Royal Babies: Claiming His Secret Royal Heir / Pregnant with a Royal Baby! / Secret Child, Royal Scandal. SUSAN MEIER
Читать онлайн книгу.
hours he had somehow persuaded her that marriage was not only a possibility but a sparkly one.
Enough. She had to halt this before this fairy tale place wove some sort of magic spell around her—before that stupid sparkly bit inside her grew.
* * *
Frederick studied Sunita’s expression as she looked round the dining room. Her eyes skittered over the colourful prints on the white walls, along the simple wooden table, and he could almost hear her brain whirring.
Deepali entered and put their plates in front of them. ‘Prawn rissoles,’ she said, and Sunita inhaled appreciatively.
‘They smell marvellous—and I’m sure they’ll taste just as good.’
The middle-aged woman smiled. ‘I’ll pass on your kind comments to the chef.’
Once she’d gone, Frederick watched as Sunita studied the rissole with more attention than any food warranted, however appetising.
‘This looks great.’ She popped a forkful into her mouth and closed her eyes. ‘Fabulous! The reason why melt-in-the-mouth is a cliché. Cumin, with perhaps a hint of coriander, and...’
But even as she spoke he knew that her thoughts were elsewhere. There was an almost manic quality to her culinary listing, and he interrupted without compunction.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you avoided my earlier question about what you were thinking.’
Her brown eyes watched him with almost a hint of defiance. ‘I was thinking how surreal this situation is—the idea that two people who don’t know each other at all could contemplate marriage. It’s...mad.’
‘That’s why we’re here—to get to know each other.’
‘We can’t pack that into two days—most people take years.’
‘And there is still a fifty per cent divorce rate.’
‘In which case we are definitely doomed.’
‘Not at all. All those people who take years...they try to fall in love, decide they’ve fallen in love, expect love to last. Every action is dictated by love. They heap pressure on the whole institution of marriage and on themselves. Our approach is based on common sense and on us both getting a deal we think is fair. Two days is more than enough time.’
He leant over and poured wine into her glass.
‘In days gone by it would have been the norm. Throughout Lycander history, rulers made alliances—not love matches.’
‘Does posterity say whether they worked?’
‘Some were more successful than others, but every marriage lasted.’
Until Alphonse had arrived and turned statistics and traditions on their heads.
‘For better or worse?’ Sunita sounded sceptical.
‘I see no reason why we couldn’t be one of the better ones—we’d go in without any ridiculous, unrealistic expectations, with an understanding of what each other is looking for.’
‘I don’t even know what your favourite colour is.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I feel it’s the sort of thing one should know before they marry someone.’
‘OK. Blue.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Now will you marry me?’
This pulled a reluctant smile from her, but it came with an attendant shake of her head. ‘What sort of blue? Royal blue, because it’s on the Lycander flag?’
‘Nope. Aquamarine blue.’
‘Because...?’
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
Sunita tipped her head to one side. ‘There usually is.’
‘So what’s your favourite colour?’
‘Red.’
‘Because...?’
‘Because it was my mother’s favourite colour—I like to think it was her way of sticking two fingers up at the world that had branded her a scarlet woman. She always wore something red—her sari would maybe have a red weave, or she’d wear a red flower, or paint her toenails red. And as for her lipstick collection...’
‘You must miss her.’
‘I do. A lot.’ She looked down at her plate and scooped up the last of her rissole. ‘Anyway, why aquamarine blue?’
Reluctance laced his vocal cords—along with a sense of injustice that a question that had seemed so simple on the surface had suddenly become more complex. Get a grip. If this was a hoop Sunita had constructed as a prelude to marriage then he’d jump through it—he’d do the damn hula if necessary.
‘It’s the colour of the Lycander Sea. When life in the palace became too much I’d escape to the beach, watch the sea. It put things into perspective. Sometimes it was so still, so calm, so serene it gave me peace. Occasionally it would be turbulent, and then I guess I’d identify with it. As a child I was pretty sure Neptune lived off the coast of Lycander...’
OK, Frederick, that’s enough. More than he’d intended in fact. But there was something about the way Sunita listened—really listened—that seemed to have affected him.
She watched him now, lips slightly parted, tawny eyes serious, but as if sensing his discomfort she leant back before she spoke.
‘OK, next question. Star sign?’
‘Leo.’
‘Me too.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I really don’t know. We’d need to ask Nanni—she is an avid believer in horoscopes. Though I’m not sure why. I think her parents had her and my grandfather’s horoscopes read to see if they’d be a good match, and the astrologer was confident they were compatible.’
‘Were they?’
‘I don’t think they can have been. From what my mother told me my grandfather was a tyrant and a control freak, whereas Nanni is a kind, gentle woman. But Nanni herself never speaks of her marriage—and never criticises my grandfather. And she still believes in horoscopes.’
‘What about you? Do you believe in horoscopes?’
‘I think there may be something in it, but not enough that you can base your life decisions on them—that’s the easy way out, isn’t it? You can just shrug your shoulders and blame fate if it all goes wrong. It doesn’t work like that—life is about choice.’
‘Yes...’ Bleakness settled on him—his choices had cost Axel his life. ‘But life is also about the consequences of those choices. Consequences you have to live with.’
‘Yes, you do. But in this case Amil’s future is in our hands—he will have to live with the destiny we choose for him. And that is hard. But it’s not only about Amil. It’s about us as well. You and me. That’s why this marriage can’t work.’
Her chin jutted out at an angle of determination.
Frederick frowned—but before he could respond the door opened and Deepali re-entered the room, followed by a young man pushing a trolley.
‘Fish recheado,’ the young man announced. ‘Made with pomfret.’
Deepali’s face shone with pride. ‘This is my son, Ashok—he is the chef here,’ she explained.
‘I thought you might want to know about the dish,’ Ashok said.
‘I’d love to.’
Sunita smiled her trademark smile and Frederick saw Ashok’s appreciation.
‘The pomfret is stuffed with a special