The Royal Wedding Collection

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MILLIE stared out of the window at the familiar green landscape softened by water—a mixture of the steady rain which fell and the tears which were filling her eyes.

‘It all looks exactly the same,’ she said brokenly. ‘Nothing changes.’

‘But you’ve changed,’ said Lulu, from behind her. ‘You’re almost unrecognisable.’

‘Am I?’ Millie turned round, her sense of surprise momentarily eclipsing the terrible pain she had felt since setting foot back in her old family home. ‘But my hair is the same and my face is the same. The clothes are more expensive, and I may have lost a little weight—but that’s about all.’

‘Maybe the profound experience of marrying and becoming a queen almost simultaneously has altered you more than you realised? Oh, Millie—don’t! Please don’t start crying again!’

But Millie couldn’t help it. She had bottled her feelings up—not wanting the servants to see her giving in to emotion—that had been one lesson which Gianferro had taught her so well. But once away from the closed environment of the Palace which had become her home the tears had begun to fall in earnest, and now they were splashing down onto her cashmere sweater, which she hugged close to her, like an animal seeking comfort.

‘I just don’t understand what the problem is.’ Lulu stared at her in confusion. ‘You didn’t bother telling him you were on the Pill—is it really such a big deal?’ she asked.

Millie bit her lip. She had thought that coming here might help put everything in perspective, but in a way it had only emphasised the gravity of what she had done. It was more than simply not telling her husband something—it was the severing of a trust which he gave to very few people.

But he suspected you, she reminded herself. He told you that himself. So he did not trust you at all.

‘I just don’t know what to do!’ she whispered.

‘Well, stop crying, for a start! Just calm down and take a deep breath.’ Lulu’s face was very fierce. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’

‘But what if it’s the end of my marriage?’ questioned Millie shakily.

Lulu’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would that bother you?’

Millie scrubbed at her eyes with her fingers. ‘Of course it would bother me!’

‘Because you like being Queen?’

‘No, you idiot—because I love him! How dare you suggest a thing like that?’

Lulu went quiet for a moment. ‘Well, thank God for that. I just had to be sure, that’s all. Sure you knew what you were fighting for.’

Millie turned her head to look at the rainwashed lawn. ‘Maybe Gianferro doesn’t want to be fought for. Maybe he’s decided that it’s over.’

‘You’re going to give in that easily? Whatever happened to the Millie who would never give up? Who got back on her horse again and again—no matter how many times she had fallen off?’

Millie listened to Lulu in silence and realised that her sister was right. That even if he had decided he didn’t want her any more, she had to give it another chance. She had to. She would fight with every fibre of her being if that was what it took.

‘I’m going to have to go back to Mardivino and sort it out,’ she said slowly. ‘Because he’s certainly showing no sign of coming to England to find me.’

Lulu raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, come on!’ she chided. ‘How can he? What? Hop on a plane and arrive here unannounced? He’s the King, Millie—and kings just don’t do that kind of thing!’

He could, Millie thought—could have done it if he had wanted to. Because he had the power at his fingertips to do almost anything he wanted. The point was that he didn’t want to—and who on earth could blame him?

She felt the cold, curling fingers of pain clamping themselves around her heart, but to stay in a state of confused ignorance would never help her heart to heal. Her marriage might be over, and the sooner she learned the truth about it, the better. And Lulu was right…Why should she give up when nothing in the world had ever been so worth fighting for as this man was?

Millie had travelled on a scheduled flight, but after a week in England with no word at all from Gianferro she was feeling tired and vulnerable. She couldn’t face the thought of returning to Mardivino by the same route—with the VIP representatives fussing and hovering round her at the airport, the inevitable lurking paparazzo photographer lurking around to snatch a photo of the young Queen.

She had not anticipated how greedy the press would be for images of her—or how carefully she would need to plan her wardrobe for travelling. One hint of a loose-fitting top and it would be announced to the world that she was pregnant. Millie bit her lip. How ironic.

She phoned the Palace, but Gianferro and Alesso were not there.

Eventually Millie got through to Alesso on his cell-phone. ‘Is Gianferro there?’ she asked him quietly.

