‘Oh, you little fool, Millie!’ he retorted. ‘How do you think I found out all
this?’
She stared at him. ‘From the bodyguard?’
‘No, not from the bodyguard! From the Italian himself!’ he snapped. ‘Via the newspaper! He has been hawking your story round to the highest bidder!’
‘But there is no story!’ she protested.
He saw the hurt which clouded her big blue eyes and felt a momentary pang, knowing that he was about to disillusion her further, that this would shatter her trust completely. Could he do it? Had he not taken enough from her already in his quest for the perfect wife?
His mouth hardened. He had to.
‘Maybe there isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But there was enough of a story for the editor to be interested. “A special closeness…” His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you deny there was that?’
‘A closeness?’ Millie rubbed at her eyes. ‘Yes, probably. But special? Yes, probably that, too—if a person makes you feel something that other people can’t.’
He flinched, for the barb was directed as much at him as at anyone. ‘And what was that?’ he asked quietly.
‘He made me feel…’ Millie shrugged as she struggled to find a word that didn’t make her sound pathetic. Or ungrateful. ‘Ordinary, I guess.’
‘But you are not ordinary, Millie. You never have been and you certainly never will be now.’
It was a bit like having someone tell you that Father Christmas was not real—an unwelcome but necessary step into the world of grown-ups—and Millie recognised that Gianferro was right. She wasn’t ordinary—she had bade farewell to the ease of an anonymous life on the day she had taken her wedding vows. She was Queen, and she must act accordingly.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. ‘I’ve been so stupid,’ she whispered.
Inexplicably, her disillusionment hurt him more than her tears, and he went to her then, pulled her to her feet and gathered her into his arms and into his embrace. She was stiff and as awkward as a puppet, and maybe so was he—just a little—for to comfort a woman was a new experience for him. To touch without sensual intent was like walking on uncharted territory, but he began to stroke her hair and gradually she began to relax.
‘Maybe I am the one who should be sorry,’ he said softly, and for possibly the first time in his life he tried to see things from someone else’s point of view. He frowned. ‘You think that I neglect you?’
Was this part of being grown-up too—accepting her role completely—telling him that no, he didn’t neglect her? ‘You are a very busy man,’ she said evasively.
He pushed her away a little, so that he could look down at her face. ‘Which does not answer my question.’
‘I think it does, Gianferro. There are only so many hours in the day, and yours are filled with work. So many demands on your time—and I don’t want to become another burden when already you have so many.’
‘Would it help if I made space in my diary once a week—so that we could have dinner alone together no matter what?’
They would never be completely alone, of course…there would always be servants and aides hovering in the background. But she recognised that he was making an effort, that the offer itself was an important gesture of trying to see things her way. And in response she must try to see things his way.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said evenly.
His eyes narrowed. He had softened the blow…now came the steel punch which lay behind it. ‘You do realise that these lessons will have to stop?’ he questioned softly. ‘That you cannot be friends with this man any more?’
She nodded, determined not to let him see her hurt or her sinking realisation that in the end Gianferro had got his own way. Maybe he always did. ‘Of course I do.’ She must show him that she could be strong, that these things did not matter. ‘It’s just taking me a bit of time to make the adjustment,’ she admitted with a smile.
He pulled her closer. ‘And that is perfectly natural. Perhaps you are a little homesick? Would it help if I arranged for you to take a trip back to England?’
And be even further away from him?
She wasn’t homesick at all. She was lovesick. Wanting to give so much more to him than he wanted, or needed. Wanting time to lie in his arms, to lazily trace her fingertips over the beautiful contours of his face. Wanting him not to be so frazzled with work that he would not fall into an instant sleep once they had made love. They were talking now in a way they rarely did, and it made her feel so close to him that she wanted to hang onto the feeling for ever, to imprint it on her mind.
She wound her arms around his neck and looked up into his face. ‘Oh, Gianferro,’ she sighed. ‘Won’t you just kiss me?’
Her parted lips were pure temptation, as was the buttercup tumble of her hair, and Gianferro hesitated only for a fraction of a moment before lowering his head, his lips touching hers in a kiss which was supposed to be fleeting. But then he felt them part, and the warm eagerness of her breath as it heated him. She was always so responsive! As a pupil, she had far surpassed all his expectations.
But the word pupil reminded him of her folly, and the brief tang of anger heated his blood, set it pulsing around his veins. His body responded with the age-old antidote to anger. The pressure of his lips hardened and he pulled her body against his almost roughly, feeling her instant response as her soft curves melted into his.