against the doorframe, his arms folded. ‘She knows her duty.’
‘I would hope so.’ Azim reached for his trousers, preferring the Western dress he was far more comfortable in after twenty years in Italy, at least in private. ‘I told her we would marry in a week’s time.’
Malik’s eyebrows rose. ‘So soon?’
‘I do not have time to waste.’
‘Still, that is rather quick,’ Malik said mildly. ‘Considering only a week ago she was meant to marry me.’
‘She was meant,’ Azim clarified with clipped precision, ‘to marry the heir to the Sultanate, whoever that was.’
Malik inclined his head. ‘You are right, of course. But she is very young, and she is not as used to our ways as you might—’
‘I thought you did not know her.’ Azim heard the edge to his voice and turned away from his brother. The knowledge that Johara had been meant for Malik gave him a deep-seated sense of resentment that he did not fully understand. He knew Malik and Johara had never so much as kissed, and yet still he resisted the notion of them together. So much had been taken from him, including his bride. He was more determined than ever to gain it all back, no matter what the cost—or who paid the price.
‘She said she has spent most of her time in France,’ he remarked to Malik. ‘Why is that?’
Malik shrugged. ‘Her mother has been ill for a long time. Arif has kept her away from Alazar.’
‘Simply because she is ill? That does not seem sensible.’
‘I am not quite sure of the details,’ Malik answered. ‘Arif never speaks of her.’ He paused. ‘That seems intentional.’
Azim frowned. ‘I was assured Johara’s bloodline was impeccable—’
‘It is. But even impeccable bloodlines contain people with problems, with illness or suffering.’
Azim did not answer. God knew he had his own share of suffering, and he was descended from kings. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment. ‘She will comply. She has no choice.’
‘A little kindness might go a long way,’ Malik suggested mildly. ‘Considering her youth and inexperience.’
Azim had come to that conclusion himself, but he didn’t particularly like hearing it from Malik. And what kindness could he offer her? He had no time or interest, not to mention ability, in wooing, paying court or offering flattery. He was a man of action, not words. He always had been. And in the world he’d lived in these last twenty years, flattery got you nowhere.
‘I can manage my own bride,’ he told Malik, his tone curt. Malik nodded, his mouth a pressed line. Tension simmered between them. Once they’d been as close as brothers could be, sharing everything, including sorrow, and now—what? Reluctant allies, perhaps, but even that was a step of faith for him, a level of trust he wasn’t comfortable with, not even with Malik.
After Malik had left Azim summoned an attendant to his room. ‘Send some fabric to Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he instructed. ‘Brocade and satin, spare no expense. As a gift from me, for her wedding dress. And ensure there are seamstresses on hand to do her bidding.’ He knew she already possessed a gown from her intended wedding to Malik, but he wanted her to have a new one, one that was just for him. A new start for a new marriage. He hoped Johara appreciated his gesture.
JOHARA WRAPPED HER arms around herself, suppressing a shiver despite the sultry summer air, as she looked out on the steep roofs and steeples of Paris’s Latin Quarter. She’d arrived back in Nice that morning and she was still trying to ignore the icy panic creeping coldly over her—and to convince herself that she’d made the right decision.
In the end it had been both easy and heartbreaking. She closed her eyes against the look of icy disbelief in her father’s eyes when she’d asked him to delay the wedding. The memory of the conversation caused pain to lance through her again.
‘F-F-F...Father,’ she’d stammered, inwardly cringing at the look of barely concealed impatience in her father’s face. She’d caught him leaving a meeting, and the other diplomats and dignitaries had eyed her with cold disapproval, a woman trying to break into a man’s world.
‘What are you doing here, Johara?’ Arif asked. He glanced back at his colleagues. ‘She is to marry His Highness Azim next week.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk about,’ Johara said, trying to gather the tattered remnants of her courage. ‘About the marriage...’
‘What is it?’ Arif grabbed her elbow and steered her to a private alcove. ‘You are humiliating me in public,’ he snapped, his eyes narrowed to dark slits, everything in him radiating icy disapproval. Johara shrank back, shocked. He’d never looked at her like this back in France, even when she’d dared to risk his displeasure.
‘Azim is...very cold.’
‘Cold?’ Arif looked nonplussed.
‘He seems almost cruel,’ Johara whispered, losing courage by the second. ‘I...I don’t want to marry him. I can’t!’
Arif stared at her, his lips thinned, the skin around them white. ‘Clearly I have spoiled you,’ he stated in a hard voice. ‘For you to be speaking this way to me now.’
‘Father, please—’
‘You have been petted and indulged your whole life,’ Arif cut her off. ‘And I have asked only one thing of you, something that is a great honour and privilege. And now you tell me to humiliate myself and my family, risk my career and livelihood, because you find him a little cold?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I will do my best to pretend this conversation has not happened.’
‘But, Father, if you love me...’ Johara began, her voice shaking. ‘Then surely you wouldn’t...’
‘Nothing about this has to do with love,’ Arif stated. ‘It has to do with duty and honour. Never forget that, Johara. Love is a facile emotion for fools and weaklings. Your mother is a testament to that.’ Without waiting for her reply he stalked off, leaving her reeling.
Love is a facile emotion. She could hardly believe he’d dismissed her concerns, her feelings so easily. And worse, seemed to have none of his own. Like a naïve child she’d believed her father loved her. Now she knew the terrible truth that he didn’t, and never had.
Baubles, presents, a careless pat or smile—these things cost her father nothing. They’d been sops to appease her, not expressions of his love. It was so obvious now, so awful. For when his ambition was at stake, Johara’s happiness was a sacrifice he didn’t even have to think about making.
Her father had arranged her flight back to Provence that afternoon, so she could pack her things and collect her mother before returning for the wedding. Naima Behwar rarely left her bed, much less the villa in Provence, and Arif didn’t want the trouble of having to coax her out of either. Amazing, really, how Johara could now see how self-serving he was. Kindness only came when it was free. Why hadn’t she considered his father’s treatment of her mother—his
