Not Fit for a King?

“I owe you an apology,” he interrupted tersely. “I had it all wrong. You were telling me the truth. You weren’t speaking to Alejandro.”

She felt a shiver of alarm. “How do you know?”

“He was badly injured in a polo accident yesterday in Buenos Aires. He was in surgery for hours, and he remains unconscious in intensive care.” He finally looked at her, his expression blank, his jaw hard. “I imagine you already knew that—”

“I didn’t.”

He looked away, swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Emmeline. I know you have … strong … feelings for him.”

She stared at her hands, fingers interlocked. “I’m sorry he was hurt, but I’m not in love with him.”

“No?”

She shook her head and lifted it to meet his gaze. “How could I, when I care so much about you?”

For a long moment he searched her eyes before taking a deep breath. “You still do? Even though last night I was determined to throw you out?”

Her lips curved into a tremulous smile. “Yes.”

He looked pale and tense and unhappy. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

Guilt clawed at her. She struggled to hang on to her smile. “Mistakes happen.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“And will you please stay? I don’t want to host the ball tonight without you at my side.”

“Yes. Absolutely. I’d love to be there with you.”

“Thank you.” He sounded relieved but his expression remained grim. “And in that case, I’m to send you straight back to your room for a final fitting for tonight’s ball gown.”

She nodded, forced another smile and quietly slipped away.

He watched her leave, listened as the door closed soundlessly behind her.

For a moment he felt strangely bereft. Hollow and empty and alone. He didn’t like it.

He’d liked having her in his study. He enjoyed her company. Loved having her around.

She’d said last night that she knew she wasn’t the woman he’d wanted, but she was wrong. She was exactly what he wanted. Now he just needed to prove it to her.

It was time he stopped trying to control everything so much. Time to stop defining everything as black or white. Could he open a little? Grow a little? Change for her?

Yes.

He pictured her sleeping so trustfully in his arms last night and he wanted that every night. He wanted a life with her, a future together. Marriage and babies and everything that went with it.

Across the palace in the Queen’s Chambers, Hannah stood in her dressing room on the small, low stool in a thin white Grecian gown that wouldn’t zip closed, her image caught reflected in the numerous mirrors. And no one said anything.

Not Lady Andrea who sat in the corner with her notebook. Or Camille and Teresa who stood against the far wall. Or Celine, who hovered behind Anton Pierre, the designer from Paris who’d just flown in that morning hand carrying the two commissioned gowns—the ball gown for tonight’s gala and the wedding dress for Saturday’s ceremony.

No one spoke because what could anyone say?

The thin, slim chiffon gown should have cascaded effortlessly in an elegant column of white. Instead the fabric rode up in Hannah’s armpits and the back wouldn’t zip. Turning her head, Hannah could see her thin bra strap across her back and even that looked tight.

“Suck in your stomach,” Anton Pierre said, tugging hard on the zipper of the gown, lips pursed, expression critical.

“I am,” Hannah answered, wincing a little as the zipper pinched her back, catching at her skin.

“More,” he insisted.

She yelped as he zipped another bit of skin. “Ouch, stop! Stop. That hurts.”

Anton threw his hands up in displeasure. “If this gown is too tight, your wedding gown isn’t going to fit, either. Your breasts and hips are huge, Your Highness. What have you been eating?”

“Not a lot,” Hannah answered, knowing she’d actually lost weight in the past week, at least five pounds.

“Nonsense. I think you’re bingeing on butter and bon bons, Your Highness. I’ve dressed you for years and you’ve always asked me to tell you the truth. So I’m telling you the truth. You’re fat. You have chub.” He grabbed an inch on her back near her bra strap and pinched. “This is bad. You must lose ten pounds quickly—immediately—or you won’t be wearing my wedding gown. It’s made for a princess, not a midfielder.”

“Get out!” Zale’s voice thundered through the dressing room, rattling a mirror on one wall. He looked huge and violently angry as he gestured toward the door. “Get out, Pierre, before I personally throw you out.”