Aziza could blame him if she wanted for her choice to marry. But he would not go back on his word. He would not risk scandal and instability. Not for his own happiness. Nor even for his sister’s.
He heard a noise and whirled around, only to discover his chief of staff. “Yes?”
The man bowed. “I regret to inform you, sire,” he said sadly, “that I carry a message from the sheikha. She wished me to relay to you that she is unwell and will not be attending you at dinner, nor meeting her new companion.”
Sharif’s eyes narrowed. Irritation rose almost to an unbearable level as he pictured his spoiled, petulant little sister coming up with this plan as a way to register her complaint and get her own way. The fact that it shamed him, as host and brother, that she was refusing to appear for dinner and meet her new companion would only make her happier still.
“Did she. Very well,” he said coldly. “Please inform the kitchen that no meals are to be brought to her room. Perhaps if she grows hungry, she will remember her manners.”
“Yes, sire,” Hassan said unhappily, and bowed again.
Sharif watched him go. He’d told Irene the truth. His chief of staff would be a fine choice for any woman to take as husband—a steady, good-hearted man of some consequence, and at twenty-eight, he was probably even looking for a bride. And yet, when he’d seen the young man starting to walk Irene to her room, seeing them together had caused a strange twist to Sharif’s insides. He hadn’t liked it. At all. It had almost felt like—jealousy. A sensation he wasn’t used to feeling.
His body tightened as he remembered how she’d trembled in his arms, when he’d seized her lips with his own. How she’d thrown her arms around him and leaned against his body, kissing him back softly and uncertainly at first, then with increasing force and a passion that matched his own. His one and only failure at seducing a woman. Ironic, since it was the one he’d wanted most. He still ached to possess her.
Sex is sacred. It’s a promise without words. A promise I’ll only make to the man who will love me for the rest of his life, and I can love for the rest of mine.
He pushed the memory away. He wasn’t going to waste any more time hungering for a woman he could not have. He was bewildered by her idealistic decision, yes. But he respected it. And realized now why he’d envied it.
Because love, or even lust, would never coexist with marriage in Sharif’s life. That pure lovemaking Irene had spoken of so wistfully would never be in the cards for him.
Few people have that anyway, he told himself harshly. Lust is brief, marriage is long and romantic love is a fantasy.
Turning away, Sharif lifted a silver goblet from the polished wood dining table. He took a long drink of cold water. He wiped his mouth.
Irene’s nervousness around him, the way she held his gaze for longer than strictly necessary, told him she still desired him. If he truly wanted to seduce her, in spite of her romantic ideals— He cut off the thought. He wasn’t that much of a selfish bastard. He would leave her alone. Let her go. Even after that searing kiss. Even though he wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman. He would not allow himself to...
“Sorry I’m late.”
Irene’s voice was breezy, unrepentant. It caused heat to flash through his body. He turned, but whatever mocking reply he’d been about to make died forgotten on his lips when he saw her.
She was dressed in white, the color of purity. Could her meaning be any more plain? But even if he knew what she was telling him, her plan had backfired. Because the white of her modest dress only served to set off her creamy skin. Her thick black hair looked exotic, her brown eyes mysterious and deep as midnight. She looked like a woman any man would willingly die for.
Her expression darkened as she looked left and right. “Where is your sister?”
Sister? He struggled to remember. Oh yes. “Aziza...” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I regret my sister is not feeling well. She will be unable to join us tonight.”
Irene glared at him suspiciously.
“Not my idea, I assure you,” he said. “But if my sister is not hungry, I certainly am.” The understatement of the year. “Come. I’m sure my chef is growing antsy, as his dinner has certainly been ready for a while now.”
“Oh.” For the first time, Irene looked uncomfortable. “I am sorry. I didn’t think of that.” She bit her lip. “But just the two of us—I mean, it doesn’t really seem appropriate to—”
“To what? To eat?”
“Alone. Just the two of us.”
“What would you like me to do to avoid gossip? Invite someone else to join us? Perhaps my chief of staff?” he said coldly.
Her eyes brightened. “Good idea.”
He scowled. “Unfortunately he has other duties. He’s already gone home to his family.”
“To his girlfriend?”
“His mother. You take a great deal of interest in him for someone you just met.”
She shrugged. “He’s just the only person I’ve met. Other than the three different people I had to ask for directions to find the dining room, that is.”
So that was why she was late. He’d thought she’d done it on purpose, to taunt him. He relaxed as the servants brought out plates of food, stews of chicken and meat, rice, vegetables and traditional Makhtari flatbread. The air around them suddenly smelled of spice, of cardamom and saffron. She sniffed appreciatively.
“Tell me more about your country,” she said, digging into her dinner. “It is my home now, at least for the next few months.” She took another bite of chicken and sighed with pleasure. “You said it wasn’t always like this.”
“No.” He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell her. “If you are going to be companion to my sister, you’ll be expected to know,” he said finally. “When my father died, the country fell into civil war.”
The color drained from her face. She set down her fork. “Oh, no.”
“My father had held everything together. With him suddenly gone, none of the great families could agree on anything. Except that they didn’t want a fifteen-year-old boy on the throne.”
“How bad did it get?” she said quietly.
Gripping his silverware, he looked down at his plate.
“Half this city burned,” he said. “By the time I arrived back here from boarding school, this palace was ash. One day, I was a boy studying astronomy and calculus and history. The next, my father was dead, my mother prostrate with grief and rage, my home destroyed. And my country in flames.”
Silence fell in the shadows of the dining room.
Slowly, Sharif lifted his gaze to hers. He saw tears streaming down Irene’s stricken, beautiful face. Strange, when he felt nothing. He’d stopped feeling anything a long time ago.
“What did you do?” she choked out.
“What I had to.”
“You were only fifteen.”
“I grew up quickly. My mother’s brother, and my father’s former adviser, the vizier, were both trying to claim themselves as regent until my eighteenth year. They were destroying Makhtar in their battle. Even at fifteen, I could see that.” Feeling that he wanted to finish the topic as quickly as possible, he set down the goblet. “So I made the deal I had to make to save my country. Then I brought Aziza to live with us. She was a baby, a newborn.”