‘He is touring the new hospital.’

‘I see. Well, I want to come home…’ For a second she was aware that she no longer considered England as her home—it should have been a small victory of her newly married life, but it tasted bitterly of defeat. ‘Can you arrange for the King’s flight to be sent for me, Alesso?’

‘Yes, of course, Your Majesty.’

‘And Alesso? Will you tell him I rang?’ she said quietly and then her voice softened. ‘And that I shall see him tomorrow evening.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

While Millie’s lady-in-waiting packed for her, she and Lulu wandered down to the stables, and as they stood looking down at a brand-new foal Millie was overcome with a powerful wave of nostalgia for how things used to be—when life had seemed a whole lot simpler.

‘Do you miss England?’ asked Lulu suddenly, when they had walked back through the fields, splashing through the boggy puddles in their Wellington boots. The sun had emerged from behind a cloud and its brightness was drying all the leaves on the branches, like washing hung on a line.

Millie closed her eyes and breathed in the very Englishness of the air. Her senses could transport her back to other times and other places, and never more so than now, when her senses were so keenly alert. But nothing did stay the same—it might look the same on the outside, but the people who flitted in and out were growing and changing all the time. ‘Sometimes.’

‘But not the weather?’ joked Lulu.

‘No, not the weather.’ Millie smiled.

‘What, then?’

‘Oh, the freedom. Yes, the freedom, mainly—being able to do what you want without consulting a diary or a secretary. Being able to wander off without men in bulky jackets never being very far away from you. But that’s life as a Royal—and I knew that when I married Gianferro.’

But in a way she had known it only on a purely intellectual level—she had been unprepared for the reality of almost complete loss of freedom. She had floundered in her new life, like a little squirming fish thrown into a mighty swirling ocean. And instead of turning to her husband for help and support she had pushed him away—driven a wedge between them with her stubbornness and the secret she had nursed.

Was it too late to try and get close to him again?

The private jet skated onto the runway at Solajoya airport the following day and Millie stared out of the window, hoping and praying for the sight of her husband come to meet her—but there was no sign of him.

Not even Alesso was there—just a couple of officials who Millie did not know terribly well. She had not wanted a fuss, but she had expected some kind of welcome—no matter how lukewarm. But this felt like…like what? As if she was being marginalised? As if a very definite message was being sent out to her?

Her feelings of insecurity grew all the way to the Palace, and once there things were no better, for there was no sign of the King. No note. Nothing.

Nothing.

Millie kicked the shoes off her aching feet and looked around the empty suite of rooms. Nor were there any flowers on the tables. The shutters were drawn as if nobody lived there any more, and she moved forward to open them so that golden sunlight poured like honey into the room, leaving her dazzled and confused as she turned to her dresser.

‘Has there been any word on when the King might return, Flavia?’

‘No, Your Majesty.’

She picked up the phone. Gianferro was not answering his mobile, but then he rarely did. It was Alesso that she got through to. As usual.

‘You had a good flight, Your Majesty?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Millie impatiently. ‘Where are you?’

‘In Soloroca—it is the anniversary of the opening of the Juan Lopez Gallery, remember?’

‘Is Gianferro not there with you?’

‘Unfortunately, no. He has taken the Spanish officials sailing.’

Millie scowled at her reflection in the mirror. ‘And what time is he expected back at the Palace tonight?’

There was an almost infinitesimal pause. ‘There is a reception which is not scheduled to end until late, Your Majesty. The King gave the instruction that he may be delayed and that you are not to wait up for him.’

There were a million things she wanted to say, but she could not. Alesso knew as well as she did that the King could leave any reception at any damned time he pleased—if he did not do so, it was because he had chosen not to. His wife had been away for over a week and he wasn’t even going to bother to see her until the next day. Which told her in no uncertain terms just how much he cared.

Millie felt her heart plummet, as if someone had dropped it from the top of a very high building. She knew that so much in Royal life was never stated, that things were ‘understood’. It saved embarrassment—and presumably little could be more embarrassing than having to tell your young wife that their brief marriage was over.

