CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
A FFAIRS OF STATE were neither here nor there for Sebastian. He’d been to enough formal events even before returning to Cavalonia to know the drill. He was generally nonplussed by them, regardless of how big and important they were.
It didn’t bother him that this evening’s party would feature the entire parliament and their partners, nor that dignitaries from all over Europe had been invited.
As he stepped from his limousine dressed in a midnight-black tuxedo, he could only think of Rosalind. He was anxious to see her, to reassure himself that she was fine.
She hadn’t been fine the day before.
She’d been breaking, and he’d understood that, but hadn’t known how to fix it. He had only been able to think of one way, and that wasn’t a solution, so much as a stopgap measure. Making love to her might push the reality from her mind but it wouldn’t actually change the fact that despite many, many, many attempts, they hadn’t conceived.
But had he really expected to in the first month? Sure, it happened for some people, and he might have deluded himself into thinking it would happen for them also, but some solid researching he’d done overnight had convinced him that several months of trying was far more usual. Anything up to a year was considered standard. He refused to live and die by each month’s attempt.
Besides...
The trying was fun.
If he was honest, he’d say he was itching to take her back to the island, rather than stay here in the city, but whatever. Wherever. Sex with Rosalind was its own kind of perfection; it didn’t matter where they were. Suddenly, he was counting down the days to the right dates in her cycle to make this happen.
It wasn’t just the sex he missed though, he admitted uneasily, his step faltering a little as he frowned deeply. Out of nowhere, unwelcome memories slashed through him. The way she would smile at him, the feeling of her hand brushing against his finger, her bravery in wanting to defend the cottage with a pepper grinder, her goodness and kindness. Realisations that burned inside his gut like acid, because he didn’t want to feel any of that for his wife. For anyone. He had carefully charted a course for his life, and it didn’t include the kind of sentiment that might predispose him to more rejection and disappointment. Those lessons had been etched into his soul as a boy, and he’d never forgotten them. Every day that his biological father shunned him had crystallised his determination to remain totally alone in life. Losing Mark had underscored the wisdom of that decision.
But he wasn’t stupid enough to pretend Rosalind hadn’t cracked through his carefully erected walls, just a little. He clung to the fact that it was temporary, that things would settle down again once they’d conceived. They had to—it was what they both wanted. A calm, easy marriage. No feelings, no risk.
But didn’t Rosalind deserve more? Wasn’t that part of the problem? He knew her now. He knew her in a way he hadn’t when he’d first agreed to this, and he knew that while he was happy to wall off his emotions, she shouldn’t have to. She was the kind of woman who should have so much more than this. She should have everything.
As he walked into the east wing of the palace, he glanced around, but he was so deep in his thoughts that at first he didn’t see Rosalind step out from the shadows. And when he did see her, it was like being punched hard in the gut.
She was beautiful, and he knew that. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her, of course, even when he’d been seething with rage at her apparent devotion to the king. He’d noticed her flaxen hair and the way it was braided in a crown around her head, her delicate, graceful movements, her huge blue eyes and full, pale pink lips. She was beautiful no matter where she was and what she wore, but tonight, she looked like the kind of princess young children went to bed dreaming of. Her dress was a pale pink with a fitted bodice and a full skirt that had a fine sparkle to it. At her throat, she wore a diamond choker, and over her gloved hand, her wedding ring sparkled like an omen.
She must have been wearing heels because she was taller than when barefoot, and she walked towards him with so much poise and cool control that his admiration for her quickly morphed into something else. Something darker.
What would she do if he pulled her against him here and kissed her until the lipstick smudged and her nipples grew taut? What would she do if he pushed his hand into her hair and pulled it from that sleek golden bun, so it was loose over her shoulders? If he lifted up the many layers of her dress until he found the elastic of her underwear and slid his finger inside her sex?
‘Your Highness,’ she murmured when she was close enough.
