The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald
Millie felt as though someone had just exploded a bomb in the centre of her world, and she had no idea why. But Gianferro was angry—really, really angry—and the first thing she needed to do was to calm him down.
‘Won’t you tell me what this is all about?’ she pleaded.
Gianferro’s breathing was ragged, rarely could he remember feeling such an all-consuming rage, and yet her face betrayed nothing other than what seemed like genuine confusion. Unless she was a better actress than he had bargained for.
‘Very well.’ His dark eyes sparked accusation. ‘The editor of the Mardivino Times rang Alesso this morning to ask whether anyone would like to comment on the rumours sweeping the capital about my wife.’
‘R-rumours?’ she stammered, in horror. ‘What kind of rumours?’
He heard the faltering of her words with a grim kind of understanding. Now, that—that—sounded like guilt. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Of course I don’t know—Gianferro, please tell me!’
He felt the acrid taste of jealousy and rage tainting his mouth with their poison as he glanced down at a piece of paper which was covered with Alesso’s handwriting. ‘Apparently you have grown close to—and I quote—“the devastatingly handsome young Italian who has broken hearts all over Solajoya”.’ He looked at her trembling lips, cold to their appeal. ‘Well?’ he shot out. ‘What have you to say?’
The accusation was so unjust and so unwarranted that part of her wanted to just tell him to go to hell and storm out of the room. But she couldn’t do that—and not just because that wasn’t the way queens behaved. She was his wife and this was a genuine misunderstanding.
‘It isn’t like that at all! He has just been…kind to me.’
His mouth twisted in scorn. ‘I’ll bet he has.’
‘Gianferro, please.’ Her voice gentled. ‘Stop it.’
But he couldn’t stop it, nor did he want to. It was as if he had stepped onto a rollercoaster with no idea of how to get off again. If she had obeyed his orders then she would never have found herself in this position! Black eyes bored into her. ‘So you do not deny that you have spent time alone with him after every class?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said calmly. ‘But that isn’t how it—’
He sliced through her words. ‘Just you and him? No one else?’ If she denied this then he would know that she was lying, for had not her bodyguard been questioned just minutes earlier?
‘Well…yes. But nothing has happened—’
‘Yet.’
‘How dare you?’
‘No, Millie,’ he said heavily. ‘How dare you? How dare you be so thoughtless, so naïve?’
‘I thought that what was one of the reasons you married me!’ she retorted. ‘I thought you liked that!’
He believed her now, but she must understand that he would not tolerate such behaviour. ‘You’d better sit down,’ he said heavily.
‘I don’t want to sit down. And certainly not if I’m going to be treated like a naughty child.’
‘Don’t you realise how people talk?’ he demanded. ‘How quickly rumours can gather force in a place like this?’
‘And how quickly you believe them!’
‘Then prove me wrong!’ he challenged.
She had to convince him that she was completely innocent—and, more than that, didn’t she owe him some kind of explanation for how this ridiculous misunderstanding had arisen? Shouldn’t she try to make him understand why she’d acted the way she had? Dared she admit that Oliviero’s attitude had been like a breath of fresh air blowing through the formal world of the Court?
‘He made me feel like me,’ she admitted slowly.
‘Do not talk to me in riddles, Millie. Explain.’
‘He seemed to like me just as a person. As me—Millie. Not because I was Queen.’ Her blue eyes were full of appeal. ‘He didn’t even know for sure who I was. Not at first.’
His eyes were hard. ‘Now you really are being naïve. Of course he knew!
‘I didn’t tell him.’
‘The whole class knew.’ He sighed. ‘Do you not think that people might not have noticed the Royal crest on the car? The presence of a hulking great bodyguard outside? The fact that you were accompanied to the class by the Ambassador’s wife herself? Did you not consider that people might recognise you from your photographs?’
‘He may have known,’ she said staunchly. ‘They may all have known—but it didn’t seem to matter. It made no difference to the way they treated me.’
‘Oh, you little fool, Millie!’ he retorted. ‘How do you think I found out all this?’
She stared at him. ‘From the bodyguard?’
‘No, not from the bodyguard! From the Italian himself!’ he snapped. ‘Via the newspaper! He has been hawking your story round to the highest bidder!’
‘But there is no story!’ she protested.
He saw the hurt which clouded her big blue eyes and felt a momentary pang, knowing that he was about to disillusion her further, that this would shatter her trust completely. Could he do it? Had he not taken enough from her already in his quest for the perfect wife?
His mouth hardened. He had to.
‘Maybe there isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But there was enough of a story for the editor to be interested. “A special closeness…” His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you deny there was that?’
‘A closeness?’ Millie rubbed at her eyes. ‘Yes, probably. But special? Yes, probably that, too—if a person makes you feel something that other people can’t.’
He flinched, for the barb was directed as much at him as at anyone. ‘And what was that?’ he asked quietly.
‘He made me feel…’ Millie shrugged as she struggled to find a word that didn’t make her sound pathetic. Or ungrateful. ‘Ordinary, I guess.’
‘But you are not ordinary, Millie. You never have been and you certainly never will be now.’
It was a bit like having someone tell you that Father Christmas was not real—an unwelcome but necessary step into the world of grown-ups—and Millie recognised that Gianferro was right. She wasn’t ordinary—she had bade farewell to the ease of an anonymous life on the day she had taken her wedding vows. She was Queen, and she must act accordingly.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. ‘I’ve been so stupid,’ she whispered.
Inexplicably, her disillusionment hurt him more than her tears, and he went to her then, pulled her to her feet and gathered her into his arms and into his embrace. She was stiff and as awkward as a puppet, and maybe so was he—just a little—for to comfort a woman was a new experience for him. To touch without sensual intent was like walking on uncharted territory, but he began to stroke her hair and gradually she began to relax.
‘Maybe I am the one who should be sorry,’ he said softly, and for possibly the first time in his life he tried to see things from someone else’s point of view. He frowned. ‘You think that I neglect you?’
Was this part of being grown-up too—accepting her role completely—telling him that no, he didn’t neglect her? ‘You are a very busy man,’ she said evasively.
He pushed her away a little, so that he could look down at her face. ‘Which does not answer my question.’
‘I