The Disgraced Princess (11 page)

He sent her a look that should have quelled the tumbling words, but perhaps he recognised the hurt beneath them because his voice was almost gentle when he said, ‘You know why.'

‘Because we're good together in bed? How very shallow of you, Gerd!'

T
HE
scorn in Rosie's voice should have flicked Gerd's imperturbable control, but his steady regard didn't waver. ‘That is not the sole reason,' he stated, a cynical smile curling his mouth. ‘I think you will make an excellent Grand Duchess once you've got used to the idea.'

He sank a hand into her curls, gently pulling her head back to expose the length of her throat, vulnerable and creamy. ‘And we are more than
good
together,' he said in a low, abrasive voice that sent ripples of sensation through her, ‘we are bloody sensational.'

Rosie closed her eyes against his intense, devouring gaze. ‘Don't you dare use sex against me,' she said, but her tone lacked conviction, and she wasn't surprised by his rough purr of a laugh.

‘Why not? It works so well,' he parried, and kissed the corner of her mouth, the lightest of kisses, so soft she barely felt it. ‘And I give you licence to use it against me whenever you feel like it. I'd enjoy that.'

No doubt, because he wasn't a slave to his emotions. He didn't love her…

Her skin tightened at the drift of his particular scent, that faint, evanescent fragrance that somehow had the power to over whelm her common sense. The ripples of
excitement became torrents, converging, building, heating every cell into molten anticipation. Hunger was like a drug, a reckless need that stopped her brain from working and changed her into some in finitely wanton stranger.

She opened her eyes, miserably aware that the fire he summoned had burnt away the proud rejection she wanted to make. This was Gerd, and she loved him. More than that, she trusted him. He'd promised fidelity; she was sure he wouldn't break that vow.

And she couldn't think of anything she wanted more than to be his wife, to bear his children…

So she'd follow her heart. In time he might learn to love her as wholly, as completely as she loved him—arrogance and all, she thought wryly. But she'd have to learn to be content with what he could give her, and if that was his respect and his affection and his love making—well, many women had settled for less and forged happy lives.

Neither of them had had a normal child hood; Gerd's parents had died young, and, although his grand mother had loved him, she'd been a distant figure, intent on matters of state. Rosie had grown up lacking the loving support most children took for granted. But she knew now that Gerd would be a good father, and together they'd make sure their children didn't lack the love and security that came when parents were in a committed, stable relation ship.

He said quietly, ‘I think it will be better if we don't make love until you are sure there will be no chance of pregnancy.'

‘I—yes.' Her voice shook and she said fiercely, ‘Why is everything so complicated?'

Without hesitation he answered, ‘Life is complex, and made more so because we humans are a difficult lot, passionate and unreasonable and wanting things we know we shouldn't have.'

And Gerd was more complex than most.

Rosie glanced up to see him studying her face, his mouth disciplined into a straight, decisive line, eyes half-hidden by long lashes—yet not so impossible to read that she couldn't discern the speculation in them.

Did he suspect that she loved him?

The thought brought hot blood to her skin, so embarrassing that she turned her head away and walked across to the window to stare unseeingly out at the blue, blue sea.

What would she do if he could never match her feelings?

If she'd learned anything about him these past few days, it was that his duty to his country would always come first.

Looked at pragmatically, a wife who loved him would be perfect; that he didn't love her would give him the emotional freedom to concentrate on Carathia and its people and their welfare.

The thought of that was unbearably painful.

But hell, she thought cynically, the sex was good. No, it was more than good; as he'd said, it was fantastic. And she wasn't her mother, seeking an unattainable, fairy-tale love.

Or perhaps she was…

She turned her head and looked at him. He met her gaze, his eyes steady and direct.

Did she have the strength to walk away?

‘I'll try not to disappoint you,' he said quietly.

Half a loaf is better than no bread.

The pragmatic, sensible thought popped into her brain from nowhere. How many times had she railed at it, demanding the whole loaf?

Now she realised she was going to accept what Gerd could offer.

