Chapter Nine
The next day Wren reflected on the wisdom of her suggestion that Isandro meet her every night, especially when the night before hadn’t exactly gone to plan.
First she’d tried to resist him physically and had been unable to, then she’d tried to show him what it meant to be touched by someone who loved you. He’d liked that, it had been obvious, but she wasn’t sure if he’d truly understood.
Telling him about her mother and her grandparents afterwards then confessing all her secret fears had been a mistake.
She’d revealed far too much of her heart, too much of herself, but then, surprising her, he’d been reassuring, telling her that she was the best person he knew.
That had warmed her right through, though then she’d ruined it all by asking him some blunt questions that her heart already knew the answers to.
He hadn’t married her for herself. He’d married her for the baby.
It was her own fault that she’d been hurt by that.
She shouldn’t have asked him, not if she hadn’t wanted to hear the truth.
Perhaps she’d been wrong to hope that underneath all his protestations he was a man who could love and love deeply.
He certainly had the ability to care, but that wasn’t the same thing as love.
He’d told her, though, that even if this marriage was a necessity, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be happy. And maybe he was right. He wasn’t actively hurting her, after all. He just didn’t love her the way she loved him.
Halfway through the day, she received a note from one of Isandro’s aides, asking her if they could meet in the Great Hall instead of in her library. It puzzled her, since the Great Hall wasn’t exactly private, but it did seem to indicate that this time sex wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.
She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to deal with the next hour.
Was there any point talking about this? When he didn’t seem to understand what she wanted?
For an intelligent man, he was surprisingly obtuse.
Then again, given his lonely and isolated upbringing, was there any reason for him to understand?
Wren dressed that evening without thinking too much about it, loose blue lounge pants and a pale sweatshirt, so she felt instantly out of place when she arrived in the Great Hall to find Isandro waiting for her wearing one of his immaculate handmade suits in dove grey.
‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘Have you come from a meeting?’
His gaze met hers. ‘No. I thought we’d go out tonight.’
Wren blinked at him. ‘Out?’
‘Yes.’
‘But…where?’
He gave her one of his beautiful smiles. ‘It’s a surprise.’
For some reason that flustered her. ‘But I’m not wearing—’
‘You’re perfect,’ he interrupted. ‘Come. The car is waiting.’
Wren hadn’t been outside the palace for weeks. Even after their engagement ball she hadn’t wanted to leave the safety of its walls. Media attention had been and was still intense, and she hadn’t wanted to deal with it.
But she hadn’t realised how claustrophobic that had made her feel until now, as she sat in the car beside Isandro, the city streets passing by outside her window. She tried to guess where they were going, but couldn’t. At least not until they drew up outside the Valdoran Museum.
She blinked, gazing at the beautiful old building with the iron railings and its many windows, then turned to Isandro. ‘Here?’
His inky gaze was direct. ‘Yes. I had the place open tonight especially for us.’
A small dart of pleasure went through her.
She’d always loved the Valdoran Museum, because she loved the centuries of Valdoran history.
When she’d first arrived in the city, the museum had been the place where she’d spent the most time, mostly learning about the country she’d come to work in.
It also contained an art gallery, and she’d loved that too.
‘Is this…for me?’ she asked him, a little unsure still.
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I know you like this place and I thought it would be something you’d enjoy.’
Warmth unfolded in her chest, and although her automatic reaction was to hide it, pretend she didn’t feel it, she didn’t. This time she smiled back. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy it very much.’
They should have spent the hour talking, but Wren was too busy wandering around the exhibits.
While they were all familiar to her, she’d never been in the museum with him, and he was a wonderful companion because he knew a lot about his country’s history and apparently didn’t mind her asking a hundred million questions.
In the wing that housed the history of the Valdoran kings and queens, Wren paused before a case containing the medieval armour one of the Valdoran kings had worn into battle.
‘Lucky you don’t have to wear that,’ she said.
‘No.’ Isandro stood beside her, studying the suit of armour. ‘I don’t think it would fit.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ she agreed. ‘Seems the royal family has increased in height since medieval times.’ She glanced at him, tall and powerful, and so utterly beautiful. She could actually imagine him in armour, out on the battlefield, swinging a sword.
