longer had no appeal whatsoever.
A year, his more honourable and tolerant self reminded him staunchly, to take the edge off his temper. Ella would be his for an entire year...surely he could wait another day? He did not want to disappoint or alarm his uncle and with a brief jerk of his arrogant dark head he strode past, pausing only to say to Ella, ‘I will see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Hanya, who had an extremely irritating laugh, giggled like a little girl and clutched Ella’s sleeve with a dainty, perfectly manicured hand. ‘I will show you to your suite...come this way.’
* * *
The following morning Ella winced and cringed through what had amounted to a public bathing experience in which she was surrounded by a flock of strange women wanting to bath her, wax her and anoint her body and her hair with exotic scented oils. After that ordeal, being wrapped in a modern towelling robe felt refreshingly normal, and it was almost relaxing to have to sit down and patiently wait while a pair of henna artists knelt on the floor beside her to draw intricate swirling patterns onto her hands and her feet.
Indeed Ella was feeling remarkably tolerant and relieved that she was getting through the trial of the wedding preparations without losing her temper or showing irritation because she did not want to spoil the day by insulting Vashiri bridal traditions or rejecting them. After all, there was no doubt whatsoever that her female companions, virtually none of whom spoke English, were overjoyed that their king was getting married again. That she was a foreigner did not appear to be a stumbling block in any way.
‘Ella!’ A female voice carolled from the doorway and Ella glanced up to see Cristo Ravelli’s vibrant wife, Belle, with her mane of wild Titian hair, surging towards her and she grinned because it was quite impossible to do anything else. Although she had met Zarif’s brothers and their wives on only one previous occasion she had not forgotten Belle with her warm Irish friendliness, or the quieter but no less sociable Betsy, because at the time she had met them—before Zarif’s proposal—she had been fantasising that some day she would become a part of their close-knit family circle as well.
‘I thought we were never going to get through all the obstacles being put up to us joining you up here!’ Belle exclaimed, settling a heap of gift-wrapped packages and an enormous tote bag down carelessly on the floor. ‘This is my first visit to this palace. I had no idea it was still running at about five hundred years behind the times.’
‘Belle...’ Tiny blonde Betsy emerged from behind Belle and bent down to kiss Ella’s cheek in greeting. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘Oh, don’t waste time asking her that!’ Belle exclaimed. ‘No, we’re more interested in hearing why you said no three years ago and are now suddenly saying yes to our Desert King.’
Ella froze at that blunt question, which was, nonetheless, perfectly understandable in the circumstances. ‘That would be a...er...challenging story to tell. Hanya,’ she murmured, seeing the pretty brunette hovering with a suspiciously stiff look on her face as if she resented the intrusion of the two Western women. ‘Could we have some drinks and snacks for Zarif’s family, please?’
‘I thought the whole palace was dry,’ Belle commented out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Not that Zarif doesn’t take the occasional alcoholic drink, but the old boy who’s ill never touches a drop of the evil stuff.’
‘If you put your foot in your mouth one more time I’m not going to fish you out of it!’ Betsy warned her companion on the back of a groan. ‘Ella, we’re here to provide support.’
‘We’re here to celebrate!’ Belle contradicted. ‘Why would Ella need support? She’s marrying a gorgeous billionaire who’s also a reigning king and obviously he’s madly in love with her because I’m shocked he’s forgiven her for rejecting him the first time around!’
‘No, he’s not madly in love with me and I’m not sure he’s forgiven me either,’ Ella heard herself admit flatly as glasses of pomegranate juice and a tray of little appetisers were handed round. Belle wrinkled her nose at the lack of stronger spirit in her beverage.
‘Cheers,’ Belle pronounced nonetheless, knocking her glass noisily against Ella’s. ‘Cristo wasn’t in love with me when we got married either, so don’t worry about it. That came afterwards and surprised us both. I married him to get a name and security for our half-siblings and he married me to stop me going to court to fight for their rights. But I know Zarif...he has to be in love.’
‘Why?’ Ella asked baldly before tucking into a tiny delicious appetiser consisting of a mini pastry case and a mousse filling.
‘Because all this is happening so fast. It’s just not Zarif. He’s usually so cool and right now he’s acting all hot-headed and spontaneous.’
‘That is true.’ Betsy too was looking thoughtful.
Hanya intervened to tell Ella that it was time for her to get dressed. An elaborate kaftan was displayed to her along with a silk chemise composed of several voluminous layers while Hanya added that underwear was not traditionally worn.
Belle frowned when she saw Ella’s expression of dismay and stooped down to her collection of parcels to retrieve one and present it to Ella with a flourish. ‘One of my gifts is some pretty lingerie. The bride has to wear something new, Hanya. It’s one of our traditions and going naked beneath a petticoat isn’t.’
Ella vanished into the giant Victorian bathroom with the gift box and wrenched it open to pull out a handful of pristine white lace, the sort of fancy underpinnings she had never worn in her life but the prospect of wearing them was infinitely preferable to going bare, with large breasts that felt uncomfortable without support. She put them on in a rush, fearful that at any moment the door, which did not have a lock, would open because her tribe of watchful Vashiri companions did not seem to have much idea that a woman might want privacy from an audience. Pulling the robe back on, she returned to the huge bedroom.
Within the space of a minute the heavy kaftan was being swiftly dropped over her head, the hooks fastened and the satin ribbon ties tightened to fit. The elaborate hand-done embroidery on the sky-blue fabric was truly magnificent.
‘That doesn’t look half bad,’ Belle began in evident surprise.
‘It’s beautiful...especially with your colouring,’ Betsy cut in with an admiring smile.
Ella sat down in a chair while her hair was brushed. ‘I’ll do my own make-up,’ she told Hanya firmly when extravagant compacts of very brightly coloured eye shadows were unfurled threateningly in front of her. ‘Zarif doesn’t like a lot of make-up.’
And then she thought, Why am I thinking like that, as though I want to make myself more attractive for him? Where did that weird thought come from? Had it been born in the moment when with only a little elementary foreplay Zarif had sent her careening into an explosive climax, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamt was possible? Her cheeks burned with mortification.
Belle thrust a glass into her hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she urged. ‘Don’t let Hanya bully you.’
‘I’m not timid. I’m just very reluctant to do or say anything that might offend anyone,’ Ella confided wryly as she sipped and munched on another appetiser. ‘And she has to know the right way to do everything here because she was Azel’s cousin.’
‘And unless I’m very much mistaken, she was exceedingly hopeful that Zarif would marry her, not you. I sense a generous helping of the old green monster envy every time she looks at you,’ Belle spelt out in her ear.
Ella’s eyes rounded as she did her make-up. ‘But I won’t ever measure up to Azel,’ she muttered in rueful acceptance.
‘First wife still casting a big shadow in the present, is she?’ Betsy murmured. ‘You shouldn’t let that bother you. I mean, it’s not as if Zarif chose to marry her. He was told he would be marrying her when he was only a kid. It was set in stone, an arranged marriage—no romance there or any room to act on his own feelings