‘That’s all?’
He leaned forward, his gaze pinioning her till her only movement was the pulse thudding at her throat.
‘You think I’ve deviously tied you to me in some arcane tradition? That we’re betrothed, perhaps?’
Her cheeks grew fiery. ‘Of course not!’
His brows arched disbelievingly but she refused to admit how the simple act of sharing his wine had taken on such ridiculous significance in her mind. If only he hadn’t looked so sinfully sexy and dangerous as he’d deliberately drunk from her side of the cup.
‘Don’t fret,’ he purred, reaching out to cover her hand in a blatantly possessive gesture. ‘Our companionship has a purpose and my actions were designed to achieve that purpose. They succeeded, don’t you think?’
‘Admirably! Everyone got the message.’ She tugged her hand free and placed it in her lap, conscious of the interest emanating from the rest of the restaurant. There were celebrities aplenty here but Alaric was the man drawing every eye.
He raised a glass of delicious local wine in a toast. ‘To more success.’
Reluctantly she lifted her glass. ‘And a speedy resolution.’
Alaric smiled as he watched her sip the wine. Not the usual practised smile that he’d learned to put on like a shield from an early age. But a smile of genuine pleasure. Tamsin Connors pleased him, and not just because she was refreshing after so many grasping, eager women.
He enjoyed her company, even when she was prickly. And tonight the glow in her cheeks gave her a softness at odds with the strict hairstyle and unimaginative dress.
His silence unnerved her. He saw it in the way she shifted in her seat. Yet he didn’t try to ease her tension. If she was on edge she was more likely to reveal her true self. He needed to understand her, find out how far he could trust her.
‘You know,’ she mused, her eyes not quite meeting his, ‘there’s a way out of your problem. Fall in love with a nice, suitable princess and marry. Women won’t bother you then.’
Instantly Alaric’s sense of satisfaction vanished. He stiffened, fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. ‘I’m in no hurry to marry. Besides,’ he drawled, aiming to cut off this line of conversation, ‘the princes of Ruvingia never marry for love.’
For an instant he allowed himself to remember his brother, the only person with whom he’d been close. Love had barely featured in their lives and when it had it had been destructive. Felix had been ecstatic in his delusion that he’d found the love of his life. He’d been doomed to disappointment.
Ruthlessly, Alaric clamped a lid on the acrid memories.
‘What about the princesses?’
‘Pardon?’ Alaric looked up to find Tamsin, far from being abashed by his offhand response, was intrigued.
‘Do princesses of Ruvingia ever marry for love?’
‘Not if they know what’s good for them,’ he growled.
The hint of a smile curving her lips died and she sat back, her expression rigid and her eyes wide.
Damn. He felt like he’d kicked a kitten when she looked like that. He speared a hand through his hair and searched for a response that would ease the hurt from her eyes.
‘Royal marriages are arranged. It’s always been that way.’ Until Felix had made the mistake of thinking himself in love.
Love was an illusion that only led to pain.
‘Even your parents?’ she said wistfully. ‘That wasn’t a love match?’
Clearly Tamsin Connors had a romantic streak. She’d probably grown up reading about princes rescuing maidens, falling in love and living happily ever after. Obviously she had no idea how far from the truth her fantasy was.
‘My parents married because their families arranged a suitable match.’
‘I see.’ She looked so disappointed he relented.
‘I was too young to remember but I’m told my mother was besotted with my father, though it was an arranged match.’
‘She died when you were little? I’m sorry.’
Alaric shrugged. You didn’t miss what you’d never known. Maternal love was something he’d never experienced.
‘It must have been hard for your father, left alone to bring up his family.’
Alaric watched her sharply but she wasn’t fishing for details, just expressing genuine sympathy.
‘My father had plenty of assistance. Staff. Tutors. You name it.’
Looking back on his boyhood it seemed his remote, irascible father had only appeared in order to deliver cutting lectures about all the ways Alaric failed to live up to his golden-haired brother. For a man who, according to under stairs gossip, had only slept with his wife long enough to conceive a spare heir, he’d been remarkably uninterested in his younger son.