CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

Only by reminding herself that she was playing a part did Melissa manage to act normally during the week that followed.

She was introduced to a never-ending stream of people, and the fear that she would again lose her nerve and want to run away was held in check by the presence of either Princess Helene or Prince Louis. In front of a perpetual audience, she was gradually coming to see herself the way that others saw her: as the future Princess of Motavia.

By the middle of the second week she was more relaxed. Though catered for by Motavian servants, she had brought her own personal maid with her from England: a practical Scotswoman who had known her since she was a child, and who seemed to think Melissa was doing the Prince a favour by marrying him, rather than the other way around!

It was an attitude the Prince himself did not share, Melissa knew, for she was increasingly aware of the anger that smouldered within him; an anger so strong that she sometimes feared it would cause him to renege on their agreement.

What would happen if he tore up their contract and turned to Slovenia? Her company could go to the international court at The Hague and sue him, but the case could drag on for years and if—in the meantime—Krassky took control of Motavia, no court in the world would be able to give the Benton Group back their mineral rights. Yet these were unimportant to her. It was the freedom of Motavia she wanted. Nothing else.

The more she sensed the Prince's restlessness and anger, the more she appreciated why Sir Donald had insisted she did not delay the wedding. Obviously he also feared that Prince Louis would balk when it came to taking the final step.

But they should not underestimate the influence of Princess Helene. In the short time since she had known her, Melissa's awe had been replaced by reluctant admiration. It was an attitude echoed by the Princess herself, whose original frozen civility had melted into a slightly warmer one. Yesterday, in fact, she had even held up her cheek for Melissa to kiss her goodnight, a gesture which had surprised Louis, whose look had given him away.

'Louis.' She spoke his name aloud. She had not yet called him by it; hardly dared even mention it to herself. Until now he had always been Prince Louis, the two words merging into one so that she found it difficult to see him without the trappings of his royal heritage. Yet he was a man like any other; and like a man he was capable of suffering. Of that she was in no doubt. His bitterness was so tangible that she felt it to be almost a physical barrier between them.

Reticence prevented her from asking Princess Helene about the woman he loved. One day she would meet her and find out for herself. Sighing at the thought of how much unhappiness politics could cause, she picked up her book on Motavian grammar and carried it into the courtyard.

She settled herself on a hammock. Its well-oiled springs swung gently beneath her weight. Everything was well oiled here—in the fullest sense of the word—and living in the palace made it difficult to realise how poor the country was.

'The Vallon family has great personal wealth,' Louis had explained when she had commented on it. 'Paupers by your standards, of course, but wealthy by comparison with the rest of Motavia.'

'You mean you use your own money to keep up all this?' She had waved her hand round the magnificent room in which they had been sitting at the time of the conversation.

'We pay for more than half of it,' he admitted. 'If we didn't, there would not be enough servants here to look after the contents.' Moodily he had stared at the fine furniture and even finer paintings. 'Sometimes I think we're throwing good money after bad. It would be far more practical to leave here and live a more normal life. Who needs fifty rooms and a hundred retainers!'

'You do!' Princess Helene's voice had rung out unexpectedly and they had both been startled to see her march majestically into the room.

'You are the Prince of Motavia,' she continued, her eyes flashing, 'and our people expect you to live in splendour. They enjoy it.'

'You mean they get pleasure out of my eating caviar while they chew a crust of bread?'

'Don't talk like a fool! You do not eat caviar, and they have more than a crust of bread.'

'You know what I mean.'

'I know precisely what you mean. That is why I am warning you not to think this way. People need something to look up to—whether it be God, a king or a Pope.' The black-clad shoulders lifted. 'And, my dear Louis, you are both Motavia's king and its Pope!'

'Then I should be able to lead them to a better life,' he said bitterly.

'That is exactly what you are doing. Once we can bring industry to Motavia, everything will be different.' Princess Helene glanced at Melissa. 'I hope there won't be any delay in commencing the mining operation?'

'These things take time to set up,' Melissa had replied.

'What Melissa means,' Louis had interrupted sharply, 'is that her company won't make their money available until after our marriage.'

Melissa had coloured at the scorn in his words, glad when the conversation was ended by the announcement of dinner. At least in the dining room —under the eyes of the servants—their talk was general. She was all too conscious that Louis despised her. From his point of view he did not feel he had had any choice in asking her to marry him, but he considered that her reason for agreeing to do so was merely a desire for personal glory which was preventing him from finding happiness with the woman he loved.

Swinging idly in the hammock, Melissa wondered what chance she and Louis had of finding happiness when his one desire was to be with someone else. Irritably she stared at her book. It was stupid of her to think in terms of happiness. Their marriage was one of expediency, and though Louis did not know it, they were both committed to their actions for reasons of patriotism: he for Motavia, she for the sake of future peace in Europe.

