And the wonderful news, Jazz learned in disbelief, was that she was pregnant with twins. The Queen also trotted out that old chestnut about the heir and a spare with a straight face. In fact, she seemed to be, at that point, an entirely different woman from the one Jazz had met so unforgettably the day before. Sadly, though, that impression was to be a transitory one.
‘Of course, Vitale has left me to organise the royal wedding,’ the older woman continued smoothly.
‘Wedding?’ Jazz echoed in astonishment.
‘You may legally be married now but for the benefit of our country and the dignity of the family there must be a religious ceremony in which you are seen to get married,’ Queen Sofia clarified. ‘Didn’t my son explain that to you?’
‘No,’ Jazz admitted, thoroughly intimidated by the prospect of a royal wedding.
‘Of course, you probably think it is a great deal of fuss over nothing when you and Vitale will not be together very long,’ the older woman continued in a measured tone of false regret that told Jazz all she needed to know about why she was currently receiving a welcome. ‘But our people expect a wedding and a public holiday in which to celebrate the longevity of the Castiglione family’s rule.’
Jazz was holding her breath after that stabbing little reminder that as a wife she would not be enjoying family longevity. ‘Of course,’ she said flatly, because clearly her private wants and wishes were not to be considered in the balance of royal necessities.
‘We are so fortunate that Vitale married you quickly and that your condition is not obvious yet,’ the Queen carolled in cheerful addition.
My goodness, the prospect of a couple of babies truly transformed Vitale’s mother, Jazz thought limply.
‘Obviously we will announce that a civil ceremony took place in London some weeks ago,’ the older woman assured her. ‘Not that I think these days people will be counting the months of your pregnancy, but it will add to what my PR team regard as the romantic nature of this whole affair.’
‘Romantic?’ Jazz exclaimed, wondering if she would ever work up the nerve to say more than one word back to the Queen.
The Queen waved a dismissive hand. ‘Your low birth. Your having known my son from childhood. His apparent decision to marry out of his class,’ she pronounced with unconcealed distaste. ‘We know that is not the true story. We know he had to marry you but our people will prefer the romantic version—the totally ridiculous idea that he could have fallen madly in love with you!’
Jazz was now pale as death with perspiration beading her short upper lip. She could no more have touched the plate of food in front of her than she could have spread wings and flown out of the window to escape the spite of the woman opposite her. She swallowed hard on her rising nausea, determined not to show weakness or vulnerability. She pushed her food around the plate while the Queen chattered about how very quickly the wedding could be staged and about how she would have Jazz’s measurements taken immediately for her dress. After the meal, she was shown into another room where a dressmaker did exactly that and then she escaped back up to the apartment feeling as battered and bruised as though she had gone ten rounds with a champion boxer.
Jazz now understood exactly why the Queen of Lerovia was willing to make her the reluctant star of a royal wedding. The twins would be Vitale’s heirs and that was seemingly important enough to the Castiglione dynasty to counteract his bride’s notoriously humble beginnings. Jazz tried to comprehend her mother-in-law’s unreservedly practical viewpoint. Vitale could have married a woman who did not conceive or a woman who had other difficulties in that field. Instead his heir and a spare were already on the way. The Queen despised her lowborn daughter-in-law but would tolerate her because Jazz was not in Lerovia to stay. Evidently, Vitale had told his mother the whole truth about his marriage and Jazz could not work out why she felt so wounded and betrayed by that reality when she had urged him to do exactly that.
There were no more secrets now and it was better that way, she told herself over a lonely dinner. The Queen would throw no more tantrums and would play along for the sake of appearances until Vitale and Jazz broke up. Everyone could now relax—everyone could be happy.
* * *
‘You’re having a bad dream... Wake up!’ Vitale shook her shoulder.
In the darkness, Jazz blinked rapidly, extracted from a nightmare in which she was fleeing from some menace in a haunted castle remarkably similar to Vitale’s home. ‘I’m fine,’ she whispered shakily. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Midnight.’ His lean, powerful body perfectly aligned to hers. ‘I let you down by not being here. I didn’t expect my mother to invite you for lunch. I told her to stay out of my life. What the hell is she playing at?’ he demanded in furious frustration.
‘She’s crowing about the twins.’ Jazz sighed, drowsily stretching back into the reassuring heat of him. ‘And organising a royal wedding.’