But was she going to sit back and accept that?

Millie stared at herself in the mirror and her scowl became a look of fierce determination, her blue eyes glinting and her chin held high. For sure she had made a mistake—but wasn’t everybody allowed one mistake without it having such an irrevocable effect on their lives?

But she knew her husband’s Achilles’ heel—anything which threatened his strong sense of duty would be just that. He would not want his marriage to fail for the sake of his people—no matter what his personal feelings for her.

And Millie did not want her marriage to fail either—though her reasons were fundamentally different. So was she going to fight for him? To show him what he meant to her? That she loved him with a love that burned deep in her breast like an eternal flame?

Yes, she was!

The first thing she did was strip off all her travelling clothes and shower, soaping her body and her hair as if her life depended on it and then rubbing rich scented lotion into her skin afterwards, so that she was perfumed and gleaming. The faint golden colour she had acquired since living on the island made her eyes look very blue, and her hair was paler than it had been for a long time.

She chose her lingerie carefully, and a simple dress of lemon silk, and caught her hair back in a French twist—weaving into it a ribbon the colour of buttercups.

The next bit was the tricky part. She had to persuade her bodyguard to let her drive a car, unaccompanied and unannounced. She saw the furrowed lines of worry which creased his brow and sought to reassure him.

‘I don’t mean completely on my own! You can follow me,’ she told him. ‘I want to surprise my husband,’ she finished, and gave him a smile which was tinged with genuine pleading.

And of course she got her way—short of refusing the Queen’s command, what alternative did the bodyguard have? Millie rarely used the full power of her title, but this time it was vital.

If the purpose of the drive hadn’t been so crucial to her future happiness then she might even have embraced the feeling of freedom and exhilaration as the zippy little car began to ascend the mountain roads outside the capital.

This was the kind of thing she never did—it was always a big chauffeur-driven limousine with the Royal crest on the front which conveyed her to and from her Royal engagements. But this felt…

Normal.

Ordinary.

All those things Gianferro had reminded her that she no longer was, nor ever would be again.

Maybe not. But the feelings she had were the same as those experienced by ordinary people, weren’t they?

And right now the overwhelming one was fear. That it might be too late. That she had messed it up.

Licking at lips so dry they felt like parchment, Millie drove upwards. At least the way was well signposted. Gianferro had told her that the road to Soloroca had once been little more than a track, and the village itself had been rundown and desolate—but that had been before the works of the great artist Juan Lopez had been housed there, and now people came from all over the world to view them, bringing prosperity to the mountains of Mardivino.

She waited until she was on the outskirts of the village and then she telephoned Alesso.

‘I’m here,’ she said.

‘Here, Your Majesty?’

‘Just down the road, in fact.’ Millie drew a deep breath. ‘Alesso, I want the way cleared for me to come to the reception, but I do not wish Gianferro to know. I want to surprise him, so please don’t tell him.’

‘But, Your Majesty—’

‘Please, Alesso.’

There was a pause. ‘Very well, Your Majesty.’

It was a mark of how much Royal life had seeped into her unconscious that her first thought had been to clear it with her husband’s aide. For, while many would recognise her as the Queen, others might have considered her to be an impostor—there could have been an almighty fuss, and then the crucial element of surprise would have been lost.

And she wanted to see Gianferro’s first instinctive reaction to her. Oh, he was a master at keeping his face poker-straight and expressionless, but surely his eyes would give some kind of reaction. Even if there was the tiniest bit of pleasure lurking in their black depths, then surely that was enough to build on?

And if there was no pleasure? What then?

Millie quickly smoothed her hair and straightened her back. She was not going to project an outcome.

Her way might have been prepared by Alesso—for all the guards bowed as if they had been expecting her—but that did not mean there were not curious eyes in the room. Older, predatory married women, who were always in evidence around the King, were fixing her with unwelcome eyes. Millie knew that many of them were just itching to step into her shoes. To provide the King with the physical comfort a man of his appetite needed—with no questions asked and no demands made.

Did he still want his foolish young wife? Millie wondered, her eyes searching the high-domed white room whose walls were lined with the vibrant paintings of Lopez.

