CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Melissa flew to Motavia in a private jet of the Royal Flight, and peering through the porthole as her plane landed, she saw a row of armed guards waiting to greet her—Prince Louis at their head— and wondered what on earth she had let herself in for.

In London it had been easy to think of Motavia as a fairy-tale country, but once in the country itself, it was another story. The guards, in their black and scarlet costumes and three-cornered hats, might be something to laugh at when seen in a newsreel, but they had an aura of fierceness when seen at first hand; as did the glittering rifles balanced on their shoulders. Seven million Motavians might not seem to have much strength when viewed from a land of sixty million, but the roar of the excited crowd which reverberated in her ears as she descended from the plane was enough to send shivers down her spine. In marrying Prince Louis she was not only accepting a stranger as her husband but an alien country as her home.

He stepped forward to greet her, and she stared at him with unconcealed admiration. She had forgotten how handsome he was. His uniform might be theatrical, but there was nothing theatrical about the way he wore it: calf-length black boots gave precision to his steps, and as he came forward to greet her, the muscles of his thighs rippled beneath tightly fitting cavalry trousers. A row of medals glinted on his chest, their faint movement the only indication of his quick breathing. He was not as calm as he outwardly appeared, she noted with satisfaction. He too must be finding this meeting a strain.

Aware of the hundreds of press photographers held at bay by the police, but using their zoom lenses with embarrassing dexterity, he leaned forward and touched his lips to her cheek. This meeting between Prince and commoner was being flashed to the eyes of millions of curious people. Lurid newspaper banners had already been screaming news of it as she had left England, and there would be even more colourful headlines to come; each one trying to tear away the last shred of their privacy. The knowledge was unnerving and she steadied herself by remembering she was here under orders. She must regard herself as a spy or as a member of the armed forces.

Chin tilted, she walked beside him down the row of guards, only tensing as he led her to an open-topped car.

Aware of her dismay, he murmured: 'My people expect it. They are anxious to see you.'

'I know,' she said quickly. 'Major Vernov gave me a whole list of things to expect. I hadn't realised there were so many rules.'

'Are there? I am not aware of them myself.'

Implicit in the words was the difference in their stations, and her irritation rose. He might be a Prince on a throne, but it was a very shaky one and needed to be bolstered by Benton money. As long as she reminded herself of this it would combat any inferiority complex he tried to give her. Her lips tightened. Never in her life had the word inferiority come into her mind. Prince Louis might have been isolated from reality by the shield of royalty, but she had been equally isolated from it by her vast wealth. Nervousness assailed her again. This association—which she had always known would be difficult—was likely to be even more stormy because of the basic difference in their characters.

The light touch of Prince Louis's hand under her elbow guided her into the car. 'I'm glad you're wearing an off-the-face hat,' he commented, taking his place beside her. 'A wide brim would have prevented the people from seeing you properly.'

'Princess Grace of Monaco committed that faux pas,' Melissa murmured. 'I remember being told about it when I was a child.'

He shrugged. 'As you mentioned before, royalty has to fulfil certain obligations. And being clearly visible on all public occasions is one of them.'

His remark reminded her of the many other obligations with which he had to comply, and she felt a momentary sadness for this good-looking young man. Quickly she pushed it away. 'Has Motavia always had a monarchy?'

'Yes. It is the only country in Europe where there has been a continuing Royal Family for five hundred years.'

'What about England?' she said indignantly, and reddened as she remembered Cromwell and the head of poor King Charles. 'Anyway, I think Royalty is an anachronism.'

'Then why are you so anxious to become a princess? If you hadn't been, I am sure you could have persuaded your Board to give us the money we needed without forcing me to marry you.'

Angry colour stained her cheeks, but knowing her own foolish tongue had precipitated his remark, she looked away.

Seeing her heightened colour the crowd cheered more loudly and shouted affectionate greetings to their Prince, who responded with a continual wave of his arm and a warm smile that in no way evaporated the ice from his eyes.

'Wave with me,' he commanded, his lips barely moving. 'And smile. Keep smiling all the time.'

Melissa's arm and face was aching by the time they reached the Palace, its slender turrets gleaming like minarets against the clear blue Motavian sky. The guards here were dressed in a less military fashion, and though they carried rifles they did not have the same lethal look as the guards who had lined up for them at the airport or held back the crowds en route.

