The King's Bride By Arrangement - Annie West Page 0,3

of mind?

Suddenly Ms Villiers’s sex appeal dimmed.

Eva might not care for him much but they understood each other and had grown up with the same values, the same sense of dedication to duty.

He supposed it was remarkable in his case, given the example of his appalling father. Yet maybe it was because of him that Paul had leaned the other way, choosing integrity over dishonesty. Plus, there had been the influence of his mother and tutors, all determined to make him the sort of ruler his father had never been.

Paul realised he was scowling and rearranged his features into a smile. ‘It’s kind of you to invite me. I hope you enjoy yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.’

It took an inordinate amount of time for the ballroom to empty. Finally he was alone with his fiancée.

Eva stood, as still as one of the statues on the wide terrace outside. Only her eyes, an unremarkable smudge of colour between grey and blue, hinted that she wasn’t as sanguine as she appeared.

Paul recalled her surprising hint of concern before the ball and wondered if she’d guessed his discomfort. That would be a first. They’d never been close enough to share secrets or develop a sense of intimacy.

He drew a slow breath. He wasn’t looking forward to this.

‘Do you fancy a nightcap, Eva? It’s been a long evening, but we need to talk.’

Did he imagine that she drew in a sharp breath? Certainly her breasts rose high beneath the shimmery fabric of her royal blue ball gown.

‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

She turned and walked with him, nodding to the members of staff waiting outside the ballroom ready to come in and restore it to its usual pristine splendour. She paused before the chamberlain and the chief housekeeper, congratulating them on the success of the event and the staff’s efforts tonight.

It was the sort of thing Paul usually did. And it proved how easily Eva fitted into his world. On the face of it she made the perfect partner. He had no doubt that she’d support her husband in every way she could, sharing the burdens of royalty with grace and goodwill.

His gaze snagged on the pale shoulder bared by her dress and the sweep of her slender neck up to her neat chin. Standing beside her, he was aware of her suddenly as a desirable woman rather than a life partner in a dynastic marriage neither of them had asked for.

Then she turned, caught him watching, and the remnants of her smile died.

One thing was clear. Eva didn’t desire him. Sometimes he wondered if she even approved of him. Did she think he was tarred with the same brush as his dead father? Bitterness coated Paul’s tongue at the thought of his old man, repugnant in so many ways and still the source of most of Paul’s problems.

But he was being unfair to Eva. His fiancée might be cool and self-contained but she’d never been disapproving or disagreeable. Simply distant.

Paul gestured for her to precede him into the King’s study. It had changed since his father’s day, devoid now of the massive gilded desk and rows of unopened books. In their place was a modern desk, filing cabinets, framed maps of the country and a couple of comfortable lounges, which was where he led her.

‘What will you have?’ he asked as he un-stoppered a single malt.

‘Whisky would be good, thanks. With a touch of soda.’

Paul shot a startled look at his betrothed. ‘Whisky?’ The most he’d ever seen her drink was a glass of wine over dinner.

Eva shrugged and once more his attention was drawn to the expanse of pearly skin left uncovered by the gown that sat off her shoulders. It wasn’t revealing in the way Karen Villiers’s dress had been—blatantly provocative—yet Paul felt a tangled thread of desire snarl in his belly.

Tonight Eva’s air of untouchability was tempered by something else. Something deeply feminine and alluring.

As for untouchable, he recalled the feel of her in his arms, poised and regal, yet disturbingly warm and unquestionably feminine.

Four years of celibacy...

That must be the reason.

Abruptly he turned and poured two whiskies. Large ones.

Dutch courage?

He told himself this would be straightforward. Yet he had to tread carefully so as not to turn a perfectly sensible idea into a diplomatic nightmare.

‘Please,’ he gestured to the leather sofas, ‘have a seat.’

With one last unreadable look his way, Eva subsided in a wave of royal-blue silk. The colour suited her, he decided as he