Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (17 page)

‘I can see that now. You stepped up to be crown prince. I can step up to be crown princess.
I can do it.
But, Tristan, I love you so much and—'

He put his hand over her mouth to silence her. ‘Wait. Don't you remember when we were at your grandmother's cottage? You instructed me not to say the L word until I was able to propose.'

‘I do remember.' Even then she'd been putting him off. She felt hot colour flush her cheeks. ‘When it comes to proposing, is it within the Montovian royal code of conduct for the woman to do the asking?'

‘There's nothing I know of that forbids it,' he said.

‘Okay, then,' she said. ‘I'll do it. Tristan, would you—?'

‘Just because you
can
propose, it doesn't mean I want you to. This proposal is mine.'

‘I'm willing to cede proposing rights to you,' she said. She spread out her hands in mock defeat.

He took them both in his, looked down into her face. Her heart turned over at the expression in the blue eyes that had so captivated her from the beginning.

‘Gemma, I love you. I love you more than you can imagine. ‘Will you be my wife, my princess, my queen? Will you marry me, Gemma?'

‘Oh, yes, Tristan.
Yes
to wife.
Yes
to princess.
Yes
to queen. There is nothing I want more than to marry you and love you for the rest of my life.'

Tristan kissed her long and sweetly, and she clung to him. How could she ever have thought she could exist without him?

‘There's one more thing,' he said.

He reached into his inner pocket and drew out a small velvet box.

She tilted her head to one side. ‘I thought...'

‘You thought what?'

‘Natalia implied that part of the deal at the crown prince's birthday is that he publicly slips the ring on his betrothed's finger.'

‘It has always been the custom. But I'm the Prince of Change, remember? I
had
intended to follow the traditional way. Now I realise that proposing to you in front of an audience of strangers would be too overwhelming for you—and too impersonal. This is a private moment—
our
moment.'

He opened the box and took out an enormous, multicarat cushion-cut diamond ring. She gasped at its splendour.

‘I ordered the ring as soon as my father agreed to change the rule about royals marrying outside the nobility. I never gave up hope that you would wear it.'

He picked up her left hand. She noticed his hand was less than steady as he slid the ring onto her third finger.

‘I love you, Gemma Harper—soon to be Gemma, crown princess of Montovia.'

‘More importantly, soon to be your wife,' she said.

She held up her hand, twisting and turning it so they could admire how the diamond caught the light.

‘It's magnificent, and I shall never take it off,' she said. She paused. ‘Natalia said it was customary to propose with the prince's grandmother's ring?'

‘That's been the custom, yes,' he said. ‘But I wanted to start our own tradition, with a ring that has significance only to us. Your ring. Our life. Our way of ruling the country when the time comes.'

‘Already I see how I can take my place by your side.'

‘
Playboy Prince Meets His Match
?' he said, his voice husky with happiness.

‘
Mystery Redhead Finds Her Once-in-a-Lifetime Love...
' she murmured as she lifted her face for his kiss.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A
S
G
EMMA
SWEPT
into the castle ballroom on Tristan's arm, she remembered what Natalia had told her. ‘The more you look like a princess, the more you'll be treated like one.'

She knew she looked her best. But was it
princess
best?

The exquisite ballgown in shades of palest pink hugged her shape in a tight bodice, then flared out into tiers of filmy skirts bound with pink silk ribbon. Tiny crystals sewn randomly onto the dress gleamed in the light of the magnificent chandeliers under which guests were assembled to celebrate the crown prince's thirtieth birthday.

The dress was the most beautiful she had ever imagined wearing. She loved the way it swished around her as she walked. Where in Sydney would she wear such a gown? Back home she might devise the
menu
for a grand party like this—she certainly wouldn't be the crown prince's guest of honour. What was that old upstairs/downstairs thing? Through her engagement to Tristan—still unofficial—she had been rapidly elevated to the very top stair.

The dress was modest, its bodice topped with sheer silk chiffon and sleeves. Natalia had advised her that a princess of Montovia was expected to dress stylishly yet modestly. She must never attract attention for the wrong reasons, be the focus of critical press or be seen to reflect badly on the throne.

So many rules to remember.
Would she ever be able to relax again?

‘You are the most beautiful woman in the room,' Tristan murmured in her ear. ‘There will be much envy when I announce you as my chosen bride.'

‘As long as I'm the most beautiful woman in your eyes,' she murmured back.

‘You will always be that,' he said.

The thing was, she believed him. She felt beautiful when she was with him—whether she was wearing a ballgown or an apron.

Yet even knowing she looked like a princess in the glorious gown, with her hair upswept and diamonds borrowed from the queen—
she had borrowed jewellery from a queen!
—she still felt her stomach fall to somewhere near the level of her silver stilettoes when she looked into the room. So many people, so many strange faces, so much priceless jewellery.

So many critical eyes on her.

Would they see her as an interloper?

Immediately Tristan stepped closer. ‘You're feeling intimidated, aren't you?'

She swallowed hard against a suddenly dry throat. ‘Maybe,' she admitted.

In this glittering room, full of glittering people, she didn't know a soul except for Tristan and his family. And she was hardly on a first-name basis with the king and queen.