They drove through the iron gates, swept across a wide courtyard and under a stone arch that led to a smaller cobbled yard. Here was the private entrance to the palace, and she followed Prince Louis into a hexagonal shaped hall, lined with tapestries, and through a bewildering number of corridors before emerging into his private apartment. This, she was to learn later, consisted of four suites—each with its own bedroom, bathroom and sitting room —and a large comfortably furnished drawing room and dining room. Both of these looked out on a courtyard that was hidden from prying eyes by a wall some twenty feet high. It was cleverly masked by trailing vines whose trumpet-shaped flowers exuded a heavy perfume that filled the rooms with fragrance.

'Motavia's trumpet rose,' Prince Louis explained as Melissa drew a deep breath. It's our national flower.'

'It's heavenly.' She wandered outside and breathed deep again. 'How long is it in bloom?'

'Nine or ten months of the year. It dies only when the frost comes, but there are many years when it blooms continually.'

She moved over to the wall and touched one of the flowers. It was unusual in appearance, with long, trumpet-shaped petals which unfolded themselves like a tea rose. She bent lower to study them, unaware of the lovely picture she made with her chestnut brown hair gleaming in the sunlight, and her slender body made more graceful by a cream silk dress with a full pleated skirt and tightly fitting bodice.

Louis stared at her. She was smaller than he had recollected: not more than five feet without her shoes. He glanced at the ridiculously high heels and the surprisingly long, well-shaped legs. She was a perfectly formed young woman, glowing with a health and vitality that came from a well-nurtured upbringing. She swung round from the flowers and came towards him, her steps so swift that she gave the impression of running, even though she was not. It was so different from Elise's languid movements that he knew a sudden longing to be with her right now, and was unable to stop the look of pain that came into his eyes. But the girl was aware of it, for he saw a frown mark the high forehead.

'You had better come and meet my grandmother,' he said abruptly, and turned away without seeing whether she followed him.

Silently he led her back to the entrance hall and thence to an apartment in the east wing.

'My grandmother will be moving to another residence once we are married,' he explained, stopping outside a mahogany door.

'Why? She isn't in the way here.'

'It is not done,' he said coldly and, opening the door, waited for her to precede him.

The Dowager Princess Helene left Melissa in no doubt that she was marrying into a truly Royal Family. Regality was in every gesture of the ramrod body and proud head covered with carefully waved grey hair. Black eyes glittered in a face as crumpled as tissue paper, though there was nothing aged about the mouth, which was as beautifully shaped as her grandson's. She wore a grey silk dress whose delicate ruffle of lace hid her crepey neck, and on the lace rested three rows of the most lustrous pearls Melissa had ever seen. Several diamond brooches were pinned to the bodice and large rings weighed down the bird-like hands. Such a display of jewellery in the afternoon would have looked ludicrous on anyone else, but they seemed part of Princess Helene, and Melissa was to learn that this was but a small sample of the beautiful collection which she wore every waking hour.

The meeting was a strained one. Prince Louis did his best to keep the conversation going, but finally he lapsed into silence and sipped his straw-coloured tea with an impatience he made little attempt to hide.

Melissa's head was aching, partly from tiredness —since she had slept little the night before—and partly from tension. She wished she had not refused Calvin Clement's offer to accompany her here, and counted the days until she would see him again. He would be flying out with various legal documents for her and the Prince to sign, documents which would pledge the Benton Group to explore the mountainous regions of Motavia. Sir Donald was flying out too, in his official capacity as Foreign Minister to represent Great Britain at the wedding, and would no doubt be accompanied by some younger members of the British Royal Family. The thought set her trembling and she put down her cup and resisted the urge to jump to her feet and run away. Instead she clasped her hands together on her lap, not knowing how much she resembled a little girl as she sat—diminutive and upright—in the large, carved wooden chair.

'You are younger than I expected,' the Princess said in guttural yet excellent English.

'I am twenty-three.'

'I know exactly how old you are, Miss Benton. I also know that you were brought up by a middle-aged nurse of excellent family, that your uncle had you educated at home and that your mother was his only relative—apart from yourself.'

Melissa swallowed hard and looked at Prince Louis, turning away as she saw the ironic gleam in his eyes.

'I know a lot about the Vallon family too,' she murmured. 'Not so many intimate details perhaps, but all the important ones.'

'Monetary, no doubt,' Prince Louis said. 'Those are the ones you have obviously been brought up to consider important.'

'It's my money that brought me here,' she said sweetly, and was delighted to see angry colour sweep into his face.

'I'll show you to your quarters,' he said, and stood up with the lithe movement of a panther. 'You will dine with us?' he asked his grandmother, half turning his head.

