‘I’m not convinced that Tilda should take on a public role,’ Rashad countered.
Tilda tried to ignore Rashad’s lack of enthusiasm for her taking on the responsibilities that went with being his wife. Naturally he felt like that, she told herself impatiently. There was no need whatsoever for her to take that personally. Unhappily this common-sense conviction did not prevent her from feeling cut to the bone and deemed a loser before she even got to run the race.
His father looked amused. ‘My son, you cannot marry an educated and accomplished young lady and hope to keep her all to yourself. Why, the crown office has already had a request for your wife to open the new surgical wing of the hospital next month! All such matters will be more easily dealt with if Tilda has had the opportunity to study our history, etiquette and language, so that she may be comfortable wherever she travels within our borders.’
In the aftermath of the revealing meeting, Tilda was in a tense and unhappy daze. It appeared that some big fancy wedding was in the offing to satisfy convention. The very idea of that made her feel uncomfortable, because she was no actress. What was more, pretending to be Rashad’s wife promised to be a serious challenge. Evidently it was regarded as something of a full-time occupation if she was to be put in training for the role. But, worst of all, Rashad was expecting her to take part in a massive pretence and enact a cruelly deceptive masquerade to fool people who were trustingly offering her sincere affection and acceptance. His family all seemed so nice! In her opinion only a truly horrid and insensitive person could feel anything other than guilt-stricken.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘YOU did very well with my father. He was most impressed,’ Rashad commented, resting a lean hand at the base of Tilda’s spine to guide her in the direction of his wing of the palace.
‘I was so nervous I hardly said a word,’ Tilda confided anxiously. ‘I know next to nothing about you and your family and I was terrified of saying something that would reveal that. Your sisters are older than I expected. Why did you never talk about your family when you were a student?’
‘Five years ago, my father and my sisters still felt like strangers to me.’
‘But why?’ Tilda questioned in bewilderment.
‘My three sisters are the children of my father’s first wife, who died of a fever after Kalila’s birth. I am the son of his second marriage. When I was four years old my father was badly hurt in a riding accident,’ Rashad explained. ‘His uncle Sadiq stepped in as Regent and then used the opportunity to take the throne by force. My father was still bedridden when Sadiq took me from my family and held me as a hostage.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until I was an adult. Sadiq had no son of his own and he named me as his heir to keep certain factions happy. I was sent to a military academy and then I went into the army. My family’s safety was dependent on Sadiq’s goodwill.’
Tilda was appalled. ‘My goodness, why did you never tell me any of this before? I mean, I knew about Sadiq and the war, but I didn’t realise you’d been separated from your family when you were only a little boy.’
‘I have never seen the wisdom of dwelling on misfortunes.’
‘Your mother must have been devastated.’
‘I believe so. I never saw her again. She fell ill when I was a teenager but I was not allowed to visit her.’
For perhaps the first time, Tilda understood the source of the unrelenting strength and self-discipline that lay at the heart of Rashad’s character. As a child he must have suffered great loneliness and grief at being denied his family and it had hardened him. He had learnt to hide his emotions and make an idol of self-sufficiency. It was little wonder that he did not give his trust easily.
They crossed a marble forecourt screened by trees and lush vegetation. Daylight was fading as the sun slowly sank in a spectacularly beautiful sky shot with shades of peach, tangerine and ochre. Beyond the extensive greenery sat a substantial building. ‘My home here at the palace is extremely private,’ Rashad remarked.
In a magnificent circular entrance hall large enough to stage a concert, Tilda came to a halt. ‘The king mentioned something about a wedding.’
Rashad waved away the eager and curious servants who had all clustered below the stairs, and whom Tilda did not notice. He pushed open a door and stepped back. Tilda preceded him into a very large reception room decorated very much in the Eastern style with sumptuous sofas and a carpet so exquisite that it seemed a sin to