Ionanthe had flatly refused to wear the heavy and ornate crown, opting instead for a far simpler tiara set, along with a diamond necklace and a pair of matching wide diamond cuff bracelets worn over the sleeves of her gown.
Since the castle could be cold, and it was a long walk from the Princess’s robing room, where the Crown Jewels were stored, to the reception and dining rooms in the newer part of the building, Ionanthe had agreed that she would need some kind of warm covering. She had, though, refused the ermine-lined cloak the maid had wanted her to wear, and was instead wearing a far simpler cloak in rich dark ruby velvet.
Max, who had gone through much the same arguments with his valet as Ionanthe had with her maid, felt his heart unexpectedly contract when he saw Ionanthe coming towards him down the long gallery. That she would look every inch a princess he had expected—but that she would do so with such elegance, stamping what was obviously her own style on the position she now held, caught at his emotions before he could check his reaction to her. Her sister’s interpretation of regal splendour had been a wardrobe full of tight-fitting rhinestone-covered designer clothes—more suitable, in Max’s opinion, for a media-attention-hungry C-list celebrity.
After Eloise’s death he had instructed that the clothes be packed up and sent to an appropriate charity shop.
Max suspected that the dress Ionanthe was wearing had been chosen because she believed that its flowing style did not draw attention to her body. But as a man Max knew that the cream fabric’s gentle skimming of her body drew the gaze far more intently than her sister’s tight, cleavage-revealing clothes had ever done.
Had things been different—had they met in different circumstances, had they chosen freely to be together, had he been able to trust her in a way that would have made them true partners, working together for a shared cause—Max knew that this moment would have been very special indeed. In the privacy of their marital bed they would, for instance, already have discussed the French diplomat’s visit, and would have agreed a shared plan for maximising its potential for the benefit of the people. Max was keen to explore the possibility of making more of the island’s small wine-producing area, and Monsieur de la Croix belonged to a renowned dynasty of French wine-producers.
Ionanthe had almost reached him. Automatically Max went towards her, formally offering her his crooked arm.
Unable to stop herself, Ionanthe hesitated, and then mentally rebuked herself. What was there to fear, after all? She would not be touching his bare flesh, would she? She was wearing clothes, and Max, as hereditary holder of the office of Commander of the Royal Guard, was wearing its winter dress uniform—dark green jacket ornamented with gold frogged fastenings and gold epaulettes—whilst his second in command stood to one side of him holding the large plumed helmet that denoted Max’s status.
The colour of dark green for the uniform had originally been chosen so that the men who wore it would merge with the pine trees of the island’s mountains, where fighting had frequently taken place when rebels had had to be subdued.
Privately Ionanthe had always disliked the wearing of what was, after all, a symbol of what had been the oppression of the poorest people of the island by its richest. However, she was forced to admit that Max carried the uniform off unexpectedly well. He gave off an air free from the louche arrogance of his late cousin. Max was a man who did not need a fancy uniform to garner respect from others.
Her mouth felt uncomfortably dry with tension as she rested her fingertips as lightly as she could on his sleeve.
Together they traversed the long gallery—together, and yet so very far apart, Ionanthe acknowledged painfully as they made their journey in silence.
Only when they had reached the double doors that led to the Audience Chamber where the reception was to take place did Max give any indication that he was aware of her. He turned his head to look at her for a second as the liveried flunkeys pulled open the doors and the heralds in their gaudy medieval tabards blew a shrill clarion call to attention for the waiting audience. His free hand covered her gloved fingers. She had been wrong to think that the formal barriers of gloves and sleeves would protect her from being affected by his touch. If anything those barriers made things worse, because they caused her to compare the satisfaction of the sensation of naked flesh on naked flesh with the ache of frustration that came now with the layers of cloth between them.
The dinner was almost over. The gold plate and the Sèvres china commissioned by the same Prince who had been responsible for the baroque decor of the rooms in this eighteenth-century addition to the original castle still gleamed in the light from the three ornate chandeliers illuminating the room. That same light also struck brilliant reflections from the facets of the diamonds worn by the female guests.
The main course had been served accompanied by wine from the diplomat’s family vineyards, which Max had chosen especially, and the mood around the table had grown as mellow as it was possible to be under such circumstances.
