but first we must find the right silk for you.’’
Malik had been watching everything closely from his position on one pumpkin-hued sofa. He suddenly spoke to the designer in Arabic.
The designer listened attentively, bowed and turning to Nic, she smiled. ‘‘You are very fortunate, Your Highness, the sultan wishes you to have a gown made from each.’’
Nic wished everyone would stop telling her how fortunate she was. She did not feel fortunate. She felt trapped. And a gown of each color would only trap her more.
Turning, she glanced at King Nuri where he reclined on the plush sofa. His rust-colored shirt had fallen open at the collar, exposing the higher plane of his chest. He was all hard, honed muscle.
She tried not to imagine how lovely all that hard, honed muscle would be naked. She was already far too aware of him, far too attracted to him. The last thing she needed was proof of his sensuality…sexuality…virility. ‘‘I appreciate your generosity, Your Highness, but I do not need so many expensive gowns.’’
‘‘It gives me pleasure to dress you,’’ he answered lazily, a spark of possession in his eyes.
Nic swallowed, thinking she didn’t like the possessive light in his eyes, or the expense, and waste, of gowns she’d never wear. She wouldn’t be here long enough to wear even one of them. ‘‘I understand you are a generous man—’’
‘‘Proud, too.’’
The pitch of his voice made her stomach flip. He looked so relaxed, and yet she felt distinctly uneasy. Was she imagining the note of warning in his voice?
Shaken, Nic looked down, saw the latest bolt of fabric wrap her breast and hips, the silk a wispy blue like the blue of the sky after a hard cleansing rain. She liked the blue. It made her feel almost calm.
‘‘And one of the blue silk, too,’’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘‘That is my favorite so far.’’
The fitting ended soon after, concluding in silence. The designer bowed deeply to the sultan, thanking him profusely, and then excused herself leaving Nic and King Nuri alone.
Nic heard the great wooden door softly close behind the seamstress. She remained where she was on the dais, feeling strangely alone, and unusually foolish.
‘‘Which will be my wedding gown?’’ she asked, stepping off the platform and adjusting the band collar on her simple white linen overcoat and long slim skirt.
The sultan cocked his head. ‘‘Does it matter?’’
No. It didn’t matter. She’d only been making conversation, trying to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t as if she’d ever wear the gown anyway. ‘‘You’re angry with me.’’
‘‘No. Not at all.’’ He extended a hand to her. ‘‘Come. Sit here with me so we might speak more comfortably.’’
She moved to sit on a sofa across from his but he shook his head. ‘‘Here.’’ He placed a hand on the pumpkin silk sofa where he reclined.
Gingerly she sat next to him. ‘‘Comfortable?’’ he asked.
She ignored the mockery underlying the question. ‘‘Yes.’’ Maybe he wasn’t angry, but there was something on his mind.
He adjusted one of the gorgeous gold tapestry pillows, placing it behind her back. ‘‘Better?’’
‘‘I wasn’t uncomfortable.’’
‘‘Yes, but one could always feel more peace…more pleasure.’’ He folded his arms behind his head, studied her face, her expression outwardly serene. ‘‘Did you enjoy the fitting?’’
‘‘I think I mentioned before that I’m not particularly fashion conscious.’’
‘‘But the newspapers and magazines are always proclaiming your strong sense of fashion. Aren’t you the clear favorite in the design world?’’
Chantal was, of course. Every designer loved to dress the very slender, and inherently elegant, Chantal Thibaudet, the beautiful widowed princess of La Croix. Chantal had been beloved as the eldest Ducasse daughter, but once married and widowed, the public embraced her even more.
Nic’s emotions ran riot. Chantal didn’t obsess about fashion. She’d always been stylish, even sophisticated. The family used to joke that even as a baby Chantal would tug on her bonnet until it had a jaunty angle.
But Nic found the public’s love affair with beautiful, fashionable princesses burdensome. She’d rather spend a day figuring math problems than go clothes-shopping. ‘‘One of the drawbacks of being in the public eye, is the constant pressure to maintain one’s image. I’ve often felt there is too much value placed on appearances, Your Highness. I personally dislike having to worry about clothes and fashion when there is so much happening in the world that is of real importance.’’
‘‘You always surprise me.’’ The sultan smiled, and it was a genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and made the grooves along his mouth deepen. The warmth of the smile was almost unbearably appealing.
Nic’s mouth dried. He looked so comfortable in himself, so physical and sexual at the same time. ‘‘That’s good?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ His smile faded but the warmth remained in his eyes. He exuded intelligence, as well as compassion. He wore his mantle of authority well. ‘‘Do you know why I selected you, Princess?’’
It was hard to concentrate with him looking at her like that. She wanted to focus and yet she felt so many emotions that she had no business feeling. ‘‘I know you wanted better Mediterranean port access.’’
‘‘But there are numerous Mediterranean ports, and numerous single European princesses interested in marriage.’’ He hesitated, speaking each word with care. ‘‘I chose you, because I respect you. I believe you are like me. You understand the responsibilities of being a princess of the royal Ducasse family, and your loyalty, along with your sense of duty, make you an ideal mate.’’
Nic couldn’t breathe. She felt the air settle in her chest. He had it all wrong. She lacked Chantal’s sense of duty. Her loyalty was to her own family. That’s why she was here. Not for Melio, but for Chantal and Lilly. ‘‘You don’t worry I’d run away…fail to fulfill my obligations here?’’
‘‘You didn’t in La Croix.’’
No, Chantal hadn’t run away. Not in La Croix, not in Melio, not ever. But that’s because good Chantal, first born Chantal, had been a pleaser since birth. All she’d ever wanted was to do the ‘‘right’’ thing, and yet the thing that had driven Nic crazy was the thought, how did Chantal even know what was right?
Nic had never known what was right. She’d had to search for meaning, ask questions, test, push at each and every limitation. In her world, there’d been no ‘‘right,’’ there had only been truth, and truth wasn’t something one accepted blindly.
Truth required testing. Truth required proof.
‘‘Marriages that are not love matches can work.
