Marrying His Majesty. Marion Lennox
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gown making her look almost ethereal. He was forcing himself to smile at her as the congregation were clearly expecting him to do—but something inside him was twisting. Hurting.
‘Why the hell wouldn’t it work?’ he growled.
‘The islanders hated the idea of another Mia,’ Nikos whispered. ‘But you just need to look at Lily to see she’s not like her sister. Mia had twelve bridesmaids. Mia had so much bling you couldn’t see her for glitter. Lily’s different. Simple and lovely.’
Simple and lovely… They weren’t words Alex would have thought appropriate for a royal bride.
But they were right.
Lily was not doing this for money. His cheque remained in its pieces—or maybe it had been burned long since—and it had never been replaced. She’d even tried to refuse the allowance his lawyers had written into the pre-nuptial contracts should they ever divorce. ‘You can pay for Michales’s upbringing and nothing else,’ she’d said.
This wedding… this marriage… it seemed she was doing this for Sappheiros. She wanted nothing from it.
He didn’t believe it yet. He couldn’t. The anger and disbelief he’d held ever since he’d learned of Michales’s true parentage still simmered.
Do this and get it over with.
She’d almost reached him. He smiled and she smiled back, but he knew her smile was as forced as his.
This wasn’t the smile he knew from a year ago. This wasn’t the Lily he’d made love to. This was a stranger, a woman coerced.
He had an almost irresistible impulse to take her hand and walk out, right there and then. Before this mock marriage could take place. Not because he didn’t want it. But because… it felt intrinsically wrong.
She’d agreed to this marriage for all the wrong reasons.
He took her hand and it was icy. Unresponsive.
She looked trapped.
She’d trapped herself by bearing his child, he thought grimly. By agreeing to Mia and Giorgos’s great lie.
Forget it, he told himself harshly. Forget the lie. Concentrate on now. Concentrate on the need to be married.
So be it.
Her smile had faded as she’d realised he’d only been smiling for the sake of their audience. He watched a fleeting shadow of something… hurt?… pass over her face.
Why should she be hurt?
This was a formal ceremony and they had to get on.
‘Why not ask Father Antonio to marry you?’ Nikos had asked, and he hadn’t answered. But he knew the answer.
When—if!—he married for real he’d be married by Father Antonio.
This was a royal marriage of convenience. Nothing more.
Lily’s hand stayed in his. They faced the Archbishop together.
‘We are gathered together to join this man and this woman… ’
The formal reception was attended by every person of significance from the Diamond Isles and beyond. In the vast marquee erected in the palace grounds, on the headland overlooking Sappheiros Bay, there were speeches, speeches and more speeches.
This wasn’t the simple celebration of a wedding. This was the celebration of three nations finding independence and hope. The islanders’ joy had little to do with Lily and Alex.
Lily may have provided this outcome but the consensus among the crowd, the media and by the islanders in general, was that she’d done very well for herself. Where was the need for sympathy?
Or even… civility?
As the day wore on Alex was congratulated by islander after islander, but the eyes that watched his bride were guarded.
She was Mia’s sister, and Mia was hated. Like Mia, Lily was suspected as being a woman who’d conned her way into being a part of the royal dynasty.
Alex could do little to protect her. The slurs weren’t overt. They were subtle looks, subtle congratulations with the islanders looking only at him, refusing to meet Lily’s gaze as hands were shaken.
But, he had to admit, despite the slurs, despite the guarded looks, she was behaving… beautifully. She was a lovely bride—serene and almost breathtakingly lovely. But she was so quiet. He’d pulled her veil back from her face for the obligatory kiss-the-bride, but she hadn’t responded as he’d done so and he had the feeling that her veil was down again, metaphorically if not literally.
She hardly spoke through the formal luncheon and the formal reception. She responded civilly to those who spoke to her but her responses were muted.
He’d catch her glance straying over and over to Eleni, who was holding Michales.
She wanted her baby back and her look said she wanted more. She wanted her life back?
The civilities had to be borne—he could no sooner escape than she could. But as the afternoon stretched towards evening he decided enough. A band had started playing and a dance floor was laid across the lawns. The festivities would continue into the small hours. But…
‘You want to escape?’ he asked and saw a flare of hope, unable to be disguised.
‘Can we?’
‘This party will go on without us. I have a place on the other side of the island.’ He’d thought of this yesterday when Nikos had asked about honeymoon plans. They had to be seen as doing something—but this was no time to be away from the island.
He hadn’t wanted to take Lily to his own home but unless they stayed in the palace here there was little choice. And the thought of staying in the palace—obligatory appearance on the balcony—prince kisses bride—left him cold.
‘A place?’ she asked.
‘A house. We can be private there.’
‘What, for a honeymoon?’ It was said wryly. She’d schooled herself to do this, he thought. Maybe if he insisted on his conjugal rights she’d submit as well. To outward appearance she looked beautiful and serene and untroubled. Maybe even submissive?
Maybe submissive was the wrong word. It was definitely the wrong word if this was the Lily he’d met little more than a year ago.
But how well did he know her? Not well, but enough to guess that behind the serenity was quiet desperation.
‘We’re expected to go away for a bit. I can’t go far, but I have a house on the north end of the island.’
‘So… you and me and how many servants?’
‘Just you and me.’ Then, as he saw another fear flare, ‘And Michales,’ he added swiftly.
Her relief was immediate and obvious. ‘I can take him?’
‘Of course.’
She closed her eyes and he thought she was trying desperately to disguise what she was thinking. How fearfully out of control she felt?
It didn’t make sense. Was she afraid of him? Afraid of the royalty bit? Surely not. She was Mia’s sister.
‘We can go now?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
THEY were to depart in a bridal coach. A gold-painted barouche with the Sappheiros coat of arms emblazoned on the panels, with white leather upholstery and white satin cushions—something straight out of Cinderella.
It