Modern Romance March 2020 Books 5-8

CHAPTER SEVEN

WITH A GESTURE of reluctant refusal Ellie pushed back the plate of exquisite hand-made liqueur chocolate truffles Leon was proffering.

‘I couldn’t eat even one more!’ She gave a mock groan.

‘We’ll save the rest for tomorrow.’ Leon smiled.

Dinner had been provided by staff who’d arrived at the cottage and then left again once the main course had been served. Ellie had made the kind of anodyne conversation with Leon that strangers could overhear, but once they’d gone she’d become conscious of a different kind of constraint—that of being with Leon on her own.

She was grateful, therefore, that he had continued with the same mild and genial air he’d adopted since they’d left their wedding, telling her about the cottage and its original Victorian owner, of his enthusiasm for wildfowl. That had led to wildlife in general, and then they had moved on to her stepfather’s work, with Leon drawing her out about her experiences travelling with him and her mother on filming expeditions.

Ellie had felt herself relaxing more, regaling him with anecdotes about her adventurous travels in remote locations, where physical comforts had been scarce, and that had taken them through the rest of the meal.

Now, after pushing away the plate of truffles, she finished a particularly hair-raising account of privation and Leon frowned.

‘Your mother couldn’t have a more different lifestyle now than the one she had with your father—a royal palace versus roughing it in the middle of nowhere!’

Ellie laughed. ‘She never could stand all the palace protocol and ceremony! It was bad enough being the Crown Princess, but being Grand Duchess never suited her—it was good that she found the courage to leave a marriage she felt she’d been pressured into by her parents’ ambitions for her. They were dazzled by her royal suitor. It never worked for either of them. She’s so much happier with Malcolm. And I know my father is so happier with my stepmother. My parents were right to part. No one should stay in an unhappy marriage.’

She saw Leon’s face tighten. Had it been tactless to talk about marriages ending when theirs had only just begun? However unlike a normal marriage theirs was?

But his words dispelled any noting that he’d been thinking about their own marriage.

‘But what if the wish to part isn’t mutual?’ he said. ‘If it suits only one of the parties?’

There was a harshness in his voice that made Ellie speak carefully. ‘That’s…difficult,’ she allowed.

‘Difficult…?’ he echoed, as if the word were a derisory understatement.

She looked at him, concern in her eyes. ‘That sounds personal,’ she said carefully.

Dark eyes flashed across the table at her. His words were stark when he spoke. ‘My father walked out on my mother at the height of the economic collapse in Greece. We’d gone from affluence to poverty. He was a well-paid civil servant, suddenly sacked when the government ran out of money to pay him. He didn’t like it—and so he took off with another woman who had money stashed abroad. Left my mother and me to fend for ourselves.’

‘Oh, Leon, I’m so sorry!’

Instinctively she reached her hand out to his, but he’d seized up his cognac glass and taken a heavy mouthful, as if he needed it. As he set it down she saw his features lighten again, as if he were making a deliberate effort. Blanking the past.

He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet. ‘Shall we get some fresh air?’ she heard him ask, and his tone of voice was deliberately lighter.

It was understandable that he wanted to change the subject, for who would want to dwell on such painful memories? So Ellie followed him out on to the deck, to lean, like him, against the wooden railing, gazing out over the dark surface of the lake.

The country air was fresh, and sweet, after so many weeks in London, and she gave a sigh of pleasure. She felt a wash of sympathy for him—for his blighted youth, his plunge into sudden poverty, his father’s desertion.

How little I know about him—about the man he is.

But then, how could she know more? Theirs was an artificial marriage—they were still strangers essentially.

Yet as he glanced down at her now there was a familiarity about the way he was smiling at her. A growing sense of ease between them.

‘It’s good, isn’t it, this place?’ Leon said, indicating with a nod the quiet, dim vista around them.

The night was cloudy, with a faint mild breeze ruffling the waters of the lake quietly lapping below the deck. Another owl hooted softly, adding to the peaceful atmosphere.

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding in slow agreement, ‘it’s good.’

She looked up at him. Returned his smile. But as she did so she saw, even in the low light, his expression change. Become…searching. And as it changed she felt something change within herself, felt a sudden consciousness of the two of them, standing out here, all on their own, far from anywhere and anyone else, with the whole world, or so it seemed, to themselves.

It seemed a very private moment. Very…intimate.

She felt her breath tighten in her lungs, wanted to look away, suddenly supremely conscious of his presence at her side. A tendril of hair fluttered at her cheek in the faint breeze, the air soft on her face. Her senses seemed heightened, the pulse at her throat tangible. Out of nowhere came the memory of that first waltz at their betrothal ball…of the kiss that had ended it. She felt the memory bring its sweetness again…

At the back of her mind she felt the thought she did not wish to think stir once more, seeking admittance. She held it back, held it at bay. Instead she gave herself to what she wanted to do, what she always wanted to do…what she had wanted to do from the very first.

