Princess Gabrielle was not just the best choice, but the only choice for his bride.
Luc had met with King Josef to settle the final contracts in the King’s sumptuous suite at the Hotel le Bristol in Paris, with its stunning view of the great Sacré-Coeur basilica that rose, gleaming white, and towered above the city from Montmartre.
“You do not wish to meet her?” the older man had asked when the business was done, settling back in his chair to enjoy his port.
“It is not necessary,” Luc had replied. He had inclined his head. “Unless you wish it?”
“What is it to me?” the King had asked, letting out a puff of air through his nose. “She will marry you whether you meet her or not.”
“You are certain?” Luc had asked lightly, though he had not in truth been concerned. Arrangements would never have reached this stage if the King had not been sure of his daughter’s obedience. “Ours is an unusual settlement in this day and age. A princess and a kingdom in exchange for wealth and business interests—I am told this sounds like something out of a history book.”
The King had made a dismissive noise. “My daughter was raised to do the right thing regarding her country. I have always insisted that Gabrielle understands her position necessitates a certain dignity.” The King had swirled his port in its tumbler. He had frowned. “And great responsibility.”
“She appears to have taken it to heart,” Luc had said, looking at his own drink. “I have never heard her mentioned without reference to her grace and composure.”
“Of course.” The King had seemed almost taken aback. “She has known all her life that her role as princess would come before any more personal considerations. She will be a good queen one day—though she requires a firm hand to guide her.” He’d sniffed. “You will have no trouble with her.”
No trouble, Luc had thought with deep satisfaction, would suit him perfectly.
The King had waved his hand, seeming perturbed that they had spoken so long about something he found far beneath his notice. “But enough of that. Let us drink to the future of Miravakia.” He had raised his glass.
“To the future of Miravakia,” Luc had murmured in response. She would be his wife, and finally, finally, he would prove to himself and to the world that he was not cut from the same histrionic cloth as his late parents. Finally he would prove that he, Luc Garnier, was above reproach as well.
“Yes, yes,” King Josef had said, and then raised a brow at Luc, as if sharing a confidence. “And to women who know their place.”
As she moved closer now, down the cathedral’s long aisle, Luc let himself smile, though he did not relax.
She was perfect. He had made sure of it. And now she was his.
Gabrielle could see him now, from beneath her veil, as she finally approached the altar. He stood straight and tall at the front of the cathedral, his gaze seeming to command her even as she walked toward him. Toward their future.
Luc Garnier. Her groom. Gabrielle had never met him—but she had researched him in the months since her father had announced his name. He was descended from centuries of Italian royalty on his mother’s side, with a French billionaire father whose fortunes he had doubled before he turned twenty-five. His parents’ tumultuous love affair had made headlines while Luc was still young. They had perished in a boating accident when Luc was still in his early twenties, which many claimed was the reason he was so driven, so determined. She fancied she could see his ruthlessness in the line of his jaw, the gleam of his dark eyes.
I can’t do this—
But she was doing it.
She had no choice—she had given herself no choice—but she didn’t have to watch it happen. She kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to look at this man—this stranger who would soon be her husband—but she could feel him next to her, above her, as her father handed her off. Luc’s large hands took her trembling fingers between his, and guided her the final few steps toward the bishop.
Gabrielle’s senses went into overload. Her heart pounded against her ribs while tears of anger and something else, something darker, pooled behind her eyes and threatened to blind her.
He was so masculine, so unyielding. Next to her, his big body seemed to dwarf hers. His body radiated power and menace like heat, surging from their clasped hands through Gabrielle’s veins—making her limbs feel dangerously weak.
This is just another panic attack. She ordered herself to breathe. To get a hold of herself and the riot of confusion that made her tremble against the man at her side.
The stranger her father had sold her to.
If Gabrielle closed her eyes she could imagine herself out in the sunshine, basking in the cool winds that swept down from the Alps on the mainland and scrubbed the island clean and cool even at the height of summer. Black pines and red roofs spread across the hilly island, cascading to the rocky beaches that lined the shore. Gabrielle’s tiny country was a fiercely independent island in the Adriatic Sea, closer to the rugged Croatian coastline to the east than Italy to the west, and she loved it.
For her country, her father, she would do anything.
Even this.
But she kept her eyes closed and imagined herself anywhere but here.
Anywhere at all…
“Open your eyes,” Luc ordered her under his breath, as the wizened bishop performed the ceremony before them. The silly creature had gone stiff next to him, and he could see her eyes squeezed shut beneath her veil—so tight that her mouth puckered slightly.
He felt her start, her delicate hands trembling against his. Her fingers were cold and pale. Her features were indistinct behind the ornate veil, but he could see the fabric move with each breath she took.
“How…?” Her voice was the slightest whisper of sound, but still it tickled his senses. Luc’s gaze traveled over the elegant line of her neck, exposed beneath the translucent shimmer of her veil. She was made of fine lines and gentle curves, and he wanted to put his mouth on every one of them.
The rush of desire surprised him. He’d known that she was beautiful, and had anticipated that he would enjoy marital relations with her. But this was something more than enjoyment. He was aware of the tension in her shoulders, the ragged edge to her breathing. He was aware of her, and he could hardly see her face through the veil. He felt lust pool in his groin and radiate outward, so that even the touch of her fingers at an altar three feet from the bishop sent heat washing through him.
Then he realized that she was shaking. Perhaps she was not quite as sanguine about this wedding as he’d supposed.
Luc almost laughed. There he was, imagining their wedding night in vivid, languorous detail, while his bride was awash in nerves. He couldn’t blame her—he knew that many found him intimidating. Why shouldn’t she?
“We will suit each other well,” he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. An impulse entirely foreign to him—as alien as the urge to protect her that followed it.
He felt the shiver that snaked through her then, and he squeezed his fingers tighter around hers.
