Read Online A Queen for the Taking? by Kate Hewitt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Hewitt
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put her hands on Liana’s shoulders, met her gaze in the mirror. ‘You do want this marriage, Liana, don’t you?’ Liana opened her mouth to say of course she did, because she knew she couldn’t say anything else. Not when her mother wanted it so much. Even now, with all the doubts swirling through her mind, she felt that. Believed it.
‘Because I know we might seem old-fashioned to you,’ Gabriella continued in a rush. ‘Asking you to marry a man you’ve barely met.’ Now Liana closed her mouth. It was old-fashioned, but she wasn’t going to fight it. Wasn’t going to wish for something else.
What was the point? Her parents wanted it, and it was too late anyway. And in any case, a real marriage, a marriage based on intimacy and love, held no appeal for her.
Neither did a husband who seemed as if he hated her.
And wasn’t that her fault? For telling him she didn’t respect him? For pushing him away out of her own hurt pride and fear? But perhaps it was better for Sandro to hate her than call up all those feelings and needs. Perhaps antipathy would actually be easier.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Gabriella said quietly. ‘As your father does.’
And they thought marrying a stranger would make her happy?
No, Liana thought tiredly, they didn’t want her to be happy, not really. They wanted to feel as if she had been taken care of, dealt with. Tidied away. They wanted to forget her, because she knew soul deep that every time her parents looked at her they were reminded of Chiara. Of Chiara’s death.
Just as she was.
If she married Sandro, at least she’d be out of the way. Easier to forget.
Better for everyone, really.
She drew a breath into her lungs, forced her expression into a smile. ‘I am happy, Mother. I will be.’
Her mother nodded, not questioning that statement. Not wanting to know. ‘Good,’ she said, and kissed Liana’s cold cheek.
A few minutes later her mother left for the chapel, leaving Liana alone to face the walk down the aisle by herself. Maldinian tradition dictated that the bride walk by herself, and the groom keep his back to her until she reached his side.
A stupid tradition, probably meant to terrify brides into submission, she thought with a grimace. And would it terrify her? What would the expression on Sandro’s face be when he did turn around? Contempt? Disgust? Hatred? Desire? She knew she shouldn’t even care, but she did.
Ever since she’d first met Sandro, she’d started caring. Feeling. And that alarmed her more than anything.
She closed her eyes, fought against the nerves churning in her stomach and threatening to revolt up her throat. Why had this man woken something inside her she’d thought was not just asleep, but dead? How had he resurrected it?
She longed to go back to the numb safety she’d lived in for so long. For twenty years, since she was eight. Eight years old, pale faced and trembling, staring at the grief-stricken expressions on her parents’ faces as she told them the truth.
I was there. It was my fault.
And they had, in their silence, agreed. Of course they had, because it was the truth. Chiara’s death had been entirely her fault, and that was a truth she could never, ever escape.
This marriage was, in its own way, meant to be more penance. But it wasn’t meant to make her feel . Want. Need.
Yet in the six weeks since she’d returned from Maldinia, it had. She felt the shift inside herself, an inexorable moving of the tectonic plates of her soul, and it was one she didn’t welcome. Ever since Sandro’s scathing indictment of her, his assault on her convictions, her body, her whole self, she’d started to feel more. Want more. And she was desperate to stop, to snatch back the numbness, the safety.
‘Lady Liana? It’s time.’
Woodenly Liana nodded and then followed Paula, the palace’s press secretary, to the small chapel where the service would take place.
‘This will be a very quiet affair,’ Paula said.
‘Because I know we might seem old-fashioned to you,’ Gabriella continued in a rush. ‘Asking you to marry a man you’ve barely met.’ Now Liana closed her mouth. It was old-fashioned, but she wasn’t going to fight it. Wasn’t going to wish for something else.
What was the point? Her parents wanted it, and it was too late anyway. And in any case, a real marriage, a marriage based on intimacy and love, held no appeal for her.
Neither did a husband who seemed as if he hated her.
And wasn’t that her fault? For telling him she didn’t respect him? For pushing him away out of her own hurt pride and fear? But perhaps it was better for Sandro to hate her than call up all those feelings and needs. Perhaps antipathy would actually be easier.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Gabriella said quietly. ‘As your father does.’
And they thought marrying a stranger would make her happy?
No, Liana thought tiredly, they didn’t want her to be happy, not really. They wanted to feel as if she had been taken care of, dealt with. Tidied away. They wanted to forget her, because she knew soul deep that every time her parents looked at her they were reminded of Chiara. Of Chiara’s death.
Just as she was.
If she married Sandro, at least she’d be out of the way. Easier to forget.
Better for everyone, really.
She drew a breath into her lungs, forced her expression into a smile. ‘I am happy, Mother. I will be.’
Her mother nodded, not questioning that statement. Not wanting to know. ‘Good,’ she said, and kissed Liana’s cold cheek.
A few minutes later her mother left for the chapel, leaving Liana alone to face the walk down the aisle by herself. Maldinian tradition dictated that the bride walk by herself, and the groom keep his back to her until she reached his side.
A stupid tradition, probably meant to terrify brides into submission, she thought with a grimace. And would it terrify her? What would the expression on Sandro’s face be when he did turn around? Contempt? Disgust? Hatred? Desire? She knew she shouldn’t even care, but she did.
Ever since she’d first met Sandro, she’d started caring. Feeling. And that alarmed her more than anything.
She closed her eyes, fought against the nerves churning in her stomach and threatening to revolt up her throat. Why had this man woken something inside her she’d thought was not just asleep, but dead? How had he resurrected it?
She longed to go back to the numb safety she’d lived in for so long. For twenty years, since she was eight. Eight years old, pale faced and trembling, staring at the grief-stricken expressions on her parents’ faces as she told them the truth.
I was there. It was my fault.
And they had, in their silence, agreed. Of course they had, because it was the truth. Chiara’s death had been entirely her fault, and that was a truth she could never, ever escape.
This marriage was, in its own way, meant to be more penance. But it wasn’t meant to make her feel . Want. Need.
Yet in the six weeks since she’d returned from Maldinia, it had. She felt the shift inside herself, an inexorable moving of the tectonic plates of her soul, and it was one she didn’t welcome. Ever since Sandro’s scathing indictment of her, his assault on her convictions, her body, her whole self, she’d started to feel more. Want more. And she was desperate to stop, to snatch back the numbness, the safety.
‘Lady Liana? It’s time.’
Woodenly Liana nodded and then followed Paula, the palace’s press secretary, to the small chapel where the service would take place.
‘This will be a very quiet affair,’ Paula said.
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