And then she saw him.

He was wearing a dark suit and looked both cool and formal. As usual, all heads were bent obsequiously towards him as people listened, and Millie knew that if he made a joke—however weak—people would fall about laughing. Because when you were King people told you what they thought you wanted to hear.

She knew then that her attempt at reconciliation must go no further than was necessary—for if she capitulated too much he would never respect her again.

He might be King, and she Queen, but the tussles within their marriage were not Royal ones—and unless they could find some real human ground on which to thrash them out then it would not be a marriage worth continuing with anyway.

Gianferro was listening to the Spanish Ambassador praising Mardivino’s attitude to the arts when he became aware of a slight buzz in the room. His eyes narrowed as he saw heads turning in the direction of the door.

But he was already in the room! Who in the world could possibly be entering and capturing more attention than he could?

And then he saw her.

Her eyes were like a summer’s sky and her hair as pale and gleaming as moonlight. She wore a yellow dress which made her look cool and composed, but he could see that her mouth was set and tense, though it wavered in a tentative attempt at a smile as she began to walk towards him.

Now the faces were turned towards him, watching for his reaction, the way they always did. They would be wondering what the Queen was doing here, for she was not expected—and members of the Royal family did not simply turn up out of the blue.

What the hell was she thinking of? he wondered angrily.

She moved towards him and the purely physical reaction which she always provoked in him kicked in—with a force and power which momentarily took his breath away. But then he remembered the ugly scene which had caused her departure, and he felt the faint flickering of a muscle at his cheek.

She came right up to him, her cheeks flushed and her eyelids dropping down to conceal the sapphire glitter of her eyes.

‘Your Majesty,’ she said, very softly.

And, breaking protocol for the first time in his life, Gianferro bent his mouth to her ear.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he breathed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MILLIE felt faint and dizzy—her heart was beating so loudly that it threatened to deafen her as she looked into the cold and unwelcoming eyes of Gianferro—but somehow she managed to keep a small and noncommittal smile pinned to her mouth. People were watching them—she dared not let her fragile emotions show.

‘Are you not pleased to see me, Gianferro?’

With an equally noncommittal smile, he placed his palm beneath her elbow.

‘Surprised,’ he murmured. And that was an under-statement. The last thing he had expected was to see his beautiful blonde wife slinking across the reception room towards him, and for once he was unprepared. Fleetingly he allowed himself to wonder how a normal man might have dealt with such a situation, but the eyes of the room were fixed on them.

Damn her! Had she deliberately contrived to catch him off-guard? To slip beneath his defences as cunningly as she always managed to do in bed? When she made him feel like Samson after his hair had been shorn? Had he not spent the past week telling himself over and over that she must not be allowed to do so again?

‘I will speak with you in private, my dear,’ he continued. ‘But first I must make my farewells.’

His voice was soft, but the words were undoubtedly a command, and something in the dark glitter of his eyes made Millie suddenly apprehensive.

‘I didn’t intend to drag you away,’ she whispered.

‘Really? Then just what did you intend, Millie? That you would flounce in here unannounced and everyone would just pretend not to notice?’

It was a reprimand, and one she knew she deserved. ‘What do you want me to do?’

But at that moment, as if summoned by some unspoken order, Alesso appeared. Gianferro spoke to him rapidly and fiercely in Italian, and then he bent his head to her ear once more.

‘Go now with Alesso,’ he said, switching effortlessly to English. ‘And wait for me. It will only complicate matters if formal introductions are made,’ he added coolly. ‘At least this way the Spanish Ambassador can be reliably informed that there is a family crisis.’

And was there? Millie wondered, as she followed Alesso from the room, pride making her smile at the people who bowed and curtsied as she passed. Of course there was…and by the time she and Gianferro were through maybe the Palace lawyers would have been instructed to draw up the papers announcing a formal separation.

In the corridor, she saw Alesso’s look of resignation.

‘I’ve got you into trouble, haven’t I?’ she guessed.

‘He is not pleased.’

Millie bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Alesso.’

He shook his head. ‘No. It is for the best. I do not like to see the King miserable. He cannot rule with so much on his mind.’

