The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

gown and flowers had been left to her, but Gianferro had masterminded the rest of the wedding plans, and Millie had been happy for him to do so. She understood that there were certain rituals to be followed, and she understood the weighty significance of the ceremony itself. The world and Mardivino were watching, and the Cathedral was packed with Royals and dignitaries and Presidents and Prime Ministers.

      She knew that there was a small knot of her own relatives and family friends close to the altar, but she could not make out a single familiar face—they all swam into one curious and seeking blur. Never in her life had she known such a sense of lonely isolation as she began to walk towards him.

      Because her father was dead, there was no one to give her away. A long-lost uncle had been halfheartedly suggested, but rejected by Gianferro.

      ‘No,’ he had said decisively. ‘You will come to me alone.’

      The aisle seemed to go on for miles, as music from massed choirs spilled out in some poignantly beautiful melody. Millie clutched her bouquet just below waist level, as she had been told to, and there, by the flower-decked altar, stood the tall, dark figure of Gianferro.

      She could not see his face—all she was aware of as she grew closer was that he was in some kind of uniform, and that he looked formidably gorgeous. But a stranger to her, with his medals, and his hat with a plumed feather tucked beneath his arm.

      Now she could see him, his proud and unsmiling face. She searched the dark glitter of his eyes for some sign that his bride-to-be pleased him, and a frisson of fear ran through her. For a moment her sure and steady pace faltered.

      Was that…surely that was not displeasure she read in his eyes?

      For a moment Gianferro could scarcely believe what he was seeing—but it was not the customary pride and elation of a man looking at the woman he was about to marry, transformed into an angel with her wedding finery.

      Ah, si, she was transformed. But…

      Where were the unadorned pure features which had so captivated him? Her eyes looked so sooty that their deep blue beauty was lost, and the lips he had kissed so uninhibitedly were now slicked with a dark pink shade of lipstick. She looked like a…a…

      His eyes narrowed. He was going to have to speak to her about that. She must learn about his likes and dislikes, and he detested heavy make-up. Yet his face gave nothing away as she reached his side—only the tiny pulse hammering at the side of his temple gave any indication of his disquiet—and he could do nothing to control that.

      The hand she gave him was cold, but then Mardivino’s Cardinal began to intone the solemn words, and all was forgotten other than the import of what he was saying.

      As they emerged from the darkness into the brightness of the perfect summer’s day, he turned his head to look down at her. She must have sensed it, for her moist eyes turned up to him, like a swimmer who had spent too long under water.

      ‘Happy?’ he questioned, aware that cameras were upon them, that video tapes would be slowed down and analysed, his words lip-read. A world desperate to know what he was really thinking, to hear what he was really saying. Gianferro had never known real privacy, and it was a hard lesson that Millie was going to have to take on board.

      She felt the squeeze of his hand, which felt like a warning, and managed a tremulous smile. ‘Very,’ she replied. But she felt light-headed—the way you did when you’d had medication just before an operation, as if she had temporarily flown out of her own body and was hovering above it, looking down.

      She saw her painted doll mask of a face, and the little-girl trepidation in the heavily mascaraed eyes. And then Gianferro was guiding her towards the open carriage—her tulle veil billowing like a plume of white smoke behind her, diamonds glittering hard and bright in the tiara which crowned the elaborate confection of hair.

      The Rainbow Palace looked like a flower festival, and every step of the way there was someone to meet or to greet. Another person offering their bowing congratulations. Millie could see ambition written on the faces of the men who spoke to Gianferro, and narrow-eyed assessment from the women. Who was this bride their Crown Prince had brought to Mardivino? their expressions seemed to say.

      Good point, thought Millie—just who am I?

      She was beginning to despair of ever getting a moment alone with him—this outrageously handsome man who was now her husband—but at last they were seated side-by-side in the Banqueting Hall, dazzled by the array of gold and crystal.

      He turned to her. ‘So, Millie,’ he said softly. ‘The first hurdle has been crossed.’

      She laughed. ‘I can think in terms other than horse-riding, you know!’ she hesitated. ‘You…you haven’t said whether you like my dress,’ she said shyly.

      ‘The dress is everything it should be.’

      And? And? Say I look beautiful, even if you don’t mean it… For wasn’t every bride supposed to look beautiful on her wedding day—just from radiance and excitement alone?

      He dipped his head towards hers; she could feel his breath drifting across her skin. ‘Why did you cover your face with so much make-up?’

      Millie blinked, remembering Lulu’s words. ‘For the cameras, of course!’

      He had chosen an innocent country girl—not some Hollywood starlet, concerned about her image above all else! His mouth flattened.

      ‘You don’t like it?’ ventured Millie painfully.

      He shook his head, trying to dispel the tight band which was clamped around his head. The strain of the last few weeks had been intense, but after the wedding breakfast they would be alone at last, and then, in slow, pleasurable time, he could show her exactly what did please him.

      ‘Your skin is too fine too clog it up like that, cara

      mia,’ he observed softly. He saw her lips begin to tremble at the admonishment and he laid his hand firmly over hers, olive skin briefly obscuring the new, shiny gold of her wedding band. His voice was little more than a whispered caress. ‘Later you will scrub it off—do you understand? You will come to me bare and unadorned, stripped of all finery and artifice.’ He felt the deep throb of desire, which he had put on hold for so long that it seemed like an eternity. Carefully he took his hand away, for touch could tempt even the most steely resolution. ‘And that, cara Millie—that is how I wish to see you.’

      With a tremulous smile she nodded, then accepted a goblet of champagne from one of the footmen with a gratitude which was uncharacteristic. Never had she needed the softening effect of alcohol quite so much, and she drank deeply from the cup. Her very first test as the future Queen and she had failed him!

      She longed to rush out to the bathroom and wash it all off, there and then—but she would not dare to take such a liberty; new princesses did not nip off to powder their noses. In fact, from now on, her behaviour would have to be choreographed right down to the last second. The simple things which other people took for granted would be out of her reach. Even her mother had remarked drily, ‘You’d better cultivate a strong bladder, Millie.’

      ‘Smile for me now, Millie,’ he instructed silkily, wishing to see those dark shadows pass from her eyes. ‘And think instead what it will be like on our honeymoon.’

      This was a thought which had made her alternate between giddy excitement and stomach-churning nerves in the run-up to the wedding, but now the champagne had dissolved away her misgivings, and she felt her heart well up with the need to show him how good a wife she would be to him.

      She began to pleat her napkin, until she remembered that all eyes were upon them and stopped. ‘You haven’t told me yet where we’re going,’ she observed quietly.

      His eyes glittered with ebony fire. ‘Traditionally, is not the honeymoon supposed to be a surprise—a gift from the groom to his bride?’

      She wanted to say that, yes, of course it was—but suddenly it seemed to represent a whole lot more than that. Because