze laced with affection, it had to be said, but also with slight impatience—for his time was precious and she must never forget that.
‘Yes, Millie?’
She laced her fingers together. ‘You remember on our honeymoon I said that I wanted to learn French?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ He nodded impatiently.
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind.’ She could see his small smile of satisfaction. ‘I think it should be Italian.’
‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.
‘Well, yes. Italian is your first language.’
‘I am fluent in four,’ he said, with a touch of arrogance.
‘It’s your language of choice.’ She looked at him. ‘In bed,’ she added boldly.
His eyes narrowed for just a second before his smile became dismissive. He loved her eagerness and her joy in sex—but did she really imagine that she could come in here at will and tempt him away from affairs of state? Very deliberately he put his pen down in a gesture of closing the subject. ‘Very well. I shall speak to Alesso about selecting you a