Chapter Four #2
‘What?’ She lifted a brow. ‘You’ve been putting distance between us for the last two weeks. I’m just taking my cue from you.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Yes, you always are.’ She hadn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, yet Isandro’s expression smoothed in response, becoming very fixed. Carlotta had complained about how he never had time for her, so this wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard it.
‘I suppose you’ve been trawling the news sites and gossip columns,’ he said, his tone neutral. ‘Everything is happening as predicted.’
‘Yes. Everyone thinks I’m either a simple idiot dazzled by your greatness, or a slut who ruined your marriage and slept her way to the top.’
Isandro’s dark blue gaze searched hers. ‘I’m sorry. I did try to make it clear that I was to blame.’
He had. Though, of course, it hadn’t mitigated any of the vitriol.
‘So, you really don’t mind being thought of as manipulative and an abuser of power?’ she asked, curious. They were the same things they’d said about his father, and now he was tarring himself with the same brush.
He turned away, looking down at the empty hearth again, the muscle in the side of his jaw leaping. ‘That will pass eventually.’ His voice was cold. ‘People will forget.’
Something behind her breastbone ached. She knew how much that would hurt him, especially when he’d spent so much time trying to distance himself from Xavier. Yet in the end, it had all been for nothing.
You shouldn’t have stayed. You should have left him years ago.
Yes, but it was too late for regrets now. She’d tried at the end to fix things in her own way, but he hadn’t let her, and now they were both stuck with it.
Still, she couldn’t help but take a couple of steps towards him, wanting to say something, do something to let him know that she understood how difficult this was for him.
But he turned to her suddenly, his gaze chips of hard sapphire, the cold expression on his handsome face stopping her in her tracks. ‘Come,’ he said tersely, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Wren braced herself, the ice in her gut hardening. She would be a diamond, cold and unaffected by anything, least of all him. Yet when she took his hand, letting his fingers thread through hers, she couldn’t stop herself from shivering at the warmth of his skin.
She hoped he didn’t notice, preparing to be led straight out of the door and to the ballroom, but he didn’t move. For a moment he stayed where he was, looking down at her from his great height, and the breath caught in her throat.
He saw that shiver. He knew.
Delicious chills ghosted over her skin. She hadn’t been this close to him since he’d put that engagement ring on her finger, and now all she could think about was the spicy, familiar scent of him. The warmth of his body, so close. The strong, capable hand holding hers.
‘What?’ she asked, her voice sounding breathless in the small room.
He was silent, the intensity of his gaze making her feel as if she couldn’t breathe, as if she was burning with a fever.
What was he doing? Was this a test? A challenge? What?
Then, unexpectedly, he said, ‘It will be okay, little bird. I won’t let them hurt you.’
Little bird. The nickname he used to tease her with.
Wren’s heart gave a loud, painful thump in her ears and her eyes prickled.
The tenderness in his voice nearly undid her.
But that had been responsible for getting her into this mess in the first place, that desperate need to feel wanted and cared for, and she had to be strong against it.
Because Isandro would never give it to her.
So she blinked fiercely, and because she didn’t trust her voice, she only nodded, and finally he led her out of the little room and to the ballroom doors.
The footman announced them, and the doors opened, and the glittering lights and noise and music from the ballroom flooded in.
* * *
Wren’s hand was clammy in his, her fingers cold, so he tightened his grip in reassurance.
Ahead of them was the gathered crowd in the palace’s vast ballroom, heads of state and nobility from different countries, aristocrats and parliamentarians from Valdora.
The prime minister was here, looking down her nose at him, even though he was standing at the top of the ballroom stairs, but he’d expected that.
He was braced for their collective disapproval.
The response to his press release had been expected, too, and he’d let the scandal burn through the media like wildfire. There was no escaping it or containing it, there was only the truth.
Parliament had made their thoughts known about his new queen-to-be and they were not good thoughts. Isandro didn’t care. He didn’t need their approval or their approbation. He was going to marry Wren, and if they didn’t like it, then that was too bad.
This scandal would soon burn itself out and another one would come along, and everyone would soon forget about Wren’s background, and the circumstances around their quick marriage. Especially when the royal heir was born. Everyone liked a new baby.
So now, standing at the top of the stairs, he arrogantly surveyed the guests arrayed before him, letting them know in no uncertain terms that he was the king here. He was the one who made the decisions and the decision to marry Wren was one of them, whether they liked it or not.
The crowd was silent, so he walked down the small set of stairs, Wren’s hand in his, advancing to where the prime minister and some of her cabinet stood.
In such a public scene, they could do nothing but give him their congratulations, which he accepted graciously.
He watched like a hawk as they then gave their congratulations to Wren, on the alert for any slights.
He would not let her be hurt, that was one thing he was very clear on, but also, he wasn’t above using the ball as an opportunity to indulge himself in touching her.
As they passed on to the next crowd of well-wishers, he let go of her hand and rested his instead on her hip, drawing her in close against him. She stiffened, but he didn’t let her go. This was part of the act, as she well knew.
He couldn’t stop thinking, though, about the moment she’d come into the little room, dressed in his favourite colour on her, jewels at her throat and in her hair, glittering like a star.
He’d known then that the idea he’d had at their breakfast two weeks earlier, when she’d insisted on an on-paper-only marriage, he would have to act on and soon.
He wasn’t going to have years of a cold bed, not when the woman he wanted more than his next breath was his own wife.
It was simply ludicrous to think otherwise.
He’d let her have two weeks of distance since that breakfast. Let word of their marriage get out and the furore erupt.
She’d needed space to process all of that, and he’d given it to her.
Part of him had hoped she’d come to him to talk about it, tell him her worries and her fears the way she used to do.
At least let him know personally that the doctor’s check-up had gone well.
But she hadn’t.
Well, he wouldn’t insist. He knew where her weaknesses lay and he was going to exploit each and every one of them, until she was begging to share his bed. Neither of them had wanted this marriage, but he wasn’t going to have a repeat of the one he’d had with Carlotta, not if he could help it.
She had been the only daughter of a noble Valdoran family, and one he’d chosen after he’d ascended the throne on his father’s death.
She’d seemed perfect for him on paper—well educated, with an aristocratic pedigree and a bright, sunny disposition.
Except after the wedding, he’d discovered that her family had been hiding various scandals that she’d been involved in when she’d been a teenager.
He hadn’t held that against her—she was an adult, after all—yet it had soon become clear that the pressures of being a queen had made her fall back into old patterns of behaviour.
Especially after they’d had difficulty conceiving.
He’d tried to be patient, tried not to repeat his father’s awful behaviour towards his mother, but it had seemed that, no matter how patient or otherwise he had been, nothing had helped Carlotta.
It ate at him, made him question himself, made him feel guilty that he’d dragged her into a life that hadn’t been suited to her.
She’d been his responsibility and he’d failed her. He felt that acutely.
But he would not fail with Wren. He would make certain of it.
Wren’s scent wound around him, her soft warmth against his side. He spread his fingers on her hip, relishing the feel of her beneath the silk, satisfied as her stiffness ebbed and she relaxed against him.
Unfortunately, though, her nearness made it difficult to concentrate, and it was only his long years of experience at controlling himself that enabled him to at least look as if he was paying attention to the inanities that came out of people’s mouths.