Page 22 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

She could see she hadn’t fooled Mel though when her friend frowned. ‘It’s not too late to call this whole thing off, you know, Issy,’ she whispered gently.

Of course it was, but even if it weren’t, Isabelle knew she didn’t want to call it off... She refused to examine the reasons why too closely.

‘Really, I’m just tired,’ she tried to reassure Mel, as well as herself. ‘The stylist and the beauticians have been fussing for hours already, and I’m keen to get this over with now.’

The itinerary that had finally been agreed upon for the wedding day included events right up until midnight. But the thought of what would happen after that—when she and Travis were supposed to repair to her private apartments for their wedding night—had her anxiety, and the pulse of yearning that had refused to die for two solid months, spiking.

She ignored it.

Not a real wedding, not a real wedding night. End of.

Thank goodness her apartment in the palace had several bedrooms. And Travis had already agreed to the terms of their marriage. She might have blurred the lines a little over the past weeks—thanks to the wedding stress, and his innate ability to make her do stupid things, not to mention stunt-kiss her senseless—but she would never put her end goal in jeopardy.

Never.

‘Okay, well, if you’re sure,’ Mel said, not looking convinced. ‘By the way, Rene has just arrived. Late. And hungover,’ she added, her voice edged with contempt.

Mel had never liked Androvia’s neighbouring playboy prince. When they had been ten-year-old girls together in the palace, Issy’s friend had often called out the teenage Rene for teasing both her and Isabelle whenever he came on an official visit accompanied by his father. But in recent years, her friend’s contempt for the neighbouring monarch seemed to have intensified.

Isabelle felt a pang of sympathy for the man. ‘I really wish Arne hadn’t asked him to stand up for me,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s not hurt.’

She’d been horrified when her chief courtier and the head of her household had informed her that, as a third cousin twice removed on her mother’s side, Prince Rene was her nearest male relative—and therefore would be expected to walk her down the aisle.

Unfortunately, she’d been unable to come up with a viable excuse not to ask him.

‘Hurt? How can he be hurt, when he doesn’t have any emotions, other than narcissism, arrogance and lust?’ Mel shot back.

‘Because he asked for my hand himself, once,’ Isabelle offered, her guilt mounting. Luckily no one but she and Rene and Mel knew about the proposal, but even so, this situation could not be more awkward.

‘You were eighteen at the time, Issy. And you know as well as I do, he only asked for your hand because he was looking for a royal virgin to be his brood mare. Given the number of women he’s dated since you turned him down, I think he got over your rejection pretty fast.’

‘Then why does he seem upset now?’ Isabelle asked, the guilt still weighing on her. Mel might dislike Rene, but Isabelle had started to believe he had been trapped by his circumstances and might never have been happy with the role assigned to him by fate—unlike her... From what she could remember of Rene’s father, Sven Gaultiere, the previous Prince of Saltzaland, the man had been a cold, cynical and ruthless autocrat. Was it any surprise his son had become a reckless libertine as soon as he had acceded to the throne at eighteen? That said, after ten years, it probably was about time Rene settled into his duties.

‘He’s not upset, he’s hungover,’ Mel hissed.

The delicate strains of the violin solo shimmered on the air, introducing Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’, played by the chapel’s famous string quartet, and lifted the hairs on Isabelle’s neck. And thoughts of Rene were superseded by a shocking rush of yearning.

Isabelle tensed as everyone took their places—and the knot of anticipation threatened to cut off her air supply.

But as she stepped into the chapel’s nave with Mel and her pageboys and bridesmaids arranged behind her the knot tightened. And throbbed.

Rene appeared from the shadows, resplendent in a dress uniform, and gave a curt bow before offering her his arm. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, with barely a hint of his usual sarcasm.

He was a strikingly handsome man—if you could ignore the brittle cynicism that never left his eyes—but as Isabelle placed her fingers on his arm, she noticed his complexion did look a little pale, his expression pained.

‘Hello, brat,’ he murmured to her maid of honour.

‘Go to hell, Gaultiere,’ Mel snapped under her breath, because she had never stood on ceremony with Rene.

‘Could you two behave?’ Isabelle whispered, but the familiar animosity had some of the tension in her gut easing. At least a little.

You can do this, Issy. It was your idea and now all you have to do is see it through.

The strings swelled accompanied by the chapel’s antique organ as the canon built to a crescendo—along with Isabelle’s rabbiting heartbeat.

‘Ready?’ Rene asked, with surprising thoughtfulness.

Isabelle nodded, unable to speak.

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