‘One of many.’ Leo slid his arm through hers. ‘We should go. There are reporters outside.’
Once again flashbulbs went off in front of her as they stepped out of the hotel. Their car was waiting with several security guards to shepherd them from one door to another, but they paused on the threshold to smile and wave at the blurred faces in front of them. Leo’s arm felt like a steel band under hers, his muscles corded with tension.
As they slid into the darkened sanctuary of the car, she felt him relax marginally, his breath coming out in a tiny sigh of relief.
‘How have you stood it for so long?’ she asked as she adjusted the folds of her dress around her. They were slippery to hold, and glittered even in the dim light of the car’s interior.
‘Stood what?’
‘Being on display.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all I’ve ever known.’
‘But you don’t like it.’
‘I suppose I’m getting tired of it,’ he allowed. ‘It’s been going on for a long time.’
‘Since you were a child?’
‘More or less.’ He turned away from her then, so she could only see the shadowy profile of his cheek and jaw as he stared out of the window.
She couldn’t imagine living like that for so long. The last six years had been challenging enough, with her intermittent public appearances, and she at least had had the escape of university and a relatively normal life. Leo never had, had never experienced anything really normal—or perhaps even real.
‘We’re here.’
The car had pulled up in front of one of London’s exclusive clubs on Pall Mall, and another contingent of photographers and journalists waited by the doors.
They didn’t pose for photographs or answer questions as the security hustled them from the car to the door, and then inside to the hushed foyer of the club. Yet even inside that hallowed place Alyse was conscious of a different kind of scrutiny: the hundred or so privileged guests who mingled in the club’s ballroom were eyeing them with discreet but still noticeable curiosity. The Prince and his Cinderella bride; of course people were curious. Even alone in Durham she’d received those kinds of looks, had seen herself on the covers of magazines. She’d tried not to let it bother her, had made herself shrug it off and focus on the positives, on engaging with the public in as real a way as she could.
Yet she felt different now, and it wasn’t because of the looks or the photos or the endless attention and publicity. It was because of Leo. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he fetched them both champagne, talking and nodding with some important person, a stuffy-looking man with greying hair and a paunch. Alyse thought he looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know his name.
And Leo... Leo looked remarkably at ease, the tension he’d shown earlier firmly masked and hidden away. He put his arm around her waist, and even as she thrilled to his touch, as always, Alyse felt a chill creep into her soul because how on earth could she actually tell when her husband was being real?
Perhaps the last week had been as much about pretending as tonight. Perhaps Leo didn’t even know how to be real.
‘You need to smile,’ Leo murmured, his own face set into easy, relaxed lines. ‘You’re looking tense.’
‘Sorry.’ Alyse tried to smile. This was so hard now, so much harder than it had ever been before. She was sick to death of pretending, sick of all this fear and uncertainty. Sick of wondering just what Leo felt for her, if anything.
‘Now you look terrified,’ Leo remarked in a low voice and she felt his arm tense around her waist. ‘What’s wrong? We’ve done this before.’
‘It feels different now,’ Alyse whispered. She felt different. But she had no idea if Leo did.
‘It shouldn’t,’ he answered shortly, and steered her towards a crowd of speculative socialites. She forced herself to widen her wobbly smile, feeling more heartsick and uncertain than ever.
* * *
Leo fought the urge to tear off his white tie and stride from the club without a backward glance. Every second of this evening had been interminable, and the falseness of his and Alyse’s behavior rubbed him horribly raw. He’d never minded before or, if he had, he’d shrugged it off. He’d had to. He’d always had to.
Yet now... Now the pretence irritated and even sickened him. The last week had been difficult at times, uncomfortable at others, but it had been real—or at least as real as he knew anything to be. The days and nights he’d spent with Alyse had fed something in him, a hunger he’d never known he had. He wanted more even as he doubted whether he should—or could.
He glanced again at Alyse, her eyes troubled even as she smiled at someone, and he desired nothing more in this moment than to take her in his arms and strip that shimmery gown from her body, let it slide into a silver puddle at her feet...
Her smile, he thought, looked decidedly wooden. Why was it so hard to pretend to be in love, when they’d been getting along better than ever? It should have been easier, but it wasn’t. Friendship had complicated things, he thought darkly, just as he’d predicted. The parody of head-over-heels emotion they were enacting now only made their real relationship—whatever that was—seem paltry in comparison...and he had a feeling Alyse knew it.
I don’t know how much I have to give. The words had come from him with sudden, startling honesty, because in that moment after they’d first made love he hadn’t known what he was going to say, only that everything had changed.
But perhaps it hadn’t changed. Perhaps even that had been nothing more than a mirage, a fantasy, just as tonight was. Everything in his life—every emotion, every caress, kiss or loving touch—had been faked. How on earth could he expect this to be real?
He didn’t even know what real was.
Two hours later they were back in the car, speeding towards their hotel in Mayfair. All around them the lights of the city glittered under a midsummer drizzle, the pavement slick and gleaming with rain. Alyse hadn’t spoken since they’d got into the car and Leo eyed her now, her face averted from him so he could only see the soft, sweet curve of her cheek, the surprising strength of her jaw. He longed to touch her.
He didn’t.
This was their life now, he reminded himself. This pretending. No matter what might be developing between them, neither of them could escape the grim reality that every time they stepped outside of the palace they would be pretending to feel something else.
A simple, emotionless business arrangement would really be easier.
Yet, even as he told himself that, he couldn’t keep from reaching for her as soon as they were back in their suite. She came willingly, her dress whispering against his legs, but he saw shadows in her eyes and her lip trembled before she bit it. He wanted to banish it all: the party, the pretence, the doubt and fear he felt in her now—and in himself. He wanted to make her smile, and the only way he knew of doing that was to kiss her, so he did.
Gently at first, but then he felt the softness of her mouth, the surrender of her
