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From hair that had been styled until it shone and pinned into an elegant bun low on her head, to the dainty tiara she wore, the suit—cream with gold buttons, she’d teamed a blazer with trousers and wore brown high heels that were the same shade as the small handbag she carried. Her face had been made up expertly, and at her throat she wore a simple necklace with a single diamond in the centre.
It was the first time they’d seen each other since being separated at the boat and curiosity had him staring at her intently across the room, waiting for her to notice him, but she was locked in conversation with Vanessa, who wore a pale pink gown with her dark hair loose around her face.
Frustration champed at Benedetto. He feigned interest in conversation with Rowan—who he usually liked and had a lot of time for. But at that very moment, all of his focus was absorbed by Amelia. She moved eventually from Vanessa to her mother, speaking in a low voice, smiling, laughing, and it was when she laughed that she tilted her head and her eyes met his.
Every muscle in his body tightened. The breath in his lungs caught and held. His lips parted on a short hiss of air and he had never before known a temptation quite like it: to storm across the room, throw her over his shoulder and run away with Amelia.
He forced himself to look away, back to Rowan, to nod at something he’d said, to actively listen to the conversation now, but he was conscious of her the whole time, and in the back of his mind he was planning ahead, attempting to work out how to peel Amelia away from her family, so he he could be alone with her.
Except he couldn’t. Or shouldn’t.
She was right to have put an end to what they were doing. He’d be crazy to pursue her now, here in the palace. Her life was an open book, as she’d said. That didn’t stop him from wanting her though, and from needing to know she wanted him too...
Just being back with her family was exhausting. They were all making an effort to be accepting, no one asking her about her prolonged, unexplained absence, but she felt the questions, the judgement, the low-key anger and resentment from Anton. Or perhaps it was just the secret knowledge she held that she didn’t really belong here, that she wasn’t a real princess, that was playing on her mind.
Beneath the table, she fidgeted with her fingers, twisting the large diamond ring she wore, a gift from her grandmother, who had also clearly had no idea that Amelia was an imposter in their midst.
And the one person who had the power to make her feel better, to blot out all of this tension, was as far as physically possible across the table, and being monopolised in conversation by her father and Rowan. When their eyes had met, she’d felt a surge of awareness and known she couldn’t look in his direction again. It would be too obvious. Surely someone would notice. And so she concentrated hard on being what everyone expected her to be, on smiling and nodding and ignoring Benedetto with every fibre of her being.
The night was long. Several courses, speeches, more food, and, finally, Anton signalled the evening was at an end by excusing himself and Vanessa. With immense relief, Amelia looked around, her eyes instantly latching to Benedetto’s. He was watching her and the moment she felt his gaze on her, felt it connect with hers, her stomach squeezed and her heart stammered.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ her mother murmured, leaning over and placing a kiss on her forehead. Then, ‘Tomorrow is going to be very busy, but if you’d like to join me for a walk in the morning, I’ll be leaving from the West Gate at six.’
A smile pulled at Amelia’s lips. For as long as she could remember, her mother had been conducting the same early morning walk through the gardens, past the stables, and down to the citrus grove. Amelia had often walked with her as a teenager.
‘Thank you,’ she said, without committing either way. ‘Goodnight.’
Amelia stood, but rather than leaving the room, she moved deeper into it, pretending fascination with a painting on the wall. It was hundreds of years old, a Biblical scene with angels and clouds and women reclining with their long hair draped over their bodies.
Her heart raced as she studied the painting and listened as her family slowly filtered from the room, and she held her breath, waiting, hoping. She knew the smart thing to do would be to depart likewise. She’d ended things with Benedetto for a reason—it couldn’t keep going on—but that didn’t mean she had suddenly turned into a robot. She wanted to see him. She wanted to talk to him, to be alone with him.
The room was silent for such a long time that her heart plummeted, because Benedetto must have left too and the hope she’d nurtured all night of finally being alone with him withered into nothingness.
She turned, fidgeting with her ring, and then let out a small gasp, because he hadn’t left at all. He was sitting at the table, staring straight ahead, a small coffee cup in his big, strong hands. Her heart skipped a beat and she moved to him as though being pulled by strings, gliding across the ancient carpets.
‘Hello.’
He turned to face her, his expression inscrutable.
‘How are you?’
It was a question laced with far greater meaning than the words usually asked for. He was asking how she really was. Not in the trivial sense, but in the deep emotional sense after all she’d been through today.
‘It was tough,’ she said, honestly.
‘Are you glad you came back?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, looking around the table, ‘It wouldn’t have felt right to miss it.’
‘No,’ he agreed. Then he stood, meeting her eyes, and her breath hitched in her throat, fear surging inside her. Was he going to leave? ‘They care about you a great deal.’
‘I know.’ Her voice cracked. She didn’t want to discuss her family. ‘How’s your day been?’
‘Honestly?’
She nodded.
‘Long.’
