Her father was the last to stand and quit the room with obvious reluctance. The doors remained open after his hard glance at the footmen. What, did he believe Gideon would ravish his daughter on the breakfast table mere hours before their wedding? It was so much easier to just sneak into her room.
And he would, later. He’d kiss her again, perhaps even try to do more. He ate some toast with a slice of ham, thinking lascivious thoughts about the princess beside him, knowing the King of Carlisle wouldn’t approve.
“Your father’s protective,” he said, breaking the strained silence between them.
She looked up from her lap. “Aren’t all fathers protective?”
“Yours seems especially so. But what do I know? You and I have only just met.”
She stiffened with irritation. Ah, that fascinating dark green sparkle amidst her jet black eyes. She was polished and pretty in the light, like some exotic gem. She was hard like a stone as well.
“We haven’t just met, Your Highness,” she said. “And it made me uncomfortable to lie to our parents about it.”
“Are you too good to tell lies? Too perfect and chaste? You’ll learn that lies are necessary, especially when it comes to marriage.”
“What a grim view of matrimony you have. Your parents seem settled enough.”
“Oh, my parents adore one another, even though theirs was also an arranged marriage.” He slipped a finger over the sensitive skin at the inside of her wrist, under the table, where no one might see. “Perhaps we’ll come to adore one another, princess. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
When she moved her wrist away, he took her hand instead, bringing her fingers to his lips. She withdrew from his embrace as soon as she could, but not before he’d noticed that she bit her nails. In fact, they’d been gnawed nearly to the quick. Perhaps she’d bitten them in terror during her long journey to meet him and become his wife. The thought unsettled him.
“What do you like to do?” he asked. “We must get to know one another. What sorts of things make you happy? Balls and dinners? The Opera? Card parties?”
She almost bit her nails again, before she lowered her hand to her lap. “I’ve never played cards. The sisters wouldn’t allow it.”
“Tedious, were they?”
She gave him a look, but at the end, a small smile broke through. “Yes, they were tedious a great deal of the time.”
“What brings you joy?” he pressed, searching for a way to brighten her mood.
But she was back to her sober, demure self again. “I don’t know, Your Highness.”
“Call me Gideon.”
“I—I don’t know, Gideon. I like to walk outside, among nature. I like music.”
“I love music,” he said. “We have that in common. The minstrels will play for hours at our wedding.”
“Will they?” she asked, as if this were a surprise.
“There’s always music at royal celebrations. Don’t you want to dance with me once we’re wed?”
“I’m not sure.” She looked away, blinking. “My gown will be so heavy and formal, I’ll barely be able to walk.”
“Then I’ll lift you in my arms and carry you through the steps.”
He said this with more lurid suggestion than gallantry. He was a lecherous person, which was probably why his parents were punishing him with this prudish choice of a wife. When Madame Benoit and her entourage of seamstresses, decorators, and haberdashers arrived at the palace, he excused himself from their company, leaving Cassandra to the tedious business of preparing to be a bride.
*** ***
Gideon didn’t glimpse his betrothed for the rest of the day. At noon, he’d ridden to a nearby village to avoid his own fitting, missing luncheon in the process, and the princess didn’t attend dinner because she was too tired.
His parents carried on with preparations as if all was well, and he tried to do so too. As her father said, what did it matter if they knew one another? How much would his life really change? If Gideon had his way, he’d continue on as he always had, as a minimally depraved but generally responsible person. He’d be kind to his wife, even if she irritated him. If she grew too difficult, he’d invite her to live in a beautiful castle he built for her. A small castle, but her own castle. She’d appreciate that, and he’d be happy to do it once she provided a few heirs.
So, Giddy old boy, you’re fantasizing how to get rid of her before you’re even wed?
It wasn’t a great sign of his readiness for marriage, but either way, it was happening in the morning. At ten o’clock, they’d process to the chapel and recite their vows. After a day of busy celebration, they’d retire to their nuptial chamber and...
And then he’d have to do something he’d never had the desire or opportunity to do thus far in his life: bed a virgin. A timorous one at that, convent-raised, possibly uncooperative.
He decided he’d drink a lot at the reception. That was the best solution. Then, if things went sideways, he wouldn’t remember in the morning, and she’d forgive him for any transgressions since he’d been soused out of his wits.
No, that was probably not the best solution.
He thought he ought to talk to her in advance, and tell her to get as soused as she could manage during tomorrow’s festivities. With that in mind, he crept again through the secret passageway to visit her room. When he opened the soundless door, he found her in the dark, a motionless huddle in the center of her satin-draped bed. The fire burned brighter tonight, so he could see her better. She slept on her side, her long, dark hair in a tumble about her face.
She drew in a shuddering breath, and he realized then that she wasn’t sleeping. She was crying into her pillow. Her quiet sobs gave him a sick feeling.
“Princess,” he said. “Must you cry?”
She startled and turned to him. He made a quieting motion.
“Don’t be alarmed. It’s me again.” He made her sit up against the pillows, and planted himself at her side. “Whatever is the matter? Are you overtired? Did they keep you busy all day with primping and wedding preparations?”
“Yes, they did,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “The fitting took hours. Then the hair and the shoes, and the jewels. I had to try on fifty sets of earrings, and…” She tried to stop crying but only succeeded in crying harder. “Now my ears hurt terribly, and I don’t…I don’t… The worst thing is that…”
“What’s the worst thing?”
She hid her face in her hands. “The worst thing is that I don’t even want to get married.” She said it softly, her fingers moving between her eyes and her ears, as if they
both smarted. “I don’t want any of this to happen, but I can’t stop it from happening, so I don’t know what to do, or how to feel.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair to brush it back, so he might investigate her poor earlobes, but she quailed away from him, flinching as if she expected a blow.
“Please, I’m sorry!” Her sad eyes had gone stark and wide. “I shouldn’t have complained. I’m sorry!”
He released her, taken aback, and reached to touch her cheek, to soothe her unneeded terror. But as he reached for her, she flinched again, and the protective instinct within him transformed to anger. Not anger with the princess, but with whoever had instilled this flinching fear in her young, innocent soul.
“Cassandra,” he said, taking pains to keep his voice level. “What makes you think I’ll hurt you?”
She looked at him miserably. He wanted to embrace her, to make her scared expression go away, but if she flinched again he might lose his sanity. Instead he gazed at her, willing her to give some answer, any answer.
“I complained and made you angry,” she finally said in a whispery voice. Her eyes roved over his shoulders, down his arms, across his broad chest and up to his jaw. His clenched jaw. He made an effort to relax it.
“You think I’ll hurt you because I’m angry?”
She spoke in stuttering syllables, looking away. “Men are l-large and rough, and qu-quick of temper. When you reached for me—when you pulled my hair—”
“I didn’t pull your hair. I meant to check on your ears after my mother made you try on all those earrings. Do you think I possess so little control, that a few murmured complaints will send me into a rage of hair-pulling?”
She looked back at him, letting out a breath. “I thought you were angry because I said…I said that I didn’t want to marry you.”
“I’m well aware that you don’t want to marry me. Do you honestly believe I would punish you for that?”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers plucked at the collar of her shift. “I’ve heard people whisper that you are a rakehell, given to debauchery.”