‘Soon these faces will become familiar,' Tristan said. ‘Yes, there are courtiers and officials and friends of my parents. But many of these guests are my personal friends—from school, the military, from university. They are so looking forward to meeting you.'

‘That's good to hear,' she said, grateful for his consideration. Still, it was unnerving.

Thank heaven she hadn't been subjected to a formal receiving line. That would come at their formal engagement party, when she'd have the right to stand by Tristan's side as his fiancée. This was supposedly a more informal affair. With everyone wearing ballgowns and diamonds. Did Montovians actually
ever
do informal?

‘Let me introduce you to someone I think you will like very much,' Tristan said.

He led her to a tall, thin, grey-haired man and his plump, cheery-faced wife. He introduced the couple as Henry and Anneke Blair.

‘Henry was my English tutor,' Tristan said.

‘And it was a privilege to teach you, Your Highness,' Henry said.

‘Your English is perfect,' said Gemma.

‘I was born and bred in Surrey, in the UK,' said Henry, with a smile that did not mock her mistake.

‘Until he came to Montovia to climb mountains and fell in love with a local girl,' said his wife. ‘Now he speaks perfect Montovian, too.'

Henry beamed down affectionately at his wife. So an outsider
could
fit in.

‘Gemma is keen to learn Montovian,' said Tristan. ‘We were hoping—'

‘That I could tutor your lovely fiancée?' said Henry. He smiled at Gemma—a kind, understanding smile. ‘It would be my pleasure.'

‘And I would like very much to share with you the customs and history of the Montovian people,' said Anneke. ‘Sometimes a woman's point of view is required.'

Gemma felt an immense sense of relief. She couldn't hope to fit in here, to gain the people's respect, if she couldn't speak the language and understand their customs. ‘I would like lessons every day, please,' she said. ‘I want to be fluent as soon as possible. And to understand the way Montovian society works.'

Tristan's smile told her she had said exactly the right thing.

* * *

Tristan had been right, Gemma thought an hour later. Already some of the faces in the crowd of birthday celebration guests were familiar. More importantly, she sensed a swell of goodwill towards her. Even among the older guests—whom she might have expected would want to adhere to the old ways—there was a sense that they cared for Tristan and wanted him to be happy. After so much tragedy in the royal family, it seemed the Montovians were hungry for a story with a happy ending and an excuse for gaiety and celebration.

She stood beside Tristan on a podium as he delivered a charming and witty speech about how he had fallen so hard for an Australian girl, he had worked to have the law changed so they could be together, only to find that she was of noble birth after all.

The audience obviously understood his reference to water nymphs better than she did, judging by the laughter. It was even more widespread when he repeated his speech in Montovian. She vowed that by the time his thirty-first birthday came around she would understand his language enough to participate.

She noticed the king had his head close to a tall, middle-aged woman, chatting to her with that air of familiarity only long-time couples had, and realised she must be his mistress. Elsewhere, the queen looked anxious in the company of a much younger dark-haired man. Even from where she stood, Gemma realised the man had a roving eye.

How many unhappy royal marriages had resulted from the old rules?

Then Tristan angled his body towards her as he spoke. ‘It is the custom that if a crown prince of Montovia has not married by the age of thirty he is obliged to announce his engagement on the night of his birthday celebration. In fact, as you know, he is supposed to propose to his future bride in front of his assembled guests. I have once again broken with tradition. To me, marriage is about more than tradition and alliances. It is about love and a shared life and bringing children up out of the spotlight. I felt my future wife deserved to hear me ask for her hand in marriage in private.'

In a daze, Gemma realised she was not the only person in the room to blink away tears. Only now did she realise the full depth of what Tristan had achieved in this conservative society in order to ensure they could spend their lives together.

He took her hand in his and turned them back so they both faced the guests. The chandeliers picked up the facets in her diamond ring so it glinted into tiny shards of rainbow.

‘May I present to you, my family and friends, my chosen bride: Gemma Harper-Clifford—future crown princess of Montovia.'

There was wild applause from an audience she suspected were usually rather more staid.

Her fiancé murmured to her. ‘And, more importantly, my wife and the companion of my heart.'

‘
Crown Prince Makes Future Bride Shed Tears of Joy
...' she whispered back, holding tightly to his hand, wanting never to let it go.

EPILOGUE

Three months later

I
F
T
RISTAN
HAD
had his way, he would have married Gemma in the side chapel of the cathedral the day after he'd proposed to her.

However, his parents had invoked their roles as king and queen to insist that some traditions were sacrosanct and he would break them at his peril.

His mother had actually made mention of the medieval torture room in the dungeon—still intact and fully operational—should her son imagine he could elope or in any other way evade the grand wedding that was expected of him. And Tristan hadn't been 100 per cent certain she was joking.

A royal wedding on the scale that was planned for the joining in holy matrimony of Tristan, crown prince of Montovia, and Gemma Harper-Clifford, formerly of Sydney, Australia, would usually be expected to be a year in the planning.

Tristan had negotiated with all his diplomatic skills and open chequebook to bring down the planning time to three months.