He wouldn’t do any of those things though. He wasn’t an animal, and they had a state event to attend. But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to unsettle her.
And so he leaned close, his voice gruff, and murmured in her ear, his lips brushing her lobe a little, ‘You look good enough to eat, and believe me, I’d like to do just that.’
He heard and felt her gasp. A dark smile curved his lips.
‘Sebastian.’ Her voice trembled a little, a warning in her tone. But there was also a plea. Because she wanted him just as much as he wanted her?
‘Would you like that, wife? Would you like me to pull you into one of these rooms and taste you, just like on the island? Would you like me to taste you and suck you until you are falling apart at the seams?’
‘Sebastian,’ she said again, but it was frenzied, need in every syllable.
‘Say the word and I will do it,’ he promised, running a finger over her hip. ‘Even better if we could find something for these,’ he moved his finger to her wrist, and pulled it behind her back a little. ‘I like the thought of you tied up and totally at my command, mine to pleasure over and over again...’
She trembled and he pulled back, his eyes glittering dark when they met hers. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were parted. There she was! The woman he’d seen on the island, the woman who was flesh and blood and all for him.
‘I can’t—’
‘Yes, you can,’ he responded gruffly. ‘Any time you want to, you can.’
Her eyes were wide, her features stricken. ‘Stop it,’ she said, but kept her body close to his, her lips parted. ‘This isn’t fair.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ and then she did pull away from him, glaring at him with barely concealed anger. And he was glad! Anger was so much better than grief, and so much better than coldness. Anger was an emotion he could work with. Anger, with them, always turned into something else, anyway.
But they were ushered into the ball, and both assumed a mask, the same mask they’d worn on multiple occasions, when they’d been forced to spend an evening together. To almost anyone looking at them, they seemed serene and content. A perfect young royal couple. But inside, Rosie was fuming.
Whenever she glanced at Sebastian, she felt her anger surge—as well as other feelings—but anger was a refuge and so she clung to it. How dare he blow hot and cold with her like that? How dare he act as though the week of silence hadn’t happened?
Irritation stretched and built until she found herself wanting to slap him, then and there, in the middle of the ball. And what would he say if she did?
She thought of the way he’d carried her on the island over one shoulder, so easily, and she imagined him doing so now. Picking her up in front of all the ministers, the king, the entire delegation. Her lips quirked but not with humour, so much as resignation, because when she imagined such a scenario, it was with anticipation more than anything else.
She wanted to push him to that.
She wanted to push him, as he’d been goading her.
There was no chance though.
They were kept separate all evening by their various responsibilities, conversations with dignitaries the main purpose of their attendance. The king came to make a brief speech, towards the end of the night, and Rosie stood near him, so he naturally came to her afterwards and gave her a small hug, and a kiss on the cheek, remarked on how well she was looking. When he left, she glanced around the room, not looking for Sebastian, and yet her eyes found him as though she was a heat-seeking missile and he, her target. She shivered at the expression on his features and quickly glanced away again.
It was late before the event was finally over and Rosie was tired. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Visions of their baby, lost in a room, crying, kept coming to her, and the baby was so vivid and real that she couldn’t believe such a person didn’t already exist.
As was their usual way, Sebastian accompanied Rosie from the function, but once in the private corridors of the east wing, he didn’t relinquish his grip on her hand, as he ordinarily might. Instead, he turned to face her, and there was a look on his face that took her breath away.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Do we?’ she replied, pleased when her voice emerged cool and crisp.
‘We need to talk somewhere other than here,’ he confirmed with a tight nod. ‘Come home with me.’
Her heart began to race. It was everything she wanted, and yet it wasn’t. On so many levels, she was terrified.
‘I’m tired,’ she responded.
His expression showed cynicism. ‘Is that a “no”?’
She opened her mouth and closed it again. She was tired, but she knew that if she demurred and went to her room, she’d regret it. She’d get no sleep, anyway.
‘No,’ she said after a beat. ‘It’s not a no.’
