Not Fit for a King?

Which wasn’t a quality Zale wanted in his wife, or Raguva’s future queen.

Strong, calm, steady, principled—those were the qualities he wanted, qualities he’d come to realize she didn’t possess.

“Thank you,” she answered, a delicate pink appearing in her flawless, porcelain skin.

The bloom of pink in her cheeks stole his breath and made his body harden.

Had she truly just blushed? Did she think she could convince him she was a virginal maiden instead of a jaded, promiscuous princess?

And yet despite all her character flaws, in person she was nothing short of physical perfection with her exquisite bone structure, cream complexion and darkly fringed blue eyes. Even as a young girl Emmeline had been more than pretty with her wide blue eyes that seemed to see everything and know far too much, but she’d grown into an extraordinary beauty.

His father had been the one to suggest Princess Emmeline d’Arcy as a suitable bride. Zale had been fifteen at the time, Emmeline just five, and Zale had been horrified by his father’s preliminary arrangements. A chubby little girl with blue eyes and dimples for a future wife? But his father had assured him that she’d be a stunning woman one day, and his father had been right. There wasn’t a more beautiful or eligible princess in Europe.

“You’re here at last,” he said, hating that he derived so much pleasure from just looking at her. He should be distant, disgusted, turned off. Instead he was curious. As well as very physically attracted.

Her head dipped. “I am, indeed, Your Majesty.”

She did that so prettily, he thought, the edge of his mouth curving in a slightly cynical smile. The blushes, the shyness, the wide-eyed innocence. “Zale,” he corrected. “We’ve been engaged this past year.”

“And yet we’ve never once seen each other,” she answered, lifting her chin, porcelain cheeks stained pink.

He raised an eyebrow. “By your choice, Emmeline, not mine.”

Her lips parted as if to protest before she pressed them together again. “Did that bother you?” she asked after a moment.

He shrugged, knowing what he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say. That he knew Emmeline had spent the past year continuing to see her Argentine playboy boyfriend, Alejandro, despite being betrothed to Zale.

He wouldn’t say that he knew her seven-day trip to Palm Beach this past week had been to watch Alejandro play in a polo match. Or that for the past several days Zale hadn’t even been sure Emmeline would actually get on the plane and come to Raguva for their wedding scheduled for June 4, ten days from now.

But she had.

She was here.

And he fully intended to use these next ten days before their wedding to discover if she was ready to honor her commitments to him, their countries and their families, or if she planned to continue playing games and playing him. “I’m glad you’re here now,” he responded. “It’s time we began to get to know each other.”

She smiled, a slow, radiant smile that lit her eyes from the inside out and he felt heat and pressure build in his chest.

How absurd that Emmeline’s beauty literally took his breath away. Ridiculous that he could be so moved by a woman in a ball gown and jewels. Diamond and sapphire rings covered her fingers and the diamonds in the tiara perched on her golden head glinted, throwing off tiny prisms of light.

“So am I,” she answered. “And it’s a completely different world than Palm Beach.”

“It is at that,” he agreed, intrigued despite himself. Charmed by everything about her right now. “I’m sorry I couldn’t welcome you last night when you arrived. There is so much tradition attached to the job. Five hundred years of protocol.”

“I understand.”

She should. She’d agreed to this arranged marriage, too, despite being passionately in love with her boyfriend of five years. “Do you need any refreshment? Dinner is at least an hour away.”

“No, thank you, I can wait.”

“I heard you hadn’t eaten anything today, or even last night after you arrived.”

She gave him a slightly mocking look, her finely arched eyebrows rising. “Which of my attendants tattled on me?”

“My cooks were worried when you refused your meals. They feared they’d failed to whet your appetite.”

“Not at all. The breakfast and lunch trays looked delicious but I was very aware that at five I’d have to fit into this gown,” she said with a gesture to her curvaceous body swathed in teal silk and intricate jeweled designs.

“You’re not on a starvation diet, are you?”

She glanced down at her figure. “Do I look in danger of fading away?”