She gazed up at his face, drinking him in, watching those dark, heavy-lidded eyes that were looking down at her in return, half veiled by those long, inky lashes.

Once before he had looked into her eyes like that… As the music of the waltz had ended and his hands had cupped her face, tilting it to his…

They did it again now.

His touch was cool as he cradled her cheeks, his fingertips drifting over the delicate lobes of her ears, teasing at the wafting tendrils of her hair. His face bent to hers, lips catching hers. She felt weakness drum through her…felt her eyelids flutter shut. Felt his mouth—his skilled, silken mouth—move on hers slowly, softly, sensuously.

She opened her mouth to his…

She felt her pulse surge, her lips part under his, her pliant body leaning into him as if her body were taking control of her, yielding to its own impulses, its own needs, its own demands. As his kiss deepened she felt the arousal of her quickened senses, her hands slipping to his chest, feeling the strong, hard wall of muscle beneath her splaying fingers.

Her body quickened, blood surging in her veins, and a flame caught fire within her that was not of her conscious being. It came from a place far, far deeper inside her—a hunger that had come from nowhere, possessing her…

Her mouth clung to his and a low moan broke from her throat. The sense of being possessed by more than she was seared within her. Her kiss deepened, feeding the hunger that had leapt within her. A hunger for him…for Leon…for his mouth, his body…

And it was a hunger he shared, for now his hands were sliding down to her shoulders, around her waist, fastening over her hips, moving lower still…

The hunger leapt inside her again, possessing her, and she felt her breasts engorge and flower. Another low moan broke from her throat and her body pressed itself against his, seeking more…so much more…

There was nothing else in all the world except this…now…and nothing mattered except this…now…as their mouths moved together, seeking, finding…

With a sudden rasping breath he hauled her close against him, his kisses devouring her. They were hip to hip, their bodies melding together, moulding together…

And his body was reacting to that closeness.

With a shocked gasp she pulled away, rearing back from him even though his hands still anchored her at her hips. She stared at him, eyes distended, lips still bee-stung from his. Her heart was pounding. Dear God, what had she done? To go from that soft, sensuous kiss to…to…

Her mind sheered away and her body did, too. Now she was pulling herself free from him, clutching at the wooden railings, head bowed, fighting for composure…

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Leon spoke behind her, concern in his voice—and alarm. She could hear his breathing, heavier than it had been during conversation, and knew hers was just as hectic. Her heart was still hammering as if she’d run a race. As if she’d been swept away on a flood tide that she had never before experienced. Had never before known the power of.

But she knew it now.

‘Tell me! Tell me what is wrong!’

Leon’s voice came again, still filled with concern and alarm.

‘Leon—I…’ She tried to speak, but could not. Tried to look at him, but could not.

Her head dropped again, shoulders hunched. Heat flushing through her. And dismay. Dismay that she had allowed what she should never have allowed to overwhelm her as it had!

Her grip on the railings spasmed.

I should have faced it sooner—not hidden it away, out of sight, while I was burying myself in all those wedding preparations, blanking it. And now…

She started. Leon’s large, square hand had lowered over hers, lifting her fingers free of the rail. Gently but inexorably. She felt his presence behind her. He was turning her now, towards him, leading her away from the balustrade, lowering her down upon a wide rattan settee on legs that were suddenly too weak to hold her. Sitting down beside her.

‘Tell me,’ he said quietly. He did not let go of her hand. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

Her eyes flew to his. Then dropped away again. And still she could not speak. Her skin was burning…her lungs were bereft of air.

‘Elizsaveta, look at me.’

Uncertainly, she lifted her eyes to him as he spoke again. His voice was quiet still, but filled with an intensity that accentuated his slight accent.

‘Have I confused you?’ he asked.

His gaze was searching hers in the dim light. Only the lamplight from the sitting room behind them spilled out onto the deck.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, and there was a rueful tone in his voice as he spoke again. ‘I have been a very…inattentive fiancé, I know—but there was a purpose to it. Yes, I had to settle my business affairs—but there was another reason, too. I could not trust myself to be with you too much. Do you not know why that was?’

He paused, and now his gaze on her was not rueful, nor the tone of his voice.

‘Did you really think I was marrying you only for your royal blood?’ he was saying now, in that same quiet voice, with the warmth of his hand over hers, stilling the trembling of her limbs. ‘Did you really think there was no other reason?’ And now there was something else in his voice—an edge, and yet it was an edge softened by wryness.

He paused, and she could feel his thumb brush across the back of her hand with a slow, sensuous touch that seemed to be both calming her and soothing her jangled nerves.

His eyes held hers, their expression changing, and in the stricken veins of her body she felt her pulse quicken…like a ghost of what it had been before she’d torn herself away from him.