‘How has he been?’ Millie asked breathlessly, wondering if Alesso would give her any inkling of the truth, or just be Gianferro’s official mouthpiece.

‘Distracted,’ he admitted with a shrug.

And Millie wondered what he had been distracted with. Had he missed her? Or had he simply been working out the best and cleanest way to end the marriage? ‘Is there somewhere very private we could go?’

He nodded. ‘It is already arranged. The Cacciatore family own a house on the coastal road. He is taking you there. It is empty and—’

But at that moment Gianferro himself swept out, accompanied by a retinue of diplomats and servants. His black eyes gave little away as he looked at Millie other than faint displeasure, but he could not stem the sudden rush of blood to his groin. He found himself thinking how much more uncomplicated life was without a woman in it, and his mouth hardened.

‘Come,’ he said crisply.

As she slid into the back of the large unmarked car beside him she told herself that this was never going to be a romantic reunion. But his proximity sent her already raw senses into overdrive. She was achingly aware of him as a man—of the long, lean thrust of his legs and the muscular body so tightly coiled beside her. Could he not have touched her? At least reached out to squeeze the frozen fingers which looked so lifeless where they lay against the lemon silk dress.

Gianferro was aware of a mixture of powerlessness and frustration—of wanting to press her body hard against his and knowing that the presence of the driver ruled it out. But it was more than that. He still did not know why she was here—her very eagerness to confront him might spell her determination to seek a new life for herself.

Could he blame her if she did?

The silence between them grew as the powerful car ate up the miles, and Millie didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when a pair of electric gates opened and their car was spotlighted by the security lighting which zapped on.

She wasn’t really aware of the terse conversation going on between Gianferro and his head of security, only that it seemed to take endless negotiations before the two of them were finally alone in a rather formal-looking salon. It had the air of a room which had not been lived in for some time—although the furniture was very beautiful indeed.

Gianferro closed the door quietly and an immense silence seemed to swallow them up. He looked at her properly then, as if for the first time, but his face did not relax.

‘So, Millie,’ he said quietly, ‘is there some kind of explanation for this extraordinary behaviour?’

She stared at him, bewildered and hurt. ‘I wanted to see you.’

‘And now you have.’

‘You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you, Gianferro?’

He gave her the bland, formal smile she had seen him use at so many official functions. ‘Make what easy?’

She wanted to drum her fists against his chest, to tell him that he couldn’t hide behind that icy persona—except that she knew he could. Had she thought that simply because she had seen it melt from time to time it was gone for ever? Of course it wasn’t.

She looked at him. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘And I wondered…’ She swallowed down the lump in her throat and the salty taste of tears which tainted her mouth. ‘Maybe I have no right to ask this—but do you think you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me?’

Her words touched him as he had not expected or wanted to be touched, and so did her stricken face, but he steeled his heart against her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said tonelessly.

Millie felt as if he had struck her, but she remained strong. Maybe what had happened between them was too big to be cured with just a single word of apology. Maybe he didn’t want it to be cured.

She bit her lip. ‘Do you want to save our marriage?’

A cold and sardonic smile curved his lips. It had been his trademark smile as a bachelor, and he was discovering how easy it was to slip back into it. But this nagging ache in his heart had never been there in those days, which seemed so long ago now. ‘Is it worth saving, do you think, Millie?’

She told herself that he was deliberately trying to hurt her, and that she must withstand his taunts. That this, in a way, was her punishment. And she wanted to suffer, for she had made him suffer, and then she wanted to be washed clean of all her pain and regret and to start all over again. But this might be one idealistic hope too far, it could only work if he wanted it, too.

‘Yes,’ she said, in a low, firm voice. ‘Yes, I do. More than anything.’

And then she knew that she had to do something else, too. That it was foolish for her to wait for words of love from Gianferro. Even if he did feel love—which she doubted—he would be unable to show it, for nobody had shown him how to. This wasn’t some quiz from a women’s magazine. It didn’t matter who said what and in what order. Just because some ancient code said that the man was supposed to declare his feelings first she didn’t have to heed it! If it was just pride standing in the way of her telling him how she really felt—then what good was pride?