Mind made up once and for all, she nodded. ‘And I'll do my best not to disappoint you.'

Vows of eternal love weren't applicable, she thought ironically, yet this simple exchange went a little way to ease the hungry yearning inside her.

‘So what happens now?' she asked.

‘We go back to the capital.'

‘Must we?' The words escaped before she had a chance to consider them.

‘Much as I'd like to stay here, we have to.' Gerd's tone left no room for objections, but he softened slightly when he said, ‘We need to have official portraits taken as soon as possible—tomorrow morning, in fact. My private secretary has organised a selection of clothes for you to choose from. I'd like you to wear something from a local designer.'

He paused as though expecting further objections, but Rosie nodded. That made sense. What didn't was the shiver of apprehension that chilled through her.

Gerd went on, ‘In three days' time, once your mother and Alex and Hani and Kelt have arrived, there will be the official betrothal ceremony.' His expression indicated this was not negotiable. ‘It's a traditional ceremony for family and friends, but you'll need to choose something to wear for that too—something formal.'

Startled, Rosie looked at his uncompromising face. ‘As in long?'

‘No. Formal day clothes—hat, gloves et cetera. I'm sure you know what sort of thing. If not, then the designer will advise you on the correct attire.'

Butterflies tumbled around in her stomach. ‘It sounds as though this is a rehearsal for a wedding.'

‘It's a long-standing tradition in the country, and a lot of people would feel the marriage was scarcely legal if it wasn't held.'

Reacting to his dismissive tone, Rosie asked tersely, ‘Are there any other traditional occasions I need to know about?'

‘Not immediately. After a week or so of festivities which we'll be expected to attend, things will settle down and you can move into Kelt's house.' He paused, then added, ‘I suggest you ask your mother to stay with you for a month or so.'

‘My
mother
?'

‘She
is
your mother,' he reminded her coolly. ‘Your only living relative apart from Alex.'

‘Presumably this whole jolly family party thing is because it's important that my family—what there is of it—and yours are seen to accept the engagement?'

She couldn't bring herself to say ‘our engagement'.

‘That's part of it.' Gerd's voice didn't encourage her to go on, but she persisted.

‘And the other part?'

He shrugged. ‘After those damned photographs I want to put as official a slant on our holiday as it's possible to do.'

Rosie could see his point. In that photo they hadn't
looked like a betrothed couple. They'd looked as though they couldn't wait to get into bed together.

Although her nerves were strung tight and twanging, she gave a sparkling, mischievous grin. ‘Oh,' she breathed, ‘I can just see it now—this is going to be such fun! Mother can't resist provoking Alex in every way possible, but when he lifts that eyebrow of his and cuts her down to size with a few scathing words she loses her temper. And then—pouf! Fireworks to match that display we saw from your windows.'

‘Don't worry. Alex will be fine.'

‘It's not Alex I'm thinking of,' she told him prosaically.

Gerd's expression hardened. ‘Your mother will be fine too,' he stated.

And she was. Oh, the tension was there—it always would be, Rosie suspected—but Eva was on her best be ha vi our, saving her comments for when she and Rosie were alone.

‘I hope you know what you're doing,' she said, looking around the suite allotted to her.

Rosie said aloofly, ‘Don't worry about that.'

Eva glanced at her. ‘I know what it's like to marry the wrong man. I'd just as soon not watch you do it.'

Rosie felt uncomfortable. Her mother was a beauty, one of those rare women who defied the years, but her expression had settled into lines of petulance. She'd never spoken before of her husband and the marriage that had only lasted for a few years.

And Rosie didn't want to discuss it. Her father had been fond of her in his absent way; it seemed disloyal to
listen to him being denigrated when he wasn't alive to defend himself.

‘You won't be doing that,' she said with far more confidence than she felt.

Her mother shrugged. ‘At least you're older—just—than I was when I married your father. But you have to realise that if you marry Gerd there'll be no divorce. The Carathians haven't progressed much since the Middle Ages. Their attitudes—especially in the mountain people—are still rock-solid conservative. If it doesn't work out you'll have to stick it out.'

