The Sheikh Takes A Bride. Caroline Cross
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then promptly forgotten once his need to impress others had passed.
Only her grandmother, Queen Lucinda, had ever truly cared for her. But that wonderful lady had passed away five years ago, and her loss had only underscored to Catherine how truly alone she was.
Oh, she had an abundance of suitors, but none of them had ever bothered to get to know the real her, the person beneath the public facade. They were too afraid of making a misstep and losing the chance to win her favor—and with it her money, her connections and, she supposed, her body.
Usually she didn’t care. But every once in a while she caught a glimpse of what her life might have been if she’d been born plain Catherine Rosemere, instead of Her Highness Catherine Elizabeth Augusta. And she would suddenly feel unutterably weary of fawning admirers, frivolous soirees and always feeling alone no matter how big the crowd that surrounded her.
Oh, poor, pitiful princess, said a mocking voice in her head. What a trial to be required to spend time in such a lovely setting, surrounded by the cream of high society. How unfair that you have to wear pretty clothes and listen to a few hours of lovely music and some meaningless chatter. What a tragedy that you’re minus your very own Prince Charming.
One hates to think how you’d stand up to a real problem, like being hungry or homeless. Or wait, how about this—you could be dead, like your father and grandfather, their lives snuffed out in an accident that now appears to have been no accident at all, but rather a deliberate act of murder.
Appalled at the direction her thoughts had taken her, Catherine cut them off. But she was too late to stop the anguish that shuddered through her. Or the guilt that came hard on its heels as she recalled the report by the Connelly family’s investigator concluding that the speedboat involved in the disaster had been sabotaged. A speedboat meant to be manned by her, not her father.
“S’il vous plaît, belle princesse.” The Frenchman stepped closer, demanding her attention. She looked up to find him gazing limpidly at her, looking for all the world like an oversize, tuxedo-clad flounder. “Do say yes to just one dance. Then I can die a happy man.” Practically quivering with anticipation, he pressed his wet mouth to the back of her hand.
The tight rein Catherine had on her emotions snapped. She snatched her hand away, just barely suppressing the urge to scrub it against the delicate chiffon of her midnight-blue dress. “I told you before, Michel, I’m not in the mood. What’s more, I’d appreciate it immensely if you’d hold off expiring for at least the next forty-eight hours. Your absence would throw a decided wrench into the seating arrangement for Monday night’s banquet.”
The young man blinked. Then, as her words sank in, his smile abruptly vanished. “But, of course,” he said, pouting in a way that made him look more fish-like than ever. “A thousand pardons, Highness.” Stiff-backed with affront, he turned on his heel and marched off.
Catherine felt a prick of remorse, but quickly dismissed it. After all, she’d been exceedingly polite to Michel the first three times she’d refused his requests to dance. She could hardly be held responsible that he refused to take no for an answer.
Sighing, she glanced at the miniature face of her diamond-encrusted watch. It was barely half past ten, which meant it would be at least another two hours before she could hope to make an unremarked-upon escape. She wondered a little desperately what she could do to make the time go faster.
She was saved from having to come up with an answer as a small murmur ran through the throng surrounding her. A second later everyone in front of her appeared to take a collective step back, clearing a path for the tall, ebony-haired man who strode toward her with a palpable air of leashed power.
Catherine tensed, the way she always did when she encountered Kaj al bin Russard. Although most of the women she knew found the enigmatic Walburaqui chieftain irresistible, she personally didn’t care for him. Granted, his chiseled features, heavily lashed gray eyes and beautifully accented English had a certain exotic charm, but there was simply something about him—an innate reserve, the assured, almost arrogant way he carried himself, his indisputable masculinity—that she found off-putting.
She watched as he cut a swath through the crowd like some Regency rake from a bygone age, her edginess increasing as she realized his gaze was locked on her face.
He came to a halt and swept her a slight bow. “Your Highness.”
She gathered her composure and inclined her head. “Sheikh.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the chance to tell you in person how sorry I am for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she replied dutifully. “The flowers you sent were lovely.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “It was nothing.” He moved a fraction closer, making her intensely aware of how big he was. “Would you care to dance? The orchestra is about to play a waltz. Strauss’s Opus No. 354, if I’m not mistaken.”
Common sense urged her to simply say no and be done with it. But curiosity, always her curse, got the better of her. “How would you know that?”
“Because I requested it. I believe you once mentioned it was your favorite.”
“I see.” Ridiculously, she felt a stab of disappointment. In the past two months everything had changed: her father was gone; her position as court hostess was coming to an end; her entire future was uncertain. Now here was Kaj al bin Russard, apparently deciding to join her band of admirers. Though she hadn’t liked him before, he’d at least been unique. “How resourceful of you,” she said coolly. “Unfortunately, my favorite has changed.”
“Then this will give you a chance to tell me what has supplanted it.” Without warning he reached out and clasped her right wrist with his long fingers.
His touch gave her a jolt, and for a moment she felt anchored in place by the sheer unexpectedness of it. Then she instinctively tried to pull away, only to find that though he was careful not to hurt her, his grip was as unyielding as a steel manacle.
Her temper flared at the same time her stomach fluttered with unexpected excitement. “Let go of me,” she ordered tersely, mindful of the interested stares suddenly directed their way.
“Oh, I think not.” Matching her clipped tone, he stepped to her side, planted his hand in the small of her back and propelled her toward the dance floor. “It would be a shame to waste such enchanting music. Plus it just so happens—” he swung her around to face him, waited a beat as the orchestra launched into the waltz, then pulled her close and led off “—I’m curious to see how you’ll feel in my arms.”
Catherine couldn’t believe it. Speechless, she stared up at him. She was shocked at having her wishes ignored, shocked by his statement—and more shocked still by the startling discovery that his hand felt deliciously warm against her cool, bare back.
She shivered as his fingers slid lower, unable to stanch her reaction. Only the sight of the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth saved her from making a complete fool of herself by whimpering or doing something else equally mortifying. “How dare you!” she managed instead, finally finding her voice.
“How dare I not, princess.” Never missing a beat, he guided her deeper into the phalanx of whirling dancers. “I could never forgive myself if I let the most beautiful woman in the room remain all alone during her former favorite waltz.”
His outrageous flattery, coupled with the realization that he’d noticed her solitary state, brought her chin up. “Is there some reason you’re toying with me?” she asked abruptly.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered for an endless second. When he finally raised his eyes, they had a lazy, knowing quality that caused an unexpected clenching in the pit of her stomach. “You really must pay more attention. Toying is hardly my style.”
“Just what do you hope to gain from this?” She managed to keep her voice steady, but just barely.
“Surely it’s obvious. The pleasure of your company.”