His eyes flashed to hers and he began to walk, holding her hand. ‘Wait, Sebastian—’
‘Why, Rosalind?’ His impatience was palpable. ‘Haven’t we been waiting?’
Her stomach twisted. Yes, they’d waited all week, and it had been awful. Silently, she followed him, out into the moonlit night, and as they approached the car, her body seemed to explode like a wave of ash.
It had been a spur of the moment invitation. He was acting on instinct and autopilot, with no forethought or planning, and once inside his limousine, he had no goddamned idea what he was going to say to her when they were alone. But not being able to talk to her properly had been stifling and beyond frustrating. At least at his place they could speak to one another, or even yell at each other, if they wanted to.
Except it wasn’t enough. In the back of his car, all he was conscious of was her. Her nearness, her soft skin, her shallow breathing, the smell of her perfume and shampoo, the fact that he could reach out and touch her anytime. But photographers were everywhere, swarming the exit of the palace and continuing to follow them on motorbikes, which zipped in and out of traffic with scant regard for safety.
Each mile stretched like elastic in his gut, torturing him. At one point, his fingers glanced across her knee, and she gasped softly, so he knew he wasn’t alone, that her desire was at the same fever pitch as his own.
He was angry, he was frustrated, he was worried about her, and he was furious with himself for his weakness, but God knew, none of that mattered anymore. He just needed to get her into his house and lock the damned door. For days, if that’s what it took.
He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to achieve, but he knew bringing her here was right and necessary.
The car turned into the street that led to his home, the gates swinging open, with a few paparazzi outside of them. He glanced at Rosalind, who now had a serene smile plastered on her face. Well, it might fool the press, but he was beside her, and the tension emanating from her frame was unmistakable. It was a tension he felt too.
She was so beautiful, but he hated that beauty. Not the beauty, he corrected, but the untouchability. This version of her was something he couldn’t help but resent, having seen her wild and free on the island.
Once inside his house though, the facade cracked. She whirled around to face him, eyes latched on his. ‘So?’ she demanded, an awe-inspiring mix of hauteur and fury. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
This he liked. Anger was real. Anger was passion, just expressing itself differently.
‘The baby, for one thing.’
‘There is no baby,’ she ground out.
He clamped his teeth, then said, ‘You’re upset. Yesterday, you pushed me away. Tonight, you acted like it never happened.’
‘And?’ she snapped. ‘It’s fine. These things take time.’
‘I’m aware of that, but it doesn’t make it any easier—’
‘It’s not like I had a miscarriage,’ she demurred. ‘We just didn’t fall pregnant. We’ll try again.’
‘When our staff sync our schedules?’ He couldn’t help reminding her, the words scathing.
She flinched a little. ‘Sure, why not?’
‘You don’t think that’s a little...cold?’
‘I’d rather call a spade a spade.’ She waved a hand through the air, and only the slight trembling of her fingers showed him how moved she was by their situation. ‘Why pretend this is anything other than what it is?’
‘Which is?’
‘Two people in an arranged marriage arranging to have a baby.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re so angry with me you’re shaking, and I cannot work out why.’
She clamped her lips together, tried to gather her composure. ‘I’m not.’
‘Oh yeah?’
He took a step towards her, and her chest rose with the sharp intake of her breath. ‘You weren’t angry with me on the island.’
She glanced away, her throat shifting as she swallowed, visibly trying to rein in her temper.
‘Do you blame me?’ he asked, lifting a finger to the pulse point in her throat and feeling it rush against her delicate skin.
‘For what?’ she muttered, not looking at him, and not moving.
‘For not falling pregnant.’
She shook her head, her expression—what he could see of it in profile—like thunder. ‘I blame you for treating me like—’ But she zipped her lips together, cutting herself off just in time. Or frustratingly, too fast.
‘Like what?’ he pushed, so close to hearing her say whatever was bothering her and needing that.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me,’ he responded, his own voice rising a little.
