Not Fit for a King?

“It’s not a whim. I’ve been concerned about your suitability for a long time.”

“Then why have you let it go this long? The wedding is in just nine days. The lawyers are here—all five of them. And the portrait artist is out there setting up his easel this very moment.”

His gaze narrowed. His jaw tightened. He didn’t speak for so long that the uncomfortable silence turned into exquisite tension. “I like confidence in women, Emmeline, but you’re absolutely brazen. You’ve flaunted your boyfriend beneath my nose for months and yet you expect me to just ignore my better judgment and marry you anyway?”

Heat washed through her, scorching her cheeks, burning her skin. “There is no boyfriend.”

“Emmeline, I know all about Alejandro. You’ve been together for years.”

“But that was before we were engaged. We’re not together anymore.”

He gave her a cool look, features grim. “So how do you explain the photographs of you and Alejandro at the Palm Beach polo match?”

“You know I attended the match and posed for pictures afterward. It was a charity event and I took pictures with everyone.

Why aren’t you asking me about the photos I took with the English or Australian teams?”

“Because you’re not involved with any of their players.”

“But I’m not involved with anyone anymore. I’m here, engaged to you.”

“Maybe here in body, but not in spirit.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t say that!” She fought back. The last thing Hannah wanted was to be responsible for Emmeline and Zale’s relationship. She hadn’t come all this way, or struggled this much, to have Zale break off the engagement here and now. No, if Zale wanted to end the engagement, he had to end it with Emmeline, not with her. And if Emmeline wanted to break things off, then she needed to tell him—in person, which meant she had to get here and sort this out herself.

Princess Emmeline’s presence was required. Immediately. “You see only my faults and none of my strengths,” she said. “Maybe that’s because your faults outnumber your strengths.”

“So that’s that? You’ve made up your mind, decided our fate, game over?”

“You make it sound like I’m an executioner about to take off your head.”

“It feels like it.”

“Emmeline!”

She shook her head. “You’re not giving me a chance.” “I gave you chances—twelve months of them!” “But I’m here. I came. Let’s play the damn game, Zale!” “What does that mean?”

“It means we’re still early in the match and you’re wanting to pick up the ball and walk off the field. But we have nine days until the ceremony, nine days to figure out what’s real and what’s not. So put the ball down. Give me a chance to play.”

“And so what do you suggest?”

“We use this time right now to get to know each other. We make every effort to see if this could work before you make a rushed, and rash, decision.”

His expression looked skeptical.

“We commit the next nine days to discovering if we’re compatible. If we are, we marry as planned. If we’re not, we end this amicably.”

“It sounds reasonable except for one thing. We can’t cancel the wedding at the eleventh hour, not after everyone has traveled at great effort and expense to be here for the event. It would be a public relations nightmare.”

“Five days, and we’ll make a decision?”

“Four,” he countered. “Four days should be more than sufficient if we use the time wisely. And then if I’m still not happy in four, it’s over. Done. No more negotiating. Understand?”

His amber gaze burned into her but Hannah stared straight back, lifting her chin, her expression equally determined. “I understand perfectly, but you should know I’m tough. I play hard. And I’m playing to win.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE moment Zale left the dressing room, Hannah grabbed her phone and tried to call Emmeline.

The call went straight to Emmeline’s voice mail.

“You need to get here, Emmeline. Zale is threatening to call the wedding off. Hurry.” Hannah hung up just as Lady Andrea appeared.

“Your Highness, Monsieur Boucheron, the artist commissioned to do your portrait, is ready.”

Hannah slipped the phone back into the drawer beside her bed before following Lady Andrea to the Queen’s drawing room where Monsieur Boucheron had set up his easel.

For the next two hours Hannah sat in the small elegant armless chair holding herself perfectly still as the soft yellow afternoon light illuminated her shoulders and face.