Page 99

Because like it or not, she had duties now. That came with her blood and her place in the line of succession. She’d known since she was small that should something happen to Vesuvius, she would have to step in. It was a fact that affected her as emotionally as the fact of the sky did above her. It was there. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Though she had never expected that she would be called upon to actually take on this role. Her brother had been like part of the firmament to her.

Him abdicating was unreal enough. Him gone?

It made no sense—but she couldn’t indulge her feelings on that anymore. She couldn’t allow herself to start crying again. It was too tempting to keep going and never stop.

Some would say that her entire life had been a dress rehearsal for how she needed to behave today—how she needed to present herself and the image she needed to convey. Cesca herself would not have been one of the people who said that, because she’d always felt that she deserved to live a full life all her own.

But that didn’t change the fact that she had not been raised in a lovely, terraced house in England somewhere, with a jolly hockey stick sort of mother and a charmingly avuncular father, who would expect nothing from their children except that they find lives to be content with. Then perhaps provide them with grandchildren to romp about little thatched English villages with in their dotage.

Not that Cesca knew anyone with that life. Yet in her head, she had always imagined it. It was a fantasy cobbled together from too many British television shows and old books, she rather thought. The perfect little family who mattered greatly to each other, but who were not expected to turn up on any sort of stage for any reason, unless they were going to one of those bizarre pantomimes the British seemed to love so much.

The British might love their puppet shows, but Cesca had been raised by a King and a Queen consort who had made it clear to their children that despite the fairy-tale palace, the gilt edges, and the chariots and the public appearances, they were little more than puppets themselves. And the roles they played always came first.

Especially when it hurt.

When Cesca had told her mother how hurt she was by that photo being released, the Queen Mother had held her, kissed her on the forehead, and then had told her that she had learned a valuable lesson.

You will never have the privacy you want, her mother had said, not cruelly, but firmly. What you will have is a life you can live as you like as long as you understand the boundaries and how willing others always are to cross them. There is freedom in knowing what you cannot change, Cesca. It is up to you to find it.

Cesca wrapped her hair in her favorite microfiber towel to get the moisture out, then wrapped the rest of her in a big, fluffy robe that felt as close to a hug as she was likely to get today. She padded out of the bathroom suite into her bedroom, aware that her eyes were a little too tender, but she was smiling anyway. Just the slightest bit.

Because she hadn’t really known until today how seriously she took her duty as spare. She’d grown up with other royals who had always fretted about their role, acting as if being second in line for a throne was some kind of deep emotional hardship.

Cesca had never minded that part at all. Which was probably a good thing, because it turned out that today was a lot harder than all of those living-in-a-shadow years put together.

But then, she had loved her parents. She had always loved her kingdom. And she had adored her brother, so she knew that he would have wanted her to bloom in this role. He would have demanded that she do so, come to that.

And that meant that blooming was exactly what she was going to do, so bright and vibrant that it might blind all of Europe.

Even if she did have to marry the reigning master of tedium to do it.

She told herself it was fine. She’d had her fun. And a lot of it. She could comfort herself with that, she was sure—

When the doors in the wall of her bedroom that she’d long since forgotten were slammed open, she jumped.

And the last thing in the world she expected to see was Saviero himself, standing there in the dramatically revealed archway that connected her bedroom to the one across the way that had always stood empty.

It took her a shockingly long moment to put together that he, of course, would be moving into the family wing today. He likely already had. And it would make sense for all kinds of reasons, chief among them public perception, that he take the rooms that connected to hers. And Saviero was nothing if not distressingly and insistently sensible.

It all made sense, but what she couldn’t understand was how she’d spent all these moments strung together since the moment he’d tugged her out of that club until now not putting it together that marrying Saviero meant that sooner or later, she would be sharing a bed with him, too.

For some reason—something that couldn’t have anything to do with that thunderstruck look on his face, or the fact of him, so big and blue-eyed and beautiful right here, already in her bedroom—she felt herself flush a deep, hot red.

So red and so feverishly warm that she was sure it showed all over. How could it not?

And the only thing worse than feeling flushed and hot at the sight of Saviero Cimarosa was him watching her reaction.

But before she could open her mouth and come up with some kind of offensive tactic to distract him from it, he charged toward her.

Her only thought was she’d never seen such passion in this man in her life. It made her heart seem to seize inside her chest.

He came toward her and he was brandishing a mobile phone in one hand, which made no sense to her. And then his other hand was on her shoulder, gripping it. Pulling her toward him.

Like he was not as in control as he usually was.

That made her stomach flip.