Page 48 of Pregnant In The King's Palace

‘Yes, I did.’ She put the ring on and took a deep breath and turned to stand and face him, beautiful and elegant in all her fine clothes. He barely recognised her, she was so tightly composed. He’d done this to her. Stripped her of everything she held dear. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else this morning?’

‘No.’ He took her in his arms and felt her sag against him. Such a slight woman for all her wiry strength. ‘You didn’t have to. We’ll get them back for you, and you can—’

‘I can what? Compete? Stay a horsemaster? You know I can’t.’

‘You can if I abdicate.’ He meant it. ‘Marry on Sunday, put Vala on the throne on Monday and walk away. Say the word and I’ll do it. I love you. Quite desperately. You have to know that.’

She buried her face in his neck and clung. ‘I thought the article would send you into a temper.’

‘It did, but not in the way you’re thinking. Thallasia doesn’t deserve you and nor do I, but I plan to spend the rest of my life convincing you I do.’

‘You’re not angry with me about the photo?’

‘I’m extremely angry about the photo.’ He would not lie. ‘But not with you. And seeing as I’m about to try and buy your horses back from your handsome polo player I’d best not turn on him either.’

She pulled back to look him in the eye. ‘They’re not going to stop writing terrible articles about me.’

‘Not for a while, no. But, Angelique, I know they’re rubbish. I know your heart, and it’s mine, and whether I deserve you or not I’m not letting you go. So pick a road and watch me walk it with you.’

He couldn’t stand it when she cried, and she cried long and hard, another waterfall to drench the front of his snow-white shirt. Maybe there was something wrong with him, but he far preferred their emotions out than in. This bedroom—their private places—were not for stoicism or secrets. They were for loving and being loved and letting feelings flow.

Finally, she stepped away and wiped at her eyes and looked at her fingers and hiccoughed a laugh. ‘They always say the mascara is waterproof and it never is.’

The streaks on his shirt seemed to prove her theory correct, as she turned back to the mirror and reached for a tissue and wiped the make-up away. She picked up a mascara tube as if to start all over again, and then met his gaze in the mirror. ‘You really love me enough to walk away from your duty?’

‘It’s breaking you. And, yes.’ If that was what it took to make her whole again, then yes.

She ran her finger over the engagement ring and shook her head as if to object. He’d never seen anything more beautiful than a tear-drenched Angelique Cordova reaching for her inner strength.

‘I’m not broken.’ Her mouth firmed. ‘I’m hormonally challenged because I’m pregnant and I’m coming to terms with a new way forward. That’s all it is. And you don’t need to relinquish your crown in order to prop me up. Not now. Not ever. I’ll learn, we’ll learn, together, and maybe one day we’ll laugh about our mistakes, because you know what?’ She flung the words at him like a challenge.

‘Tell me.’ He played the part she offered him with a keen sense of anticipation.

‘I’m going to be the best Queen Consort your country has ever had.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE KING OF THALLASIA’S wedding day bloomed warm and bright, with a blue sky overhead and the scent of roses, sweet peas, and the faintest hint of jasmine of the night wafting through the air. The press reports were encouraging. There was nothing like a royal wedding to make a nation hope for the best. The modest chapel located deep inside Valentine’s palace walls had been dressed with flowers from the heartlands of Thallasia and the far mountain regions of Spain, and framed the entrance to the place of prayer with splashes of green, soft whites and creams, and deepest crimson.

Valentine fidgeted, and his sister tutted and swiped at his hand to stop him fussing with his cufflinks once again. Vala had taken on the role of groomsman, because if a king was going to break tradition and marry in private why not go all out and have a woman to attend him?

He wanted no other to stand with him, no matter her gender. She was his twin.

The chapel only had room for a dozen or so guests—the seating consisted of one long pew on either side of a central aisle, repeated so as to be only three rows deep. Where to sit three kings, their queens, assorted children, and the immediate family members of the bride had been a problem, but Vala had sorted it, and that result too eschewed tradition. Vala’s husband, daughter and twins in the first pew closest to him. Angelique’s mother with King Theodosius on the other side, with room for Angelique’s father once he delivered her to the altar. Moriana in the pew behind them, glowing with late pregnancy, with Benedict and Carlos alongside her. Queen Consorts Ana of Byzenmaach and Sera of Arun sat across the aisle from them, with Ana’s little girl nearest the aisle for the better view. A couple of kings stood sentry at the rear, one on either side of the door, ready to open it as soon as directed to. Give them something to do other than stand there and look pretty, Vala had said, and she’d got away with it too. Luciana, in her role of bridal attendant, would slip in beside whichever king she chose, after making sure Angelique’s bridal veil and train were just so and following along behind her sister and father on the way to the altar. A simple wedding.

A beautiful day for it.

Prayer candles sat in wall sconces carved from stone a thousand years ago. A single stained-glass window with the picture of a sun in the sky and a castle and verdant farmlands beneath it took the full force of the late afternoon sun, sending scattered light patterns across the walls.

Private. Intimate. Perfect.

So perfectly right, his decision to take this woman as his bride. To serve at his side. To brighten his day and warm his nights. To love beyond measure for as long as he drew breath.

And every last person in the room knew without doubt that his vow to do just that would hold.

He’d loved this woman since they were both eighteen years old, and this time he would love, honour and cherish her.

There was no music to announce the arrival of the bride. The music would come later, when they had their first dance as man and wife and then everyone gathered around a perfectly informal round table for a wedding feast prepared by the mother of the bride. The most glorious cooking smells had assaulted his senses every time he’d drifted past the kitchen that morning.

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