What good was anything if she didn’t have her man? And didn’t she owe it to Gianferro to tell him how much he meant to her?

‘I think it’s worth saving because when I made my vows I meant them. I think it’s worth saving because I have a duty both to you and to Mardivino, to provide emotional security and succour to their King.’

She swallowed down the last of her fears as she looked up into his face with very clear and bright blue eyes. ‘But, most important of all, I think it’s worth saving because I love you, Gianferro, even though you think I may not have shown it. I have loved you for a long, long time now, but I have never dared tell you. And now I am terrified that my stupid actions will prevent me from ever showing you just how much.’

He stilled. What she was offering was like a beacon glowing on a dark night. It was comfort from the storm and warmth in the depths of winter. It was like having walked in the desert for days and being tempted with the sight of an oasis shimmering on the horizon. But Gianferro had walked for too long alone to allow himself to give in to temptation. She was offering him an easier, softer option, and he didn’t need one—he didn’t need her.

He should tell her to go to hell. He should tell her that he could live without her. And he could. He had before and he would again.

His heart was pounding with the pumped-up feelings of a man about to enter battle. But as he looked at her he realised that he did not want to do battle with her. He continued to stare at her, remembering the slight figure and the fearlessness which had first so entranced him. Then she had been a tomboy, but today she looked regal and beautiful. In her eyes he could read that self-same fearlessness, but now there was doubt, too.

‘You would recover if it ended,’ he said harshly.

She shook her head. ‘Not properly. Only on the surface.’

‘And you would find another man.’

‘But never like you,’ she said simply. ‘And you know that. You told me that once yourself, on the very day you proposed marriage to me.’

Gianferro’s eyes narrowed as he remembered. So he had! Even on that day he had used an arrogant persuasion which could almost be defined as subtle force. He had been determined to have her and he had gone all out to get her. She hadn’t stood a chance.

He had brought her here and then told her—told her—that she should have his child immediately, when she had still been so very young and inexperienced herself.

Was that the kind of tyrant he had become? So used to imposing his will that he didn’t stop to think about whether it was appropriate to do so with his new wife?

Pain crossed his face as for the first time he acknowledged where his arrogance and pride could lead him if he let it. To a life alone. An empty life. A life without her. His life was one into which she had crept like a flame, bringing both warmth and light into it. Her absence had left a dull, aching gap behind—even though the independent side of him had resented that.

He had once seen her as a path to be taken in a hazy landscape, but now he could see very clearly the two paths which lay before him. He saw what being with his wife would mean, and more terrifyingly, he saw what being without her promised. A life which would be stark and empty and alone.

‘Oh, Millie,’ he said brokenly. ‘Millie.’

The face she turned up to him was wreathed in anxiety and fear. ‘Gianferro?’ she breathed, in a voice she prayed would not dissolve into tears. Something in his expression gave her a tenuous hope, but she was too scared to hang onto it in case it was false. ‘Just tell me—and if you really want it to be over then I will accept that. I will never like it, nor will I ever stop loving you, but I will do as you wish.’

Something in her words let the floodgates open, and feeling came flooding in to wash over the barren landscape of his heart. After a lifetime of being kept at bay it was sharp and bright and painful and warm, all at the same time, and Gianferro gave a small gasp of bewilderment—he who had never known a moment’s doubt in his life.

He pulled her into his arms and looked down at her, not quite knowing where to begin. He had never had to say sorry to anyone in his life, and now he began to recognise that it had not done him any favours. He realised that he was more than just a symbol of power, a figurehead. Inside, his heart beat the same as that of any other man. And having feelings didn’t make you weak, he realised—not if it could make you feel as alive as he felt right at that moment. Cut yourself adrift from them and you were not a complete person—and how could he rule unless he was?

‘It is me who should be begging your forgiveness,’ he said quietly. ‘For living in the Dark Ages and refusing to make this a modern marriage. For thinking that I could impose my will on you as if you were simply one of my subjects, forgetting—or choosing to ignore—the fact that you are my wife. My partner. My Millie.’