was, of course. Every designer loved to dress the very slender, and inherently elegant, Chantal Thibaudet, the beautiful widowed princess of La Croix. Chantal had been beloved as the eldest Ducasse daughter, but once married and widowed, the public embraced her even more.
Nic’s emotions ran riot. Chantal didn’t obsess about fashion. She’d always been stylish, even sophisticated. The family used to joke that even as a baby Chantal would tug on her bonnet until it had a jaunty angle.
But Nic found the public’s love affair with beautiful, fashionable princesses burdensome. She’d rather spend a day figuring math problems than go clothes-shopping. ‘‘One of the drawbacks of being in the public eye, is the constant pressure to maintain one’s image. I’ve often felt there is too much value placed on appearances, Your Highness. I personally dislike having to worry about clothes and fashion when there is so much happening in the world that is of real importance.’’
‘‘You always surprise me.’’ The sultan smiled, and it was a genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and made the grooves along his mouth deepen. The warmth of the smile was almost unbearably appealing.
Nic’s mouth dried. He looked so comfortable in himself, so physical and sexual at the same time. ‘‘That’s good?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ His smile faded but the warmth remained in his eyes. He exuded intelligence, as well as compassion. He wore his mantle of authority well. ‘‘Do you know why I selected you, Princess?’’
It was hard to concentrate with him looking at her like that. She wanted to focus and yet she felt so many emotions that she had no business feeling. ‘‘I know you wanted better Mediterranean port access.’’
‘‘But there are numerous Mediterranean ports, and numerous single European princesses interested in marriage.’’ He hesitated, speaking each word with care. ‘‘I chose you, because I respect you. I believe you are like me. You understand the responsibilities of being a princess of the royal Ducasse family, and your loyalty, along with your sense of duty, make you an ideal mate.’’
Nic couldn’t breathe. She felt the air settle in her chest. He had it all wrong. She lacked Chantal’s sense of duty. Her loyalty was to her own family. That’s why she was here. Not for Melio, but for Chantal and Lilly. ‘‘You don’t worry I’d run away…fail to fulfill my obligations here?’’
‘‘You didn’t in La Croix.’’
No, Chantal hadn’t run away. Not in La Croix, not in Melio, not ever. But that’s because good Chantal, first born Chantal, had been a pleaser since birth. All she’d ever wanted was to do the ‘‘right’’ thing, and yet the thing that had driven Nic crazy was the thought, how did Chantal even know what was right?
Nic had never known what was right. She’d had to search for meaning, ask questions, test, push at each and every limitation. In her world, there’d been no ‘‘right,’’ there had only been truth, and truth wasn’t something one accepted blindly.
Truth required testing. Truth required proof.
‘‘Marriages that are not love matches can work. They do work.’’ His voice was deep, his tone thoughtful. ‘‘My parents had an arranged marriage which lasted fifty-some years.’’
‘‘They are the lucky ones.’’
‘‘Your grandparents’ marriage was arranged. They are still together today, and you can not tell me they do not care deeply for each other.’’
Grandfather Remi cherished Grandmama Astrid. They were a true couple. They’d been together so long now, functioned so well together, it was as if they couldn’t exist without the other. Ever since Grandmama had had her stroke, Grandfather’s health had declined. Until Grandmama’s stroke, Grandfather had been robust. Vigorous. Not anymore.
‘‘They do love each other,’’ Nic said, finding her voice. ‘‘They’re wonderful people, too.’’
She swallowed, reminding herself that she couldn’t answer just as Nicolette. She had to be Chantal. She had to think like Chantal. ‘‘Which is why I accepted Prince Armand’s proposal,’’ she added huskily. ‘‘If my grandparents thought Armand and I would be a good match, then…’’
She shrugged, but she didn’t feel indifferent. Armand was the lowest sort of a man, the kind that would abuse a woman verbally, physically, a man who didn’t feel strong unless he completely dominated—subjugated—the woman who loved him, depended on him.
‘‘You implied last night that Lilly wasn’t happy,’’ Malik said. ‘‘Tell me about her life in La Croix.’’
Nic hesitated, uncertain yet again how much she could, or should say. ‘‘It’s not a positive place to raise a child.’’
‘‘Yet her grandparents are there, and from what I’ve heard, her father’s family apparently dotes on her.’’
‘‘Her father’s family is obsessively controlling.’’
‘‘Obsessively?’’
‘‘Complete control freaks,’’ Nic retorted, unable to hide her bitterness.
His eyebrows flattened. ‘‘An awfully American expression,’’ he said thoughtfully. ‘‘Not one I would have ever thought you’d use. Your sister, Nicolette, now she’d say something like that…’’
Could he be anymore condescending? Suddenly Nic was fighting mad. She’d love a good fight, would welcome an opportunity to spar. It was so unfair that women were trapped in bad marriages, unable to take action because mothers with young children couldn’t afford to work, pay for food and shelter along with childcare. The economics alone kept women down. ‘‘Yes, she would, and she does,’’ Nic answered hotly. ‘‘Unfortunately I’ve picked up some of Nic’s expressions. We’ve just spent a week together in Melio.’’
‘‘Ah.’’ Malik’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corners. ‘‘That explains it.’’ He paused. ‘‘Because I’ve wondered. You haven’t seemed quite yourself since you arrived. I’d always heard you, Chantal, described as gentle, controlled, emotionally contained.’’
‘‘And I’m not?’’
His mouth pursed. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘But…but why? I think I’m exactly the same.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Even your mannerisms are different. You move your body more. Your gestures are sharper, less…refined.’’
Ouch. Chantal the Persian cat, Nic the tiger, Joelle the lovable tabby.
‘‘Perhaps the years at La Croix changed you.’’ His gaze met hers, held. ‘‘Made you stronger. Fiercer. Angrier.’’
‘‘Angrier?’’
‘‘You are angry.’’
No use even debating that one. She was angry. Deeply angry that Chantal would suffer such horrible treatment by the Thibaudets, angry that Chantal and Lilly were trapped, angry that there was no one who could help rescue them, angry that the world didn’t seem to care very much when women were hurt, when women were verbally, emotionally, mentally abused.
Abuse should never be tolerated. Ever. Ever.
Children shouldn’t be hurt. Women shouldn’t be squashed, smashed, pushed around. Just because women were smaller boned than men, lighter in weight, softer skinned didn’t mean that it was okay to make them stepping stones or punching bags.
Someone had to do something.
Someone had to care enough to say, enough is enough. I’ve had enough. No more.
‘‘You’re right. I am upset,’’ Nic said after a long moment. ‘‘Very upset.’’ She bit