“Mama, I need to go,” I say quickly. “Francesca’s here.”
“All right, sweetheart. Let me speak to your father.”
“I’ve not decided yet,” I reply. “Just… wondering.”
“You don’t need to marry the prince if you don’t want to. This is your decision. Our country has survived for thousands of years. We can survive without you being with someone you don’t want to marry.”
A single tear slips down my cheek. I brush it away quickly, hoping Francesca doesn’t notice.
“Bye, Mama. I love you.”
“I love you too, my darling. Take good care of yourself.”
I hang up the phone and take a steadying breath before turning to Francesca, pasting on a smile that feels far more convincing than it has any right to be.
“Have you seen the papers today, Asti?” She thrusts one of them towards me.
“Thanks, Anya. I’ll see you later?” I say.
“If you’re sure?” Anya’s eyes swivel between Francesca and me as though to ask whether it’s safe for her to leave me alone with this woman.
“I’m sure,” I assure her, and Anya turns to leave, closing the door over behind her.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say to Francesca. “You know you really can’t barge in here scaring my lady’s maid like that.”
“Sorry, but seriously, have you seen what they’re sayingabout you and Fred today? Our parents are having a fit!” She thrusts the paper into my hands.
“I haven’t.” I pull my brows together as my eyes land on the photo splashed across the front page. It’s of me and Fred in one of our engagement photos. “Oh, it’s us.”
“Isn’t it terrible?”
I run my eyes over the image. I’m smiling at the camera, looking happy enough, if not exactly relaxed, and Fred? Well, Fred looks like he sucked on the sourest of lemons, standing so stiffly upright he could be mistaken for a ceremonial pillar rather than a man having his photo taken.
“It’s not exactly a warm photo,” I say.
“Warm? The iceberg that hit the Titanic was warmer than you two in that shot. Read what they’re saying.”
I scan the page. “Will he melt? Or will he freeze her?” I read aloud, my voice caught somewhere between disbelief and mild horror. “Goodness, I’m not sure what to make of this article. Who wrote this? They obviously don’t like the prince very much.”
“It’s because of the photos. Look at them. They’re terrible!”
“There’s more than one?” I open the paper to see more photos of us. They’re all awful, neither of us looking happy. I knew there were four official photos sent to the papers, but I had no hand in selecting them. I’m just the fiancée, and clearly deemed not worthy of such a responsibility.
It would seem in every single one, Fred and I look like two strangers forced to stand next to each other under threat of imprisonment.
“Why didn’t they use any of the nice photos, like one of us kissing?” I ask absentmindedly.
Francesca clasps my forearm and blinks at me. Thenblinks again. “Youkissed?” Her voice comes out in a squeak, like a startled mouse.
My cheeks heat. “We did.”
“During the photos?”
“The photographer suggested we kiss, so we did.” I shrug as if it’s nothing important when in reality, that kiss has etched itself deeply into my memory. I know I don’t have a lot to compare it with, having only experienced a handful of kisses before, and all of those were rather wet and inexpertly executed. Kissing Fred was beyond anything I’d even imagined. His lips were soft and inviting, and when he tightened his hold on my shoulder as though the kiss had affected him, too? I thought my heart might explode.
And then he pulled away and things got awkward once more.
Our first kiss, it would seem, was just another glimpse of a man who keeps himself tightly controlled.