Obviously sensing her gaze, he glanced down at her and smiled. ‘It might fit you. I think you’d carry it off very well.’
The warmth that had been sitting in her chest spread, making everything inside her feel as if she was glowing.
She was happy, she realised. Happy standing in this museum, looking at things she liked, and talking with the man she loved.
Perhaps he was right about them being able to find happiness, despite everything.
‘What made you think of this?’ she asked impulsively. ‘I mean going out, going here.’
‘You talked a lot about the museum and how you were interested in history,’ he said. ‘And I know you haven’t been out of the palace since you arrived, so I thought an outing was in order, to a place you like going to.’
He’d been thinking of her. He’d been thinking about what she liked, remembering their conversations, and had organised this for her enjoyment. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So my feelings matter to you after all?’
His features tightened slightly, though she hadn’t meant the question to sound sarcastic or accusing, and he glanced back at the suit of armour behind the glass.
‘I want to do better, Wren,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I failed Carlotta, and that’s my fault entirely, but I very much do not want to fail you. ’
She stared at his strong profile, the straight jut of his nose, his high cheekbones, his hard, carved mouth.
Of course, he’d think he was to blame for his wife’s unhappiness.
He was a king, he took responsibility for everything and everyone.
But he was also a man, and there were only so many burdens a man could bear.
‘You didn’t fail Carlotta,’ she said. ‘Some of her decisions were all her own.’
‘But would she have made them if she’d been happy? If I’d made her happy? I don’t think she would.’ He turned and moved on to the next exhibit, a five-hundred-year-old broadsword.
Wren stared after him. I want to do better. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
He wanted to do better than his father, she’d always known that, but not that he wanted to do everything better. Which meant that, in some ways, he thought he wasn’t doing as well as he should.
‘Does that mean everything, Isandro?’ she asked, going over to stand next to him. ‘You want to do better at everything?’
He put his hands behind his back, clasping them, his attention on the sword.
‘Yes.’ There was nothing but his iron will in the word.
‘I want to be a better king than my father was, and I think I’ve mostly achieved that, though there are always more things to be done.
I need to do better as a husband too.’ He glanced at her again, that same iron will shining in his eyes. ‘And I will.’
She stared back. ‘Not everything is your responsibility. You understand that, don’t you?’
His black brows drew together. ‘Everything that relates to me is my responsibility, surely?’
‘And I’m a responsibility?’ she asked, unable to help herself even though she already knew the answer.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As my wife, my queen and the mother of my child, you most certainly are.’
‘Therefore, it’s your responsibility to make me happy?’
His frown deepened. ‘Yes. Why are you asking these questions, Wren?’
‘Because it’s the hour I requested from you—we’re supposed to talk about this stuff.
’ She took a breath. ‘I don’t want to be your responsibility, Isandro.
I don’t want to be another burden you have to carry.
My grandparents made no secret of the fact that I was a burden to them, and I certainly was to my mother, and I’m tired of feeling that way. ’
‘Of course, you’re not a burden I have to carry.’ His voice was impossible to read as he turned and moved on to the next exhibit. This time it was a king’s coronation mantle from the Renaissance period. It glittered with cloth of gold, trimmed in ermine, and embroidered in gold and silver thread.
‘Yes, I am,’ she insisted, following him. ‘You just said my happiness was your responsibility.’
He swung round abruptly, a glitter of irritation in his dark blue eyes. ‘Where are you going with this?’
‘I told you. My grandparents resented having to look after me, and for my mother I got in the way of her grand romance. I was a responsibility she didn’t want and I basically ruined her life for five years.’ She swallowed. ‘Can you see how I might not want to be that for you?’
‘Yes, but it hasn’t been five years yet.’
‘It was six with Carlotta,’ she said, unable to help herself.
His expression darkened. ‘That was different.’
‘How?’
‘Carlotta didn’t love me,’ he said tersely. ‘But you do.’
‘So? You have to work at being a better husband to me than you were for Carlotta? Because of my feelings?’