wasn’t a contest between bravery and cowardice, Ionanthe told herself. It was instead a matter of survival—of living with the weakness and the vulnerability she had found within herself whilst continuing to pursue her objectives. And that could start right now, with her making sure that Max understood that what had happened last night had been a one-off. After all, even though shamefully she had not thought of it last night, she might already have conceived her son. It would take time for her to know, of course, but until she did there was no reason for her to continue to have sex with Max, was there? She had been weak, but here was her chance to regain the self-respect she had lost. All she had to do was convey her decision to Max.
And when and where would she do that? In his arms? In bed? In the silvery moonlight with his hands on her body? While he knew her and possessed her so intimately and completely that they were almost as one?
A deep shudder wrenched at her body.
‘And then there is the matter of the consortium wishing to apply for permission to excavate a coal mine on Your Highness’s land. You will remember that I informed you that your late cousin was on the point of granting them a licence just before his death?’
Max frowned as he listened to the Count. ‘As I remember, that land is usually let out to—’
‘Sheep farmers. Yes. But there is no formal agreement. You have the right to move their stock off the land if you wish to do so.’
Max’s frown deepened. He was keen to invest in renewable energy sources for the island, but these plans were still in their infancy and he was not yet ready to go public with them or discuss them with the Count.
‘I am due to fly to Spain tomorrow,’ he pointed out instead.
‘Indeed? Shall the Princess be accompanying you?’
The Count’s question was, on the face of it, justified. But Max still gave him a sharp look. He was rewarded when the other man continued smoothly, ‘If I may be permitted to say so, Your Highness, I am delighted to see that things are working out so well between you. Had I been consulted in the first place, I would have suggested then that if you were determined to marry one of the late Baron’s granddaughters then his younger granddaughter would be by far the better choice. Whilst Ionanthe may never have found favour in her late grandfather’s eyes, it was always obvious to those with the wit to see it that she far outshone her sister. As a child Ionanthe was always the one who felt more passionately about the island and its people. It was a source of great sorrow to her parents, I know, that she was not born a son. For then the traditions of their family—a family that has always upheld the way of life of our island—would have been assured. But Ionanthe will make you an excellent consort. She is well versed in our ways.’
The Count sounded as pleased with himself—as though he himself had created Ionanthe.
Max gave him a sharp look. It was, of course, impossible to keep anything hidden from the members of a court who virtually lived together. Everyone would know by now that he and Ionanthe had spent the night together, and would have drawn their own conclusions from that. Was the Count hoping that through Ionanthe pressure could be brought to bear on him to accept their way of life rather than insist on changing it? It had, after all, been the Count who had been so instrumental in forcing this marriage on them. On them, or on him?
Half an hour later, alone in the Chamber of State, Max reminded himself that he had warned himself all along of the dangers inherent in becoming intimately and emotionally involved with Ionanthe. Now was the time to take a step back, to remember the reason why he was here, playing a feudal role in an equally feudal country that was surely more akin to a Gilbert and Sullivan creation than part of the modern world.
And what of Ionanthe’s own beliefs? Max had no need of anyone to tell him that Ionanthe’s sexual and moral code was a world away from that of her sister, or that she was one of life’s givers rather than one of its takers. But, as he had already discovered, those who by their own decree had long held the right to high office on the island felt passionately about the traditions they upheld, and were passionate in their refusal to allow any change. And Ionanthe was a very passionate woman.
He might not need her support to put in place the changes he planned to make, but neither did he intend to put himself in a position where he was afraid that confidences he let slip to Ionanthe in the intimacy of their bed might be passed on to those who opposed his plans.
It was perhaps as well that he was flying to Barcelona tomorrow.
Tonight would be different; tonight she would not give way or weaken. Tonight she would be the woman, the Ionanthe, she had to be from now on, she had assured herself as she had dressed for the formal dinner that was being held tonight for Philippe de la Croix, a French diplomat who was visiting from Paris.
But that had been before she had seen Max—before he had thrust open the door to their private quarters and come striding towards her, causing her heart to slam into her ribs and her whole body to go weak.
The pleasure he had shown her was not hers alone, she tried to remind herself. He had been married to her sister, after all—a woman who had been far more sexually experienced and desirable than she was herself. The savagery of the pain coiling through her shocked her. So this was jealousy, red-hot and raw, filling her with a fierce, possessive need to obliterate the memory of her sister from his mind and his senses, shaming her with its primitive message. She tried to block the destructive thoughts from her mind, but still they went on forcing themselves onto her, burning her where they touched her vulnerable places.
Today, studying the cooling ashes of last night’s passion, had he compared her to Eloise and found her wanting? Aaahhh, but that hurt so very much, reducing the pain of the rejection she had known as a child to nothing—a shadow of this so much greater agony. Was it because she had known all along that she would feel like this that she had fought so hard against loving a man?
Loving a man? But she did not love Max. She could not. It was impossible. She barely knew him.
She knew enough of him to know his touch and its effect on her senses. He had marked her indelibly as his, and nothing could change that. If that was not a form of loving then—No. She would not allow it to be. It must not be. She must escape from what was happening to her, from him.
She took a deep breath and announced shakily, ‘I should like your permission to withdraw to my family’s estate. There are matters there that need my attention following my grandfather’s death, and if I delay going there much longer the castle will be cut off by the winter snows.’
In truth Ionanthe knew that there was not likely to be any real need for her to visit the castle. Her grandfather had disliked it because of its isolation, and had rarely gone there after the death of her parents, preferring to base himself here, in his State apartment. Eloise had loathed the castle, and had always treated the simple country people who lived close to it, working manually on the estate as their families had done for many generations, with acid contempt.
Their parents, though, had spent time there—her mother encouraging Ionanthe when she had tried to teach the young children of the estate workers to read. Those had been happy days—until her grandfather had found out about her impromptu classes and roared at her in anger, telling her mother that she was not to encourage the ‘labourers’ brats’ to waste their time on learning skills they did not need.
That had been when Ionanthe had recognised that even her parents were not strong enough to stand up to her grandfather.
Max listened to her in silence. He did not for one minute believe that she
