The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House of Cacciatore 1)

It was all a bit overwhelming.

In the end, Ella decided to confound all the pundits who were wildly predicting which of the world’s most exclusive designers would be lucky enough to create her wedding gown. She opted instead for a beautifully simple dress of finest white lawn, lovingly crafted by her mother’s dressmaker. In her arms she carried a bouquet of that most English of flowers—pure white roses.

‘Understated is the new black!’ screamed the pundits.

But for Ella it did not matter that they were marrying in Solajoya’s exquisite medieval cathedral, with world leaders and Royalty among the congregation. She was marrying the man she loved, who loved her, and that was the only thing that counted.

When she looked into his eyes at the altar everything else retreated, for all she could see was Nico, and only Nico—her love and her life.

Nico had given her a free hand to refurnish his house outside the city, but they had also been given a suite of rooms in the palace itself. It could all have been a bit daunting, but Ella’s love outshone everything else, and she took on her new role with both zeal and pleasure.

They would work together, too.

Although they would not live together until after the marriage, Nico had introduced her to all areas of his life, and she had discovered just how many different schemes he was involved with. Little wonder he hadn’t had time to visit every single village on the island—but part of his new regeneration programme was to explore the under-funded towns, with Ella by his side.

He had ordered the relocation of Solajoya’s main museum, and he wanted her to help plan a worldwide tour of Juan Lopez’s work—to bring the ‘artist’s artist’ to a much wider arena.

The new gallery was to be opened in the village by the new Princess before a wildly enthusiastic local population, grateful that a share of the island’s tourism was now putting them firmly on the map. Architects and town planners had been flown in to oversee the gentle expansion, which was designed to blend into the scenery, not bleed it of all its natural simplicity.

Gianferro had asked for an audience with her soon after their engagement had been announced and she had flown out to the island to prepare for the wedding. Her stomach had been churning as she had walked along the gilded corridor towards his suite of offices. He had given them his approval, yes, but what if secretly he had doubts about her ability to make a good wife and princess?

But Ella needn’t have had any fears. His hard face had softened on seeing the look of anxiety in hers, and he had patted a space on the brocade sofa beside him.

‘Come, Gabriella,’ he had murmured. ‘And tell me what magic you have worked on Nico.’

‘No magic,’ she had responded shyly. ‘Just love.’

The black eyes, so like his brother’s, had gleamed. ‘I had intended to ask whether you really do love him,’ he said. ‘But I can see now that the question is superfluous—for it shines like the sun at noon from your eyes.’

‘Ooh, Gianferro is my kind of man,’ Celia had whispered adoringly on the morning of the ceremony, as she’d tugged at the pale pink lawn of her bridesmaid dress. ‘Any chance you could do a bit of match-making?’

But Ella had shaken her head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s a loner,’ she’d said. Gianferro would soon be King, for their father’s health was ailing fast—and to be King was a lonely destiny. Princes abounded, but Kings were few. Nico had been able to dispense with a certain amount of expectation by marrying her, a commoner, simply because he was the youngest son—with a lessened burden of responsibility riding on his shoulders.

But Gianferro’s destiny was mapped out. When he took a bride she would have to be suitable. And when Ella looked at his sensual yet restless face, she wondered just how he would cope with the reality of having to marry a virgin bride.

Prince Guido had flown in at the very last moment, and Ella had witnessed an extraordinary phenomenon, as every female in his vicinity had taken on a look of longing that bordered on the incandescent. He was a remarkably good-looking man, she acknowledged, but his black eyes were bored, almost jaded.

‘So you have beaten me to the altar, Nico,’ he had drawled at the pre-nuptial ball.

‘No surprise there!’ his brother had responded drily. ‘You have a wish to be married, Guido?’ he’d added curiously.

‘No wish at all,’ had come the mocking response. ‘I’m happy as I am.’

‘Are you?’ Ella had asked suddenly, and both brothers had turned to her. Nico had not mirrored Guido’s surprise—but then he was growing used to her candid way of saying what she really thought!

Guido’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Of course,’ he’d said lightly. ‘I enjoy my life of self-imposed exile, for there is none of the expectation which surrounds me here. No damned matrons clucking and introducing me to their darling daughters.’ And he’d given a rather bitter laugh as one of the said matrons had begun bearing down on him, her diamonds almost blinding them, a look of grim determination on her face. ‘Forgive me,’ he’d murmured. ‘But it’s time I wasn’t here.’

‘I’m afraid that Guido is a bit of a cynic where women are concerned,’ Nico had confided to her later. Their guests had gone and they were standing side by side on the terrace, gazing up at the stars and a crescent moon.

She had turned to him with an expression of mock surprise. ‘Never!’

Nico had laughed.

They did a lot of laughing. They held each other tight at night and thanked God they had found one another.

Ella had left an old life behind, but so had Nico, and the one they had found together was better than their wildest dreams.