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He paused, allowing time for his words to sink in.

‘Traditionally, that role has gone to a member of one of the first families, Your Majesty.’

‘I respect tradition, except when it gets in the way of progress. We change or…’ He allowed his voice to trail away until satisfied all eyes were on him and added softly, ‘Franco has not been my only eyes in the Palace… A fixed mindset, gentlemen, I’m sure you agree, is not a healthy thing.

‘As for my marriage, you will be the first to know when I have made my decision,’ he announced, the insincerity in his voice matched by the sarcasm. ‘I understand your favourite candidate is Princess Olivia, who might have an impeccable lineage, but she does have a tendency to dance on tables and as for…’ He scanned another name and let out a deep laugh. ‘Good to know you have a sense of humour.’ He rose to his feet and the assembled company followed suit with considerably less elegance as he exited the room, leaving utter silence in his wake.

* * *

‘This room smells of my father,’ Leandro observed, his nostrils flaring in distaste as he walked across to the French windows, throwing them open. ‘I’ll use the library until this has been redecorated. It’s safe to assume he never spent much time in there. I seriously doubt he ever read a book.’

‘You’ve spent the last few years trying to convince people you haven’t read a book. You really have hit the ground running, Leandro. If I didn’t know they had been lining their pockets at the expense of the country for years, I could almost feel sorry for them. They looked broken.’

‘You have a soft heart, my friend. You thought I was too tough back there?’ he asked curiously.

‘I thought you were bloody marvellous, but you made some enemies today, Leandro. You should watch your back.’

Leandro laughed. ‘I have you to do that for me.’

‘Am I to arrange the wedding too? Were you serious about that?’

Sprawled in a chair he had drawn to the open window, his eyes fixed on the distant mountains, Leandro turned back, a glitter of amusement in his dark eyes. ‘Kind of inevitable. It goes with the job description.’

‘And we have our own list of candidates?’

‘I just enjoyed the expressions on their faces,’ Leandro admitted. ‘But actually, why wait?’

His friend looked genuinely shocked. ‘You want to get married?’

‘Does anyone want to get married?’

‘Yes, actually they do—I did.’

‘Sorry, I stand corrected, and you, my friend, and your delightful wife are the exception that proves the rule. But we are talking about my life and I need to provide an heir, and hopefully a spare, with a wife who does not embarrass me and does not have romantic expectations of…’ He paused, studying his friend’s face. ‘You disapprove?’

‘It’s not my place, sir, to disapprove. Your wish is my command.’

The tension died from Leandro’s face as his friend sketched a subservient bow. ‘Can I record that? Seriously, though, Franco, marriage is not an optional requirement for me and I need someone who is not going to fall in love with me.’ The last thing he needed was someone with stars in their eyes and expectations he would never be able to fulfil.

If Leandro had a nightmare, it was becoming his father, and he reasoned the best way to avoid that nightmare was recognising the flaws in his own personality.

His father, despite all his affairs, had never liked women. As for love, the only love affair the late King had enjoyed was with himself. Leandro had never seen any evidence that his father’s understanding of love was any less superficial than his verse—he had published a book of poetry, extremely bad poetry, dedicated to the subject.

Unlike his father, Leandro actually liked women, he enjoyed their company and not just in bed, but love remained an enigma to him and he wasn’t looking for the key to that mystery. He would never pretend to feel something for a woman as his father had when he had picked out Leandro’s mother for his Queen.

The moment the ring was on her finger, he’d stopped pretending and had revealed himself as the selfish bastard he was. Sadly, this had not stopped his wife loving him, a situation that, after several years of misery, had almost resulted in tragedy. No, the wife Leandro would choose would see him for what he was, not an idealised version.

‘You mock, but it could happen.’

‘I wasn’t about to mock,’ his friend retorted drily.

‘Seriously, though, the last thing I want is for history to repeat itself.’

They exchanged glances and the shorter man looked away, unwilling to go near the subject of the Dowager Queen, who, unlike everyone else, had encouraged the friendship between the heir apparent and a boy from a lower middle-class family.

They had been ten years old when he and Leandro had returned with scraped knees and torn clothes after some boyish adventure, knowing the Queen would not shout about ruined clothes. It was a scene that was etched indelibly into his mind so he could only imagine how deep the scars ran for Leandro.

She hadn’t shouted, not because she was a tolerant parent but because she had been unconscious on the floor, several empty bottles of pills beside her. Franco had never read the note clasped in her hand but Leandro had, and though he had never shared the contents, he could guess.