She glanced up at him, her eyes darkened by resentment. ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘I got carried away. I let myself believe we could be...friends. But that’s not what we are. It’s not what we’ll ever be. I’m just a body to you. Someone to have sex with when it suits, and to forget about when it doesn’t.’
He felt totally blindsided. ‘What the hell?’
‘Come on, Sebastian. There’s no need to pretend it’s not true. What else explains the way you cut me out of your life the minute we left the island? You did your bit, and tried to get me pregnant at every opportunity, in the right window of the calendar, and then you disappeared out of my life. Excellent breeding stock work—you’re a grade A bull, or stud, or whatever.’
He swore under his breath, wanting to deny it, but the truth held him quiet. He waited until he could trust his voice not to shake then said, ‘That’s what we agreed to.’
‘Right, of course,’ she snapped, pulling away from him then, stalking deeper into his house and making a sound of frustration. To his immense relief, it was Rosalind who reached up into her hair and began to remove pins, dropping each one onto the polished timber side table with obvious disdain. She continued to do so as she spoke. ‘And nothing changed on the island for either of us.’
‘Of course it changed,’ he responded. ‘We got to know each other, just like you wanted.’
‘But I got to like you,’ she said, and then obviously regretted it. Yet she angled her chin defiantly, as if daring him to mock the sentiment, her eyes locked to his. ‘I got to like spending time with you. I thought that was real.’
He glanced away, his gut twisting. It had been real. So much of it. But her loyalty to the king made anything like a relationship impossible. He could explain that to her, but then they’d argue over the king, and there was no winning that fight. He simply had to accept she would always defend the man Sebastian hated.
‘And then we got back to the city, and you made it as clear as crystal that you couldn’t wait to go back to ignoring me. So, why are we here?’ she asked, running her hands through her liberated hair, pulling it over one shoulder. ‘Why bring me here under the guise of needing to talk when you have nothing to say?’
‘Fine, I don’t want to talk,’ he said, stalking towards her. ‘I miss you, okay?’
‘No, you miss having sex with me, that’s not the same thing. If you missed me, you would have called. You would have come to see me. You want to take me to bed. Right?’
Damn it, yes. But no. She was right, and she was wrong. He’d wanted to call her. He’d wanted to talk to her.
But to what end?
There was no point pretending they had some kind of future. The last thing he wanted to do was lead her on when there was this enormous barrier between them, maybe several. It was all so hopeless. So he hadn’t called. He’d waited for her to reach out to him, and when she had, he’d gone to her immediately.
But he also ached for her on a physical level, and that was so much easier to understand and to explain, so he nodded. ‘Yeah, I want to take you to bed. What do you want, Rosalind?’
She glared at him as if she truly hated him—and perhaps she did—but then she stamped her foot and nodded once. ‘I want that too,’ she said, but to show her annoyance, she pushed at his chest, once. ‘And I hate myself for it. If you only knew how much I hated myself.’
‘Why?’ he challenged; but he knew. She’d told him all he needed to understand her. ‘You’re not like the women your father screwed, and I’m not like him. I’m not leading you on—you’re not falling in love with me. You’re the one who said it—we call a spade a spade and we always have.’
‘Yes,’ she said, but her eyes filled with angry tears. ‘You make me so angry, but I want you.’
‘Yeah, well, we’re in the same boat. You make me angry, and I want you. What about it?’
And then she laughed, but it was rich with emotion and confusion, and he couldn’t help but step forward and drag her against him, kissing her until she wasn’t laughing, and she wasn’t crying, kissing her until they were both simply existing in this moment, this need, this fierce, desperate flame arcing between them, as it always did.
‘Damn you, Sebastian,’ she said, as he lifted her against his chest and carried her to the nearest soft space he could find, which just so happened to be the lounge. ‘Damn you to hell.’
He didn’t tell her that he’d been living there this whole long, cold week.