‘Did I not show you with every look I gave you?’ His voice was husky, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Show you when I kissed you at our betrothal ball…?’

She felt colour flush into her cheeks and knew he could see it, even in this dim light.

He was speaking again, in the same husky voice, and the slow brush of his thumb on her hand was still soft and sensuous. ‘And when I kissed you then do you think I could not tell how you felt about me in return? And when I kissed you just now do you think I could not tell how the same flame you light in me every time you look at me, caught fire in you as well?’ The husk in his voice was yet more pronounced. ‘And do you think,’ he finished, ‘I would have married you if I did not desire you—if I did not know that same flame burned in both of us?’

He paused, giving a wry half-smile that tugged at his mouth. She gazed at him, wishing with all her being that she had not tried to shut out what had been in her head all along, what she had pushed down and back and out of sight and thought. Now it was here—standing foursquare between them.

Leon was speaking again, still with that quiet, reassuring warmth in his voice, yet there was an underlying timbre to it that plucked at her senses.

‘We are married, yes, and for reasons we have both been honest about. And that is good—never think otherwise.’ The slightest edge crept into his voice. ‘But we can be honest, too, about the flame that burns between us! That, too, is good and honest and true. And why should we not yield to that flame? We are consenting adults, my most beautiful and alluring bride…’ His voice had a wry humour in it now. ‘So why should we not consent to what we both clearly wish to do?’

She felt him turn her hand in his, lift it to his mouth. He moved his lips across it slowly, sensuously…arousingly…and she felt the flame that his kiss had fired in her flicker in her senses.

‘Why should we not consent?’ he said again, turning over her hand so that his mouth was moving on her open palm, her delicate, sensitive wrist…

Her blood started to beat up inside her again, her breathing quickening. But it was a breath she must use for a different purpose. To speak—to tell. Before his caresses turned her mind to mush and that urgent hunger leapt in her body again…that hunger she had never known before.

‘Because…’ Her voice was low, barely audible, and her eyes were barely able to meet his, even in the dim of the night. ‘Because I have never—’

His mouth lifted from her wrist and she drew her hand from his slackened grip. He stared at her, not understanding. She had to make him understand. Had to…

‘I never have, Leon,’ she said, her voice lower still, though she forced it to be steady.

She dropped her eyes again, unable to look at him. Her hands twisted in her lap. Her stomach clenched and her whole body was tense, suddenly. Awaiting his response.

It came after a silence that seemed to stretch for ever. ‘You are telling me,’ she heard him say, his voice expressionless, ‘that you are a virgin?’

The word seemed to toll like a bell in the night.

She could not speak. Could only nod.

The silence stretched again and she could bear it no longer. Her eyes lifted to him. His face was shadowed and she could not read it.

She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. It seemed inadequate, but it was the best she could manage. ‘I should… I should have told you…made it clear before I—’

With a sudden movement she jerked to her feet, trying to rush past him, wanting only to get away from him.

But he caught at her hand, getting to his feet as well, taking her other hand, his clasp warm and strong.

He looked down into her face. There was something different in his eyes now—something that made her throat tighten and emotion well up in her. It was an emotion she could not name, but only feel.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, he lowered his head to drop a kiss upon her. Not on her mouth, but her forehead. There was a half-smile on his face that she could not understand.

‘It’s been a long, long day,’ he said. ‘And this has all been too much for you. Go to bed,’ he said quietly. ‘And sleep well. Sleep deeply—and alone.’

His light touch fell away, and he stepped aside to let her go indoors.

On stricken limbs, she did.

CHAPTER EIGHT

OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, out on the sunny deck, she told him of the romances that had never happened. She tried to make her manner not brisk, but frank—though she’d had to steel herself to talk about such a personal subject, and there were two tell-tale flags of colour high on her cheeks.

‘I’ve dated,’ she said, with an air of self-consciousness about her as she helped herself to toast and marmalade, not looking directly at him. ‘I’ve been to films, the theatre, the occasional gig or party, with men who work with my stepfather, who scarcely realise that I’m anything more than simply his stepdaughter, Ellie Peters. But I’ve never been only her, Leon. And I can never let myself forget that.’

She made herself go on, knowing she had to make him understand. ‘Because, you see, when you’re a princess you have to be…careful. Other girls my age can afford to be carefree—careless, even—but for me, and indeed for my sister…’ her voice changed as she thought of Marika’s doomed romance with the son of their father’s enemy ‘…an unwise choice can be disastrous. It always seemed safer—wiser—never to get involved.’ She took a breath, made herself look at him. ‘So I didn’t.’

Even as she spoke she was conscious of her evasion. Everything she was telling him was true—but it was not all the truth.

I wanted to wait—wait for ‘the one’—the man I would love for ever, who would love me in return. It would have made things…simpler.