The rustle of skirts made her look up. In front of her was one of the loveliest women she had ever seen. Her first thought was how much the woman resembled Louis, for she had the same golden hair and blue eyes. Yet as she came further into the sunshine the similarity decreased: the hair was more platinum than gold and did not have the same thick vitality. The eyes were less blue too, and veiled by long lashes which made them more difficult to read. But there was no doubting her patrician background, evidenced by her high-bridged nose and small mouth, the lips tightly clenched.

The woman came closer. She was tall and slim and wore a magnolia silk dress only a shade deeper than her skin. Melissa did not need to be told that here was the woman Louis loved. Afterwards she was not sure why she had been so certain; perhaps it had been the arrogance in the woman's demeanour as she wended her way past the tubs of flowers to come and stand by the hammock.

'You are Melissa Benton?' The voice had a girlish quality at variance with the hard expression in the eyes. 'I am Countess Breen.'

Melissa stood up, feeling small beside this tall, silvery blonde. She straightened her shoulders, as though by doing so she could withstand the impact of such a supremely confident beauty. Here was a woman who had no doubt of her power. Confidence exuded from her like water from a sponge, and like a sponge she was able to absorb the atmosphere around her.

'I see that you know who I am,' the soft voice continued. 'Even though I am sure Louis has not spoken of me.'

Still Melissa said nothing. She was conscious of looking dishevelled and wished she was wearing something more formal than a tobacco brown shirt-dress, not knowing that its casual lines enhanced the delicacy of her figure, and that its colour was an excellent foil for her softly tanned skin and warm brown hair. All she knew was that she felt like a sparrow beside a peacock.

'I thought I would find Louis here,' the Countess continued.

'He's with the Privy Council,' Melissa replied. 'But if you wish to see Princess Helene ‑'

'Spare me that!'

The blue eyes sparkled, though it did not make the words sound less spiteful. 'Princess Helene doesn't approve of the young members of the Court. If she had her way, all the ladies-in-waiting would be married and pregnant!' The blonde head tilted. 'She'll probably change her attitude now. With Louis safely married, she won't need to protect him from designing women!' The blue eyes widened to their fullest. 'I suppose you think I'm indiscreet to talk to you like this? But I have never been one to pretend. Louis is the same, you know. He loathes subterfuge.'

'Sometimes it can be called tact!' Melissa could not help saying.

'We'll all three of us need tact,' the Countess said promptly, and though her lids lowered, masking her eyes, it in no way masked the determined expression on her face. 'It would be foolish for us to pretend about your marriage. We both know why Louis is doing it.'

Melissa bit her lips. She had never expected Louis to pretend he loved her, yet equally she had not anticipated he would tell the Countess the truth. She saw now how irrational she had been. Of course he would be honest with the woman he loved.

'I don't blame you for wanting to marry him,' the Countess continued. 'I would probably have done the same in your place. But you can't expect me to be happy about it.'

'I expect nothing from you,' Melissa replied. 'I don't know you, and I would prefer not to change that position.'

'Luckily your wishes are of no importance,' the Countess smiled. 'I am a member of the Court and it is inevitable that we will meet. If I were to stay away, people would gossip.'

'They'll gossip anyway!'

The Countess still went on smiling. 'I think you will find His Highness prefers me to continue coming here. If I were to remain in the country he would come and stay with me, and this would cause even more gossip.'

Melissa was fascinated that such an elegant facade could hide such brutal frankness. Yet in the long run honesty was better than subterfuge. Had circumstances been different, this woman would have been Louis's bride.

'I am sorry if my frankness disturbs you,' the lilting voice went on, 'but as I said before, I think it is important that we all know where we stand.'

The Countess strolled across to a tub of flowers, as though knowing what a lovely foil the magnificent blooms made for her. A figure of cream and gold, she looked like a Renoir woman come to life. But she did not have the same overblown voluptuousness, Melissa decided; merely the same colouring and sensuality.

'It will make it much easier for Louis if we can be friends,' the woman suggested. 'Our animosity would put an unnecessary strain on him. And he already has to contend with so much.'

'No more than any successful businessman!' Melissa retorted.

'How little you know of Motavian life if you can say that. Louis is walking a tightrope. The British are at one end, the Slovenians are at the other, and down below him are the Opposition Party—the people who are lusting for his blood.'

Steps sounded in the drawing room, and with relief Melissa saw Louis coming towards them. He was half way across the patio before he realised she was not alone, and at his first glimpse of the blonde woman a look of intense pleasure crossed his face. It was gone in an instant and his expression was aloof as he came forward and greeted Melissa in his usual punctilious way before turning to the Countess.

