Lynn Raye Harris - Men In Uniform - Captivated By The Prince

As her hair was dressed up, ready to hold the weight of the tiara, and the finest film of coral rouge was applied to her cheeks, Emily began to feel increasingly like an inanimate object. No one seemed able to meet her eyes. No one spoke unless she instigated the conversation. And no one seemed prepared to volunteer an opinion on anything, preferring to wait for her to state her own views as if they were the only ones worth listening to. The lack of verbal interplay was driving her crazy. And her nerves were building to crisis level as what had been a theoretical exercise became all too real.

Just when she thought she couldn’t stand one more minute of it, her face broke into a smile.

‘Dad! Mum! Miranda!’ Breaking free of the posse of primpers, Emily fled across the room towards her family.

‘But, signorina…your veil,’ the designer called after her.

‘Give me a moment, please,’ Emily said, keeping her head firmly buried against her father’s shoulder.

‘Five minutes,’ her father bartered, keeping her close as he encircled Miranda’s shoulders with his other arm. ‘Then you can have her back, I promise.’

There was such quiet determination in his voice that even the highly-strung designer was forced to concede defeat.

Her father sounded just like Alessandro, Emily thought fondly, raising her head to watch the couturier make an imperious signal and lead his group out of the room.

‘There’s still time to change your mind, Emily,’ Miranda whispered, looking around anxiously at their mother, who nodded agreement.

‘It’s not too late,’ her father agreed gruffly. ‘I can have you out of here in a jiffy—’

‘No, Dad,’ Emily insisted firmly. ‘There’s too much at stake here—for everyone concerned. I’m going ahead with it.’

‘Oh, the violin arrived! It is absolutely—’ Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘How could I mention that?’ she asked herself distractedly. ‘When you’re having to put up with all this?’ She made a wild gesture to encompass the various stations dotted around the room set up by hairdressers, beauticians and designers.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Emily teased. ‘No, honestly,’ she said sincerely, catching hold of Miranda’s hand. ‘Nothing would induce me to stay here if I didn’t want to. It’s not so bad living here at the palace with Alessandro.’ She raised her eyebrows a fraction as she looked at her sister.

‘You mean—’ Miranda flashed a glance at their mother and father, who quickly pretended interest in the view outside the window.

‘No, I don’t mean what you’re thinking,’ Emily said softly. ‘But he’s great fun to be with when you get to know him. And he’s so kind.’

‘Is that all?’ Miranda said, sounding disappointed.

‘It was never meant to be anything more,’ Emily pointed out, working at her smile. ‘And you look beautiful,’ she said, desperately trying to turn the direction of the conversation. ‘And Dad, Mum, you look fantastic,’ she added for good measure.

‘You’re absolutely sure about this?’ her father said, looking at her again with concern.

‘Yes,’ Emily said, raising her eyes to his to prove that her composure really was restored. ‘You can call everyone back in again now. I’m ready.’

The ancient cathedral in Ferara was on so vast a scale it might have been built for some lost race of giants. As Emily arrived beneath the towering stone archway that marked the entrance a murmur rose from the congregation like a collective sigh.

‘This situation is about as real as a film,’ her father murmured, echoing Emily’s thoughts. ‘The only difference is, I doubt any of us will be able to forget this once the show’s over.’

‘Courage, Dad,’ Emily replied as she squeezed his arm. ‘We’ll get through this together.’

‘I’m supposed to be supporting you, remember?’ he growled out of the side of his mouth as the opening chord burst from the organ and an angelic choir soared into the first anthem.

Emily was about to move forward when one of the several attendants who had joined the procession from the palace attracted her attention.

‘Signorina, scusami l’ interrruzione,’ he murmured, bowing low. ‘This is an ancient custom in our country. The bride’s flowers are traditionally a wedding gift from the groom’s family.’

‘How lovely,’ Emily said, exchanging her bouquet with a smile.

‘His Serene Highness is most keen that traditions should be upheld,’ the attendant added, backing away from her in a deep bow.

As Emily’s curled her fingers around the slender stems of the roses she knew they were more than a gift. The fragrant arrangement signified the approval of Alessandro’s father, and that mattered to her more than any one of the fabulous wedding presents that had arrived at the palace.

She could not remember ever feeling so keenly aware…so alive. And as she steadied herself for the walk up the aisle she found she could identify each strand of scent—incense, the roses resting in her arms, and the heady mix of countless exclusive perfumes. And above all the dazzling sights and sounds and scents, even though she never looked directly at him once, she was aware of Alessandro, waiting in silence for her at the end of the vast sweep of aisle.

Moving forward, Emily felt the burden of her long train ease as the squad of young train-bearers, chosen from schools in Ferara at her own request, took up the weight. And after a few brief moments of adjustment, when she feared she might lose the priceless tiara as the veil was tugged this way and that, they managed to keep pace with her perfectly.

She walked tall and proud at her father’s side between the massed ranks of European royalty, wearing the slim column of a gown she had insisted upon. Only the splendour of the diamond tiara denoted her rank—that, and the floating pearl-strewn veil that eddied around her like a creamy-white mist. The only real colour was in her cheeks and in the coral-tinted roses her old friend had provided—Christopher Marlowe roses from the palace gardens, with every thorn removed, simply arranged and tied with silk ribbons in the colours of her new country: crimson, blue and gold.

She was aware of her mother in deep blue velvet, and Miranda, ravishing in palest lemon, as well as some other bridesmaids whom she had met only briefly. And then, as the organ sounded a fanfare of celebration, Emily focussed on the long walk ahead of her—the walk to join Alessandro, who stood waiting for her at the foot of the steps to the high altar.

The aisle itself was a work of art, paved in marble and carved by long-dead artisans to such effect that the scenes portrayed appeared more like faded photographs scanned onto the cool surface rather than the painstaking work of supreme craftsmen.

In front of her a vast window of such intense blue it appeared to be backlit by a power even greater than the sun threw splashes of colour across the faces of the dignitaries, some of whom Emily recognised, but she only sensed rather than saw every head turn her way, because her own gaze had found Alessandro’s.

Even though she knew he was entering into marriage with no thought of love or romance, his strength lent her courage, and, seeing a flicker of concern in the eyes of his father, when Emily dropped her curtsey in front of him she smiled reassuringly as he reached forward to bring her to her feet.

Then she was standing next to Alessandro, with every fibre of her being pulsing with awareness…Alessandro, who appeared a daunting figure even in such a setting, where the scale of the building challenged normal perception. She matched her breathing to his, steadying herself, willing herself free of expectation, knowing that if she harboured none she could never be hurt.