'Of course. It will be the last night for many weeks that we will be alone.' The dark eyes rested upon Melissa. 'From tomorrow, we will have to entertain ministers and court officials and ‑'

'Is that necessary?' Melissa said quickly. 'Can't I just meet them in the normal course of events?'

'It is normal for them to be formally presented to you,' the Princess said sternly. 'Otherwise they would regard it as an insult. I have also arranged for you to learn Motavian. Professor Miro will start your lessons the day after tomorrow.'

'I thought everyone here spoke English.'

'It is the second language in our schools, but as Prince Louis's wife you will be expected to speak Motavian.'

Melissa was annoyed with herself for being tactless. She must learn to guard her tongue. She was not here for a few weeks only, but for several years, and it would be unbearable if she could not live in unity with those around her. This was not an amusing escapade which she could end when the mood took her. She had committed herself to a serious undertaking and must carry it through to the end.

The enormity of her commitment—in terms of her life—was suddenly horrifying, and she was swamped by a panic she had never experienced before. It was as though heavy hands were gripping her chest and making it impossible for her to breathe. There was a rasping in her throat and she felt she was choking. Red colour zoomed in on her and her vision blurred. It was impossible for her to stay here any longer. She must leave the Palace; leave the country. End the whole ridiculous farce.

'Home!' she gasped, and pushing out her hands as though to ward off an unseen danger, crumpled forward.

With an instinctive gesture Louis put out his arms and caught Melissa before she reached the ground. She was unconscious, her face as pale as the trumpet roses she had admired but a few moments ago. She was as fragile as a bloom too, he thought inconsequentially as he carried her across to the settee and placed her carefully on it, resting her bright head against one of the pillows.

'She has obviously found the day a strain,' he said softly, and was annoyed with himself for feeling pity. 'She probably fainted from the triumph at finding herself here,' he added. 'Even heiresses don't usually find themselves a princess with a genuine throne to sit on!'

'Undo the belt of her dress, Louis,' Princess Helene commented, ignoring his remark.

He did so, and as he straightened, his grandmother handed him a glass of amber liquid.

-'I cannot give it to her while she is unconscious,' he protested.

'Wait until she has recovered a little. Open her dress too. She may have fainted from the heat.'

Carefully he undid the first few buttons of her bodice, trying to ignore the softness of her skin and the pulse fluttering in her throat. 'Perhaps we should call the doctor.'

'What for? She has only fainted. Call the doctor and the press will have the story in an hour. They'll say she fainted because she is pregnant!'

'Really, Grand'mere!'

'Really, Louis!' his grandmother retorted. 'How naive you are! Do you think people aren't going to comment on the suddenness of your marriage?'

'Of course they will. And they will assume I am marrying her because of money—which is correct!'

'I am not sure they will think that.' There was an odd expression on Princess Helene's face as she looked down at Melissa. 'Doesn't she remind you of someone, Louis?'

He pursed his lips. Lying unconscious on the settee, the girl looked small and defenceless, her delicate features tinged with pallor. She moved her head, and as he continued to watch her, her eyes opened and he found himself staring into sherry-gold depths.

'Analise,' he muttered, and heard his grandmother give a sharp, inward sigh.

'So you see it too. The minute she came into the room I felt as though Analise had returned.'

'Is that why you were so abrupt with her?' Louis asked.

'It was either that, or cry,' his grandmother said abruptly, and turned away as Melissa sat up.

Louis went on looking at her. His grandmother was right; she did look the image of his aunt, Princess Helene's firstborn child who had been killed in a riding accident on her twenty-seventh birthday. He had been barely six at the time, but he remembered his aunt well: a tiny, vital creature, so full of life and laughter that it had been difficult to envisage her dead. How he had adored her; loving her more than his own mother who had preferred her duties as a queen to those of a mother.

Strange that he had not seen Melissa Benton's likeness to his aunt until now. Yet not strange when one considered how much he disliked this young woman. He stared at her. She was already on her feet and re-buttoning her dress. She had sipped some of the wine his grandmother had poured for her, and it had brought back a little colour to her cheeks.

'I'm not given to fainting,' she murmured.

'I am glad to hear it.' His voice was cold. 'Royalty cannot afford to have poor health.'

'I'll be able to open as many factories and church bazaars as you!'

His teeth clamped together. How dared she talk to him like this! Didn't she know who he was? As if she guessed his thoughts, he saw amusement quirk her mouth. Angrier still at the knowledge that she was laughing at him, he went to the door.

'I will show you to your quarters, Miss Benton. Please come with me.'

⇐ Предыдущая 1 2 3 4 567 8 9 10 Следующая ⇒