Ionanthe was listening dutifully to their guest. She had
seen him once before in Brussels—very briefly—at a large corporate event, and was well aware of his reputation as a womaniser. As she listened intently to him her heart contracted on a sharp stab of emotion—but not because of the attention he was paying her. On the contrary, she found his compliments as unappealing as the deliberately sexual looks he was giving her. No, it was the subject of his current self-satisfied monologue that was causing her muscles to tighten with angry anxiety.
‘So is it true, then?’ he pressed her, obviously seeking confirmation of what he had heard. ‘This talk that your husband plans to allow other countries to bid for a licence to mine your coal reserves?’
Ionanthe couldn’t answer him. She was too busy trying to conceal her angry dismay. Fortenegro’s coal reserves lay beneath land owned by the Crown but grazed by the sheep of some of the poorest people on the island. They would be made even poorer—destitute, in fact—if, as the diplomat seemed to think, Max had agreed to allow foreign corporations to mine the coal.
It was impossible for her either to ignore or deny the intensity of the anger and the sense of betrayal she felt. Not because she herself was personally in any way disappointed by Max’s callous disregard of his people’s needs—of course not—her feelings were on behalf of those people, against Max’s betrayal of them.
Cosmo might have been a selfish, self-satisfied egotist, who had thought only of his own pleasure, but at least he had had the virtue of being too lazy to think of adding to his own personal wealth by further pauperising his people. Max, who was shrewder and more business aware, could do far more damage to the island than Cosmo had if he literally mined its assets for his own personal benefit.
The diplomat was still awaiting her response. ‘I’m afraid I’m not the person you should be asking,’ she responded with ease. ‘It is my husband who rules Fortenegro.’
‘Ah, but even a man who is a ruler can be putty in the hands of a beautiful and intelligent woman who herself knows how the business world works. Should there be future opportunities here of international interest I am sure any astutely managed conglomerate would want to court your personal support.’
Was the Frenchman sounding her out as a possible aide in the future asset-stripping of the island? Ionanthe concealed her outraged revulsion, and her desire to inform Monsieur de la Croix that she wanted to protect her country from exploitation, not assist in it. After all, it was far better to allow him to think they might be future allies. That way she would have more chance of learning what deals were being discussed—although she had no idea how she might prevent them. It sickened her to remember how she had felt in Max’s arms now that she knew what he was planning to do.
It had been the Count’s idea that Monsieur de la Croix should be seated next to Ionanthe rather than the Prince himself, even though he was the guest of honour, and now, watching the other man focusing so intently on Ionanthe and quite obviously flirting with her, totally ignoring the elderly dowager on his left-hand side, Max was finding it more and more difficult not to watch them—like some passionately in love fool who was being ridiculously and unnecessarily jealous.
It was a relief to Ionanthe when the evening finally came to an end and the French diplomat was escorted to a car waiting to take him to the airport for his homeward flight. Tomorrow morning Max would be leaving for Barcelona from that same airport, and then in the afternoon she herself would be leaving for her ancestral home—the Castle in the Clouds as it was known locally, because of the height of the mountain range on which it was built.
Of course it wasn’t really loneliness and disappointment she felt, she reassured herself later, as she lay alone in the bed she had so briefly shared with Max. How could she live with herself, after all, if she were to admit to those feelings for a man who stood for and championed so much that she hated and despised?
If she had any longings, then they were simply longings to conceive the son who now more than ever she knew she must have to protect the people. It was not the thought of Max himself that made her body quicken and her pulse race, whilst her flesh was seized with a thrill of aching need. It was her growing sense of urgency with regard to conceiving a son. The ache now flaring hotly inside her came from her impatience to conceive—from the knowledge that she had to have the most intimate sexual contact there was with Max to achieve her ambition. Not from any desire for Max himself…
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY had almost reached the airport. Max put down the geological survey reports which had only arrived that morning and leaned back in the seat of the large Mercedes. He had commissioned the reports some months earlier, when he had first come to the throne, having heard rumours that certain factions within his court had been making enquiries about the possibility of Fortenegro’s mountainous region possessing reserves not just of coal but of other valuable minerals and ores as well. One of the most likely areas to yield the more valuable commodities, according to the reports, was the mountain land owned by the late Baron—now owned by his granddaughter, Ionanthe.