She reached Stefan, kept the smile on her face, revelled in the appreciative look in his.
Fake, fake, fake.
This was a show for the public—a term of the deal he’d agreed with Marcus. The vows were a dream, the solemnity of the words underscoring her hypocrisy, and no amount of justification could quiet her conscience. All she could do was tell herself that she would make sure that some good came from this marriage—that it would benefit Lycander and give her father Il Boschetto di Sole.
‘With this ring...’
Stefan slipped the ring over her finger, and as the simple gold band slid over her knuckle she felt panic war with disbelief. Fake or not, here and now, in this chapel, they had pledged their troth. And, even though she knew that the words did not bind them for ever, for the next twelve months they were joined as man and wife.
‘You may kiss the bride.’
The words seemed to penetrate the dreamlike fog of the past half-hour and she raised trembling hands to lift her veil—though a part of her wanted to keep hidden. Stefan’s hands helped her, pushed the veil back and then cupped her face. His clasp was firm and full of reassurance, his grey eyes full of appreciation and warmth.
Fake, fake, fake, her brain warned her.
But then his lips brushed hers and sweet sensations cascaded through her body until, in a mutual recall of their surroundings, they both stepped back. He took her hand in his and they made their way back down the aisle, through the arched stone door around which honeysuckle grew, permeating the air with its scent and outside into the graveyard.
History seeped into the air from the weathered gravestones and the stone walls and spire of the chapel itself—a place that had witnessed generations of happiness and heartache. Here she and Stefan, Prince and Princess of Lycander, greeted their well-wishers until they were whisked off for photos.
Her realisation that these photos would go down in Lycandrian history threatened to call on her panic, but somehow she kept the smile on her face, remembered all the coaching, placed her hand on his arm and looked up at him in a semblance of loving wife, absorbed in the way he looked at her.
Fake, fake, fake.
But her awareness of him was, oh, so real, and nigh on impossible to ignore with their enforced proximity. His nearness played havoc with her senses. Each and every one was on high alert, revelling in the idea that for a year they were husband and wife.
As the hours wore on, through the reception and the four-course dinner, her head whirled. Gleaming cutlery clinked, conversation flowed, and the sound of laughter mingled with the pop of champagne corks. Dish followed dish—exquisite artichoke hearts, melt-in-the-mouth medallions of wild boar, crispy potato rosti and simple buttered spinach. The marquee glowed, illuminated by the warm white glow of fairy lights.
Once the food was cleared away, the jazz band started to warm up and Holly looked at Stefan.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
And so they went onto the dance floor, to the smooth strains of a saxophone and the deep velvet voice of the singer as he crooned out the words. She’d hoped that dancing to jazz wouldn’t be as tactile as to any other music, but in fact it was worse. The sensual sway of their movements, the to and fro, the distance and the proximity, messed further with her head.
Was he equally affected? Every instinct told her that he was. Each time he pulled her into his body she could sense the heat rising in him, see the scorch of desire in his eyes as they focused solely on her. When his hands spanned her waist, circling the wide belt of satin, she felt lighter than air—and yet heavy desire pooled in her gut.
Finally the first dance came to an end and they moved off the dance floor. She kept a smile pinned to her lips even as her head whirled. He walked beside her, coiled taut, and she knew his body was as tense as her own.
‘How long until we leave for our honeymoon?’ he asked, his voice a rasp.
She gave a shaky laugh. A laugh that tapered off as the word ‘honeymoon’ permeated her desire-hazed brain.
‘About the honeymoon...’
‘Yes. We agreed on Paris—nice and clichéd, plenty of romantic social media opportunities.’
Desire faded into a background hum as she met his gaze a touch apprehensively. ‘There may have been a slight change of plan.’
Now an eyebrow was raised. ‘Define “slight”.’
‘Actually, do you think we could discuss it later? People are watching us now and we need to mingle.’
Coward.
Perhaps, but it would be foolhardy to spark a potential argument now.
There was a pause and then he nodded. ‘OK. I’ll look forward to my surprise destination.’