The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald

it was just going to be more of the same. Isolation. ‘But, if you recall, I said that I would like to learn in a class with other people.’

      ‘And I think that, if you recall, I hinted that such a scenario would be inappropriate.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is wrong with taking your lessons here, cara?’

      Take courage, Millie—he’ll never know unless you tell him. ‘Sometimes I feel a little…lonely, here at the Palace.’ She saw his frown deepen and she hastily amended her words, not wanting him to think that she was spoilt or ungrateful. ‘Oh, I know that you’re busy—of course you are—but…’ Her words tapered off, because she wasn’t quite sure where she was going with them.

      ‘You are still not with child?’

      Millie stared at him and the nagging little feeling of guilt she had been doing her best to quash reared its mocking head. Perhaps a baby was the answer. Maybe she should throw her Pills away and no one would ever be the wiser. ‘N-no.’

      ‘You wish to consult the Palace obstetrician?’

      There was something so chillingly matter-of-fact about his question that hot on the heels of her wavering came rebellion, and Millie bristled. As if a baby would solve everything! As if she was little more than a brood mare! ‘I think it’s early days yet, don’t you?’ she questioned, trying to keep her voice reasonable. ‘We’ve only been married for six months.’

      He quelled the oddly painful feeling of disappointment. She was right—it was early days indeed. Here was one thing he could not command. An heir would be his just as soon as nature—and fate—decreed it.

      ‘Yes, that is so,’ he agreed, and gave her a soft smile. ‘What about your horses?’ he questioned, for he had acquired for her two of the finest Andalusian mares that money could buy. ‘Surely they provide adequate amusement for you?’

      Millie bristled even more. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but horses do not speak.’

      ‘Yet the grooms tell me that you communicate with them almost as if they could speak.’ His voice dipped with pride. ‘That your enthusiasm for all things equine equals the energy you put in to your charity work.’

      She knew that in his subtle way he was praising her—telling her that she made a good Queen and that there was plenty to occupy her without her trying to make a life for herself outside the rigid confines of the Palace. She could see that from his point of view it would be so much easier for a tutor to be brought in.

      ‘And your English sisters-in-law,’ he continued. ‘You like Ella and Lucy, do you not?’

      ‘Yes, I like them very much,’ said Millie truthfully. But Ella and Lucy were different, and not just because they were mothers. Their relationships with their husbands were close and inclusive—and that wasn’t just her imagining. She had seen them sometimes, at State Banquets, behaving with all the decorum expected of their position—but occasionally sneaking a small, shared look or a secret smile. Gianferro never did that with her.

      She knew that comparisons were wrong, and could lead you nowhere except to dissatisfaction, and Millie wanted to be contented with her lot—or rather she wanted to make the best of what she had, not yearn for something which could never be hers.

      But sometimes it was hard not to—especially when her sisters-in-law had genuine love-matches. Theirs had not been marriages of convenience, where the winning hand had been the bride-to-be’s innocence and inexperience.

      ‘I guess I don’t really know them that well,’ she said thoughtfully.

      ‘Well, then?’ said Gianferro impatiently. ‘Invite them round for tea! Get to know them a little better!’

      His arrogance and condescension took her breath away and strengthened her determination to fight for a little freedom.

      ‘Very well, I will—but I should still like to go to a class,’ she said quietly. ‘What harm can it do?’

      Gianferro drummed his fingers on the polished rosewood of his desk. He was not used to having his wishes thwarted, but he recognised a new light of purpose in his wife’s eyes. ‘It could…complicate things,’ he murmured.

      ‘How?’

      Would she believe him if he told her? Or was this going to be one of the lessons she needed to learn for herself? He knew what she was trying to do—trying to dip into a ‘normal’ life once more—but she could not. Her life had changed in ways she had not even begun to comprehend. He felt a fleeting wave of regret that it should be so, which was swiftly followed by irritation that she would not be guided by his experience. ‘It will not be as you imagine it to be,’ he warned. ‘Being Royal sets you apart.’

      ‘I think I’d prefer to find that out for myself,’ said Millie, but a smile was twitching at her lips, because suddenly this one small blow for freedom felt important. Tremendously important.

      ‘Very well,’ he said shortly. ‘I will speak to Alesso.’

      It was clear from his attitude that the usually sanguine Alesso disapproved of her request almost as much as Gianferro did, but Millie held firm and two weeks later she was allowed to go to an Italian class, accompanied by a bodyguard.

      The class had been chosen by Alesso, and was held in a large room at the British Embassy. Millie was greeted by the Ambassador’s wife, who dropped a deep curtsey before her. She wanted to say Please don’t make a fuss, except that she knew her words would be redundant. People did make a fuss—indeed, they would be disappointed if they were not allowed to! But she had given Alesso prior warning that her participation in the class was not to be announced.

      ‘I’d like to just slip in unnoticed,’ said Millie softly. She had dressed as anonymously as possible—a knee-length skirt and a simple sweater, for while the Mardivinian winter was mild, there was a faint chill to the air.

      Alesso had raised his eyebrows. ‘Certainly, Your Majesty.’

      She smiled. ‘Loosen up,’ she said softly. ‘It’s only an Italian class!’

      The tutor had his back to her when she walked in—he was busy scrawling verbs on a blackboard—and as the door opened he turned round and frowned, pushing back the dark, shoulder-length hair which hung almost to his shoulders.

      ‘You are late!’ he admonished.

      Clearly he didn’t recognise her! Millie bit back a smile as she heard the slight inrush of breath from the Ambassador’s wife, and almost imperceptibly shook her head in a silent don’t fuss command. ‘Sorry,’ she said meekly, quickly making her way to a spare place at the back of the room. ‘I’ll just sit quietly and try to catch up.’

      He nodded. ‘Make sure you do.’

      The next hour was spent busily trying to retain fact after fact and word after word. For a brief moment Millie realised how long it was since she had actually used her brain—not since school, and then not as much as she could have done.

      But she found that she was enjoying herself, and soon lost herself in the challenge of learning something for the first time.

      Her first faltering attempts at speaking aloud were greeted with smiles from the others, but she found herself smiling when their turn came. They were all in the same boat, and the sense of belonging she experienced filled her with a warm glow.

      At the end of the class the others began to file out, and Millie was just gathering her books together when the tutor strolled down towards her and paused by her desk. He looked more like an artist than a teacher, she thought, with his long dark hair and jeans and T-shirt.

      ‘You enjoyed my class?’ he questioned.

      Millie nodded. ‘Very much. You made it seem…easy!’

      ‘Ah! You should not say such things.’ He laughed. ‘Or the expectation for you to become my star pupil will be too high!’

      ‘Okay, you made it