The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

Gianferro turned to her as the car came to a halt. He had been preoccupied and silent during the journey. She had longed to say something which would comfort him, but she had not been able to find the words—and something inside her had told her that he would not wish to hear them even if she could. She sensed that he was glad to have his position and authority to hide behind. Perhaps for Gianferro it was lucky that expressed emotions would be inappropriate right now.

      She reached out a tentative hand towards his, but he didn’t even seem to notice, and so she let it fall back onto her lap and stared out of the window instead, her mind muddled and troubled. Her future as Princess had been daunting enough, but as Queen? It didn’t bear thinking about.

      His voice was low and flat. ‘After we have been greeted you will go to our suite,’ he instructed. ‘I will come to you as soon as I can.’

      ‘When?’ she whispered.

      ‘Millie, I do not know. You must be patient.’

      And that was that. In a daze, Millie followed behind him as dignitary after dignitary bowed—first to him and then to her.

      Once in the suite, she pulled the black hat from her head and looked around the unfamiliar surroundings with a sense of panic.

      Now what did she do? She felt as though she had been marooned on a luxurious but inaccessible island, with no one to talk to or confide in. No one to weep with—except that she felt bad about that, too, because there were no tears to shed. She felt sad, yes—but she had only met Gianferro’s father once. She hadn’t known him at all—and wouldn’t it be hypocritical to try to conjure up tears simply because it was expected of her?

      Her two sisters-in-law called on her, both dropping deep curtseys before her.

      ‘Please don’t feel you have to do that,’ begged Millie.

      ‘But we do,’ said the taller of them, in a clipped, matter-of-fact voice which was distorted with grief. ‘It is simply courtesy, Your Majesty.’

      Millie heard the term of address with a sense of mounting disbelief. She had not yet had a chance to get used to it, and it seemed so strange to hear it coming from the lips of two women who were, in effect, her peers.

      Ella and Lucy were both English, and both genuinely upset at the King’s death. Millie felt like a fraud as she watched Lucy’s face crumple with sorrow.

      ‘I feel so bad for Guido!’ Lucy wailed. ‘He’s beating himself up about having stayed away from Mardivino for so many years!’

      ‘Nico’s doing exactly the same,’ said Ella gloomily. ‘He says that if he hadn’t given his father so much worry about his dangerous sports over the years, then he might still be alive.’

      ‘But the King was an old man,’ said Millie softly. ‘And he had been sick for a long time.’

      They both stared at her.

      ‘But their mother died when they were little,’ said Lucy, swallowing down a gulp. ‘And the King was all they had.’

      Millie could have kicked herself. She had been trying to offer comfort, that was all—and now she had probably come across as cold and uncaring. Or—even worse—perhaps they thought she was rejoicing in her new role.

      She could see the curiosity in their eyes as they looked at her—and was aware that her lofty new status had put distance between them without her ever having had a chance to get to know them properly.

      She drew a deep breath. She didn’t want them to think her heartless. Or snooty.

      ‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure what she was sorry about. Her inability to cry? The distance she was afraid she might have created between herself and the two women who were in the perfect position to be her friends? Or the fact that maybe she should accept that no one would be able to get close to her now that she was Queen?

      The funeral took place in the Cathedral where she had been so recently married—but whereas that day had been Technicolored and jubilant, this day was mournful and monochrome.

      Millie was exhausted by the time the last of the world leaders had left, and she could see the strain etched deeply on Gianferro’s face—he looked as if he had aged by five years. She had sat next to him during the service, but since then she hadn’t been able to get close to him. It seemed that everyone wanted a piece of him, and she was the last in line.

      Eventually she went to their suite, stripped off her black suit and hat, and soaked for ages in a bath. But he didn’t return. She surveyed the froth of exquisite handmade silk negligees which had made up her trousseau, and pushed the drawer shut on them. It seemed somehow wrong to dress in pale and provocative finery when the Palace was officially in mourning.

      The honeymoon was over almost before it had begun.

      She must have fallen asleep, for she was woken by the sound of a light footfall in the room. She blinked open her eyes and, once they were accustomed to the dim light, saw the silhouetted figure of her husband standing by the bed.

      ‘Gianferro?’

      ‘Who else?’ His voice sounded raw, as if someone had been grating at it with a metal implement.

      ‘What time is it?’

      ‘Late. Go back to sleep, Millie.’

      But she didn’t want to go back to sleep. She had been pushed away by protocol, but there was no protocol here now—not in the dim, darkened privacy of their bedroom.

      She lay there, not knowing what to do.

      Gianferro wriggled his shoulders to try and remove some of the tension which was making his neck ache. He had been on some kind of autopilot all day. It had been crazy since he, like so many of the courtiers, had been expected to know exactly what to do. But how could he? Some of the older dignitaries remembered the death of his mother—but he had been only a child.

      Yet the day had gone smoothly—even well. There had been no hitches or glitches, no assassination threats or attempts. The massed choirs had inspired people to say that it had been a beautiful service. And now his father was buried deep in the ground and he felt…what?

      He didn’t know.

      Empty, he guessed. As if he had been scrubbed clean of all emotion. There had been no place for private grief—not today. Not with the eyes of the world’s press trained like hawks upon him—greedy for a slip in composure which would be taken as a sign of weakness and an inability to rule.

      ‘Gianferro?’

      Her voice stirred over his shattered senses like a gentle breeze, but he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Wanted to be alone with them, as he had been all his life. To sort and sift them and then push them away. Of all the times to find himself with a wife there could not possibly have been a worse one. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said tightly.

      But Millie had had days of being pushed away. No, she would not go to sleep! She sat bolt upright in bed and switched on the light. She heard him suck in a ragged breath. Was he shocked that she was naked? Was it also a sign of mourning for the Monarch that she should be swathed in some concealing night attire?

      He had taken most of his uniform off, and was standing there in just a pair of dark tapered trousers and a crisp white shirt which he had undone at the collar. He looked as if he had stepped straight out of one of the many portraits which lined the corridors of the Palace. A man from another age. But maybe that wasn’t so fanciful—for weren’t Kings ageless and timeless?

      The King is dead…long live the King.

      ‘Gianferro?’ she whispered, more timidly now.

      How could it be that when his senses felt dead—his feelings as barren as some desert landscape—desire should leap up like some hot and pulsing and irresistible hidden well?

      ‘Millie,’ he said simply.

      It was the most human and approachable