The King's Bride By Arrangement - Annie West Page 0,52
gave way when she reached the wide bed. Her fingers bit into the crimson velvet of the box as she subsided onto the mattress.
Her thoughts were a whirling mess that matched a stomach unsettled by nerves. All day she’d been on edge, worried but telling herself not to be.
It had been difficult to concentrate on her role as hostess as a voice of doubt kept nagging at her.
Then, just as she’d thought she could escape to the solitude of her suite, Paul had waylaid her. She should have forestalled him, pleaded tiredness straight away, but she’d been either too light-headed to think of it or too weak to resist the temptation of a little time alone with him.
She feared it was the latter. Though she knew it was bad for her, that this need for his company was something she had to wean herself off. The desire to make the most of their last weeks together was too strong.
Slowly she unlatched the lid of the antique box and lifted it. Instantly the room seemed brighter. It was a classically elegant piece, a master jeweller’s work from over a century ago.
Fashioned from platinum, it was set with stones of graduating size, the largest at the front angling down to smaller, yet still magnificent emerald-cut stones on either side. The gems were aquamarines, a pure, clear pale blue, set in a delicate frame of looping diamonds that sparkled brilliantly.
Even she, brought up seeing and wearing heirloom gems regularly, had rarely seen a piece so exquisite.
And Paul thinks it could have been made especially for me.
Her heart pounded an out-of-kilter beat and something behind her ribs caught.
He’s exaggerating.
But part of her wanted to believe it was true. That he found her attractive. That he believed she shone as brightly as these amazing stones.
Had he known she’d be wearing silver next week? That this would be the perfect match to the gown being designed for her?
No, it was a lucky chance. That was all.
Yet part of her, a tiny superstitious part she didn’t know, felt she was fated to wear this.
As if!
Reluctantly she closed the lid, cutting off the blinding brilliance, groping for sanity, perspective.
He just wants you to look good at his birthday ball. It’s nothing personal.
But it had felt personal. Sounded it.
In her head Eva replayed his voice, deeper than usual and carving a groove of longing through her stupid heart, asking her to wear it for him.
The way he’d looked at her.
Even through her stress and tiredness, she’d seen that look and felt herself tremble in anticipation.
Or was she reading too much into a glance and a simple act of kindness? He was lending her a tiara so she’d look the part of his fiancée at a significant event.
One she hadn’t originally been invited to because he’d planned to end their engagement.
That severed her wayward imaginings.
Paul was making the best of a difficult situation.
He had no idea how much more difficult her continued presence was making things. Only today, at a visit to an embroiderers’ guild, she’d been asked if they might have the honour of working on her wedding dress.
Within the last two weeks she’d fielded similar requests from lace makers and from the designer responsible for tonight’s fabulous dress.
Each time she was asked, Eva felt sicker in the stomach. Because she was living a lie and now others were investing in it, building their hopes on it. Eagerly awaiting the wedding.
She’d been stunned by the alacrity with which most St Ancillans had welcomed her. There’d been a few who’d looked askance, as if doubting her suitability as a consort for their King. And still there’d been a few sensational articles about her, works of total fiction. But she didn’t let those bother her.
No, what bothered her was the feeling that she was sinking deeper and deeper into this mire of make-believe. That with every passing day it would be harder to break free.
Because she wanted to be what everyone believed her to be—Paul’s intended bride.
And then there was the other worry. The one that had haunted her since last night when she’d realised she’d been in St Ancilla a whole month.
The possibility, faint but disturbing, that she might be pregnant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS LATE and Eva had already danced with a who’s who of dignitaries. She’d chatted with ambassadors and made small talk with a host of St Ancillans, some of whom were familiar to her now. There was an air of jubilation and good will, as if this celebration