But he had been so impatient with all the rigmarole required to get a wedding of this scale and calibre off the ground that Gemma had quietly taken it all away from him. She'd proceeded to organise the whole thing with remarkable efficiency and grace.

‘I am a Party Queen, remember?' she'd said, flushed with a return of her old confidence. ‘This is what I
do
. Only may I say it's a heck of a lot easier when the groom's family own both the cathedral where the service is to take place
and
the castle where the reception is to be held. Not to mention having a limitless budget.'

Now he stood at the high altar of the cathedral, dressed in the full ceremonial military uniform of his Montovian regiment, its deep blue tunic adorned with gold braid and fringed epaulettes. Across his chest he wore the gold-trimmed blue sash of the royal family and the heavy rows of medals and insignia of the crown prince.

Beside him stood his friend Jake Marlowe as his best man, two of his male cousins and an old school friend.

Tristan peered towards the entrance to the cathedral, impatient for a glimpse of his bride. She'd also invoked tradition and moved into his parents' apartment for the final three days before the day of their wedding. He had no idea what her dress—ordered on a trip to Paris she'd made with Natalia—would look like.

Seemed she'd also embraced the tradition of being ten minutes late for the ceremony...

Then he heard the joyous sound of ceremonial trumpets heralding the arrival of the bride, and his heart leapt. He was surprised it didn't set his medals jangling.

A tiny flower girl was the first to skip her way down the seemingly endless aisle, scattering white rose petals along the red carpet. Then Gemma's bridesmaids—his sister, Princess Natalia, Party Queens Andie and Eliza and Gemma's cousin Jane—each in gowns of a different pastel shade, glided down.

The trumpets sounded again, and the huge cathedral organ played the traditional wedding march. At last Gemma, flanked by her mother on one side and her Clifford grandfather on the other—both of whom were going to ‘give her away'—started her slow, graceful glide down the aisle towards him.

Tristan didn't see the king and queen in the front pew, nor the hundreds of guests who packed the cathedral, even though the pews were filled with family, friends and invited dignitaries from around the world, right down to the castle servants in the back rows. And the breathtaking flower arrangements might not have existed as far as Tristan was concerned.

All he saw was Gemma.

Her face was covered by a soft, lace-edged veil that fell to her waist at the front and at the back to the floor, to join the elaborate train that stretched for metres behind her, which was attended by six little girls from the cathedral school. Her full-skirted, long-sleeved dress was both magnificent and modest, as was appropriate for a Montovian bride. She wore the diamond tiara worn by all royal brides, and looked every inch the crown princess.

As she got closer he could see her face through the haze of the veil, and he caught his breath at how beautiful she was. Diamonds flashed at her ears—the king and queen's gift to her. And on her wrist was his gift to her—a diamond-studded platinum bracelet, from which hung a tiny platinum version of the wooden spoon she had wielded at their first meeting.

His bride.

The bride he had chosen and changed centuries of tradition for so he could ensure she would become his wife.

* * *

Tristan
. There he was, waiting for her at the high altar, with the archbishop and the two bishops who would perform the ceremony behind him. She thought her heart would stop when she saw how handsome he looked in his ceremonial uniform. And the love and happiness that made his blue eyes shine bright was for her and only her. It was a particular kind of joy to recognise it.

She had never felt more privileged. Not because she was marrying into a royal family, but because she was joining her life with the man she loved. The
coup de foudre
of love at first sight for the mysterious Mr Marco had had undreamed-of repercussions.

She felt buoyed by goodwill and admiration for the way she was handling her new role in the royal family. And she was surrounded by all the people she loved and who loved her.

There was a gasp from the congregation when she made her vows in fluent Montovian. When Tristan slid the gold band onto her ring finger, and she and the man she adored were pronounced husband and wife, she thought her heart would burst from happiness.

After the service they walked down the aisle as a new royal couple to the joyful pealing of the cathedral bells. They came out onto the top of the steps of the cathedral to a volley of royal cannons being fired—which, Gemma could not help thinking, was something she had never encountered at a wedding before. And might not again until their own children got married.

Below them the town square was packed with thousands of well-wishers, who cheered and threw their hats in the air.
Their subjects.
It might take a while for an egalitarian girl from Australia to truly grasp the fact that she had
subjects
,
but Tristan would help her with all the adjustments she would have to make in the years to come. With Tristan by her side, she could face anything.

Tension was building in the crowd below them and in the guests who had spilled out of the cathedral behind them. The first royal kiss of the newly wed prince and his princess was what they wanted.

She looked up at Tristan, saw his beloved face smiling down at her. They kissed.

The crowd erupted, and she was almost blinded by the lights from a multitude of camera flashes. They kissed again, to the almost hysterical delight of the crowd. A third kiss and she was almost deafened by the roar of approval.

Tristan had warned her that lip-readers would be planted in the audience, to see what they might say to each other in this moment. Why not write the headlines for them?

‘
Prince Weds Party Planner
?'
Tristan whispered
.

‘
And They Live Happily Ever After
...' she murmured as, together with her husband, she turned to wave to the crowd.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE GREEK'S READY-MADE WIFE
by Jennifer Faye.

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