Virgin Princess's Marriage Debt

‘Did you ever look for your father?’

This time her name was growled on his lips like a warning.

‘Do you know why he left?’

‘He left because he was weak, because he was a coward who ran away from his responsibilities.’

‘You were not just a responsibility.’

‘What do you want me to say? That it hurt to know that my father never wanted me? That he ruined my mother and her happiness? That I swore never to be like him, only to grow into a young man who caused her more pain?’

‘Is that what you think? That you caused your mother pain? That is not—’

‘You know nothing of this. And I will not speak of it again.’

* * *

The gala was being held at La Sereine, a Michelin-starred hotel sitting on the edge of Lac du Peridot. As Theo leaned against the balcony looking out at the stunning sight, he tried with all his might to focus on the two large mountains in the distance meeting just at the horizon of the stunning lake, a vista of every shade of green stretching out before it. Further upstream, he’d been told, was a small town nestled around the top of a giant waterfall, feeding the river that wound its way through Iondorra to Callier.

But despite all this glory, all he could see, all he could hear were the faces and taunts of his past. He’d been shocked by Sofia’s revelation—that the pranks he had so loved about her once, and then vehemently hated, had been started in retaliation against the behaviour he had received. That, all the while he’d thought to be the one who’d noticed her first, she had been there, watching him without his knowledge, and had seen him without being seen.

Somehow he felt both stunned and cheated. Cheated as if suddenly Sofia was reframing everything he thought he knew.

‘Did you ever look for your father? Do you know why he left?’

He hadn’t been able to answer her. Because yes, he did know why his father had left. His cousins had enj

oyed taunting him with it. Older by several years, they had relished and recounted with venomous glee the story of the words he had hurled at his mother.

The story that his father had run from his mother, from the village, the same night he had been born. That he had refused to be weighed down by a child. His cousins had called him bástardos—bastard—for almost his entire childhood. And every time his mother had been shunned, every time his mother had been tutted at, or stared at, in the village, he knew he was the cause of it. And then later, when he had been expelled, Theo had felt as if it was happening all over again. That he had thrust shame upon his loving mother who had tried so desperately to compensate for the absence of his father, for the lack of security in their lives. So he had done everything he could, since then, to make sure that she would never feel shame or want again.

A knock sounded against the door to the suites he’d been given within the hotel, pulling him from his thoughts. A knock that sounded more like the nail on a lid that he was banging down against the memories of his father, of his childhood.

He had just walked back inside from the balcony, when he let out a bark of surprised laughter, put down the glass of whisky and greeted his friend in a warm hug.

‘Sebastian! What are you doing here, my friend?’ he asked.

Sebastian’s grin matched his own as he explained that Sofia had arranged for him and his sister, Maria, to be in attendance for this evening’s gala and for them to stay in Iondorra with Theo until the wedding. Theo poured them both drinks and, before settling down into the luxurious sofa, Theo couldn’t resist one more hug. He had needed this. Had Sofia known he would? Was that why she had gathered up his closest friend and brought Seb to him?

‘What is this? You getting soft on me? All this talk of romance—’

Theo laughed again, shoving at Seb before sitting down.

‘Do not fear. My tastes have never run in your direction.’

‘Fear? I am perfectly happy with my masculinity to appreciate another’s attraction to me, no matter who it comes from. I just happen to prefer the female form.’

Theo quirked an eyebrow. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘God, no. There is only one thing that would ever tempt me into the state of holy matrimony.’

‘Money?’

‘Amnesia.’

‘I’m sure there are many women out there who would willingly oblige a good bludgeoning to ensure such a thing.’

‘True. Perhaps I should start wearing a helmet.’