'I didn't expect to see you at Court, Elise.'

'I felt it my duty to come and pay respects to your bride.'

He shot a glance at Melissa, but she pretended not to see it.

'I will be giving a ball to introduce my fiancée to the entire Court,' he said quietly. 'I had intended to introduce you to each other then.'

'In front of everyone? That would have been even more embarrassing. Anyway, Miss Benton knows about me, and we have decided it will be simpler not to carry on a pretence when we are alone together.'

He caught his breath, and the Countess ran towards him, her face flushed, her breasts rising and falling quickly as though she were distressed.

'I know you and Miss Benton will have to pretend when other people are around,' she cried, 'but you surely don't need to do so in front of me?'

'I had not envisaged that the three of us would be alone together,' he said quickly.

'How can we avoid it?' Tears filled the blue eyes. 'Or are you going to banish me from Court? If that is your desire, I will go back to the country at once.'

'Elise, for heaven's sake!' He moved a step nearer, flinging a desperate look at Melissa.

Again she pretended not to see it. If Louis wished to continue his affair with the Countess she would not stop him—indeed she had expected him to do so. But he would have to be discreet about it; not flaunt it in her face and make her the laughing stock of his court and, inevitably, his country. She glanced at the other woman. Tears poured from the jewel blue eyes, but they aroused no sympathy; there was a histrionic quality about the grief that put its validity in question. The Countess was unhappy—that much was true—but Melissa felt it stemmed less from love of the man than from love of his position. Yet how could she voice her opinion to him when he believed her guilty of marrying him for the very same reason?

'You know I don't want to keep you hidden.' Louis was speaking again, his voice urgent. 'But I do not want you to be hurt either; and you are bound to find the next few weeks painful. My marriage will cause a lot of publicity. The capital will be full of visitors and I will have to pretend that... That is why I felt you should remain in the country.'

'I will be more upset if I have to read about you in the newspapers. At least if I see you, I'll know you are only acting.'

'Do you need to have it confirmed?' The words seemed torn from him, and the anguish in them made Melissa feel such an interloper that she went quickly into the drawing room.

But she remained intensely aware of the couple outside, and after a brief moment she went to her bedroom. Only here, where she knew she would not be interrupted, was she able to relax. It was odd how hurt she was by Louis's attitude towards the Countess. After all, he had never hidden his love for her, nor pretended about his reason for marrying. She should look upon his behaviour as honesty: as a desire not to give her false hope for their own future.

Irritably she paced the carpet. What on earth had put that thought into her mind? Even if she had met Louis in the normal course of events, he would never have considered her suitable to be his wife. And she wouldn't have considered him I His, whole way of life was an anachronism; a relic of the past.

She stopped her pacing and came to rest by the window. It overlooked the west side of the garden and gave a view of terraced lawns and tall, heavy-foliaged trees. But she saw nothing of the scene— her mind's eye focussed inwards. What sort of man had she envisaged marrying? Certainly someone she could respect; someone who had achieved a position by his own ability. And without question someone who would love her for what she was and not for what she had. What irony that the man she should now be marrying had only consented to become her husband because of what she could offer!

Once more she forced herself to think in terms of countries rather than personalities. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. Britain, Europe, the peace of the western world, all seemed meaningless when compared with flesh and blood people. It was not Britain devising a way of helping Motavia but Melissa Benton marrying Prince Louis who was in love with a golden-haired Countess who was determined not to lose her hold over him. How tortuous it all was!

Did Sir Donald know about Elise Breen, or did he believe that propinquity would turn a loveless marriage into a meaningful relationship? If this were the case, it indicated an abysmal lack of perception.

Impatiently she moved back into the room. She was still holding her grammar book and she threw it on the bed. There was no translation in Motavian for the word love; instead they used the word 'unity' or 'oneness', and even then, according to her professor, it was a term rarely employed.

'We are a logical people,' he had explained to her only yesterday. 'In other languages the word love is deployed so often it has lost its meaning. I love music, I love ice-cream, I love a woman! Motavians would never use the same verb to describe three such differing emotions.'

'But you don't have the word love,' she had remarked. 'Obviously Motavians don't believe in it!'

'We believe in it so deeply that we feel it cannot be put into words.'

'If it isn't put into words, how does one know?'

The Professor had looked at her with such astonishment that she knew she had committed a faux pas. Like all Motavians, he believed her marriage to Prince Louis was a love match.

'Of course I know,' she had added hastily. 'I was only teasing.'

She remembered this conversation as she wandered over to the bed and picked up the book again. Love was a word she would have no need to use while she lived in Motavia.

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