When
it doesn't work out, her tone implied. Before Rosie could say anything Eva went on, ‘And, although there's huge prestige and glamour in being almost a queen, there must also be a lot of boredom.'

Struggling to control the tension that gripped her, Rosie said with a slight snap, ‘I don't bore as easily as you do. And I didn't realise you knew so much about the Carathians.'

‘Your father came here several times when he was married to Alex's mother.' Eva turned away to concentrate on the view out over the city and the mountains. ‘He found them an interesting study. Until they discovered that stuff they mine for computers they were stuck in a kind of time warp—poverty-stricken and mediaeval. I can't see that thirty years of prosperity will have changed them that much.'

Possibly not, but Gerd's plans to educate them would help. Rosie said crisply, ‘I'd already worked that out, although I doubt if they're quite as mediaeval as Father thought them.'

Her mother lifted her shoulders again. ‘Very well, I've
said all I had to say. Now fill me in on what's going to happen.'

Briefly Rosie told her of the formal betrothal ceremony that would cement the engagement in the eyes of Gerd's subjects, and the events that would follow when she and Gerd would be on show.

‘Quite a programme,' her mother said with a lift of her brows. ‘Is Alex here?'

‘He's landing in an hour or so.'

Her mother flashed her a taut smile. ‘Don't look so concerned. I do know how to behave, even with Alex.'

Back in her own suite Rosie stood for a long moment with closed eyes, trying to control the turmoil of her emotions. What had she expected? That her mother would suddenly turn into someone able to offer advice and support?

It was never going to happen, and she'd accepted that long before she'd even understood what she needed from Eva.

She would, she thought with a quiver of apprehension, always be on her own.

But there would be children…

A tap on the door heralded Gerd, who after a moment's hard scrutiny demanded, ‘What's the matter?'

‘Nothing,' she said automatically, and to prove it flashed him a glance that was all challenge.

His brows rose, but he said blandly, ‘Can you come along to my office and look over some rings I've had sent up?'

At her startled glance he added with a smile, ‘Even in the wilderness of Carathia we have engagement rings.'

‘Oh,' she said, and managed to produce a laugh that sounded unconvincing. ‘I hadn't thought of rings.'

His gaze was uncomfortably keen. ‘Then think of it now.'

‘And Carathia isn't a wilderness,' she said briskly, still resenting her mother's comments.

Gerd held out his hand. ‘Come here,' he said, his eyelashes drooping in a way that made her heart thud erratically.

Flushing, she went into his arms. He seemed to understand she needed comfort more than the erotic flash fire of passion, because he just held her, his cheek on the top of her head. Sighing, Rosie relaxed against him, taking immense comfort from his solid male strength and the warmth of his arms around her.

Eventually he said, ‘Better?'

Feeling a little foolish, she murmured, ‘Yes, I'm fine.'

He let her go, but retained her hand as they left the room.

In his office a tray of rings glittered against the black velvet of their case. Stunned, Rosie drew in a deep breath.

Gerd said, ‘Although diamonds are the convention, I thought golden ones would suit you better than ones with blue fire. But if you don't like them the stones can be replaced.'

‘I love them,' she said quietly, and then laughed as she scanned them. ‘All of them! What an impossible choice!'

‘Well, we can sort them out. A stone too big will weigh that elegant finger down, so these can go.'

He indicated three large solitaires.

Colour burned along Rosie's cheekbones. The last time he'd referred to her hands it had been about their effect on him when they made love.

‘You agree?' Gerd asked.

‘Yes.' How she wished she were tall and graceful and gorgeous, like the two women she knew had been Gerd's lovers. Neither of them had uncontrollable red curls; both had worn smooth dark hair pulled back from superb features, and they'd breathed a sophisticated intelligence.

Clearly he was accustomed to choosing jewellery. So what had he chosen for those women—rings? Probably not, she thought acidly. Rings might be taken to mean commitment. Necklaces? Or brace lets?