‘You should never have joined her for lunch,’ Vitale declared rawly. ‘You should’ve said you were ill and left me to deal with her.’
‘I managed. It was OK,’ Jazz lied.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Vitale admitted, flipping her over onto her back and leaning over her, his lean, darkly beautiful face shadowed by moonlight into intriguing hard edges and hollows. ‘She would’ve been poisonous. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid!’
‘For goodness’ sake...’ Jazz faltered as he stretched over and switched on the light to stare down at her accusingly. ‘She was a bit bitchy, little jibes...you know...’
‘Of course I know,’ Vitale asserted grimly, his strong jaw clenching hard. ‘I’ve seen her in action many times when she wants to punish those who have crossed her. What did she say to you?’
‘Nothing that wasn’t the truth,’ Jazz dismissed. ‘That you had to marry me. Well, can’t argue with that.’
Vitale swore long and low in Italian. ‘Don’t you understand that that is why I want you to stay away from her at all costs? I refuse to have you exposed to her malice.’
‘It really doesn’t matter to me,’ Jazz fibbed with pride. ‘It’s not as if I’m going to be living here under her roof for ever, so I don’t care what she thinks of me or what she says to me.’
‘I care,’ Vitale ground out fiercely, thinking of what he had learned about himself after he had forced out the admission to his mother that his marriage was not to be of the permanent variety. ‘I care a great deal.’
‘Why are you in such a mood?’ Jazz asked, running a teasing pale hand down over his bare bronzed chest, feeling him tense against her, watching his eyes flare with luminous revealing gold.
‘I’m convinced you’re a witch, moglie mia,’ Vitale growled, his passionate mouth crashing down hungrily on hers.
Smiling inside herself, Jazz slid like a temptress along the long, taut and fully aroused length of him and, returning that kiss with equal heat, concluded the awkward conversation.
* * *
Three weeks later, Queen Sofia had the last laugh, after all, Jazz conceded as she watched her six bridesmaids fuss over her train and her veil, both of which demanded considerable attention due to their length and ornate decoration. Less was not more in the Queen’s parlance, but Jazz had picked her favourite of the options presented t
o her. The pressure of starring as the leading light in a royal wedding sat heavily on her shoulders and it was several days since she had enjoyed a decent night of sleep.
It was a fairy-tale wedding gown and very sophisticated. It was composed of tulle and glitter net with a strapless dropped-waist bodice adorned with metallic embroidered lace. The neckline and waistline were richly beaded with pearls, crystals and rhinestones. Exquisite and stylish, the draped full skirt glittered with delicately beaded lace appliques. The veil was full length and fashioned of intricate handmade lace.
The bridesmaids, however, were a cruel plunge of a knife into Jazz’s still beating heart. The file of bridal candidates she had hidden in the bottom of her lingerie drawer were all fully present and correct in the bridesmaids. So, naturally, Jazz was studying them, listening to their chatter, struggling to work out which one Vitale would eventually marry for real. Would it be Elena, who never ever shut up? Carlotta, who out of envy could barely bring herself to look at Jazz? Or Luciana, who either didn’t speak any English or who didn’t want to be forced to speak to the bride? Or one of the other three young women, all bright and beautiful and perfect?
The organ music in the cathedral swelled and Jazz walked down the aisle on the arm of Vitale’s uncle, Prince Eduardo. Her family were present but her mother had shrunk from such public exposure when her daughter had asked her to walk her down the aisle, so the Queen had, once again, got her wish and had co-opted her brother into the role of giving away the bride.
Jazz was troubled by having to go through a religious service when her marriage was already destined to end in divorce but nobody had asked Jazz how she felt about taking such vows in church and she suspected that nobody would be the least interested in her moral objections. There was no fakery in her heart, nothing false about her feelings, she reminded herself resolutely as she knelt down before the Cardinal in his imposing scarlet robes.
Disconcertingly, Vitale chose that same moment to cover her hand with his and she turned her head to look at his lean, darkly handsome face, her heart jumping behind her breastbone, her tummy fluttering with butterflies while she marvelled at the compelling power of that sidewise glance of his and the curling lashes darker and more lush than her own false ones. His wide sensual mouth curled into a faint smile and she thought, Why is he smiling? and only then did she remember that there were cameras on them both and quite deliberately Jazz beamed back at him, doing what was expected of her, fearful of the misery inside her showing on the outside and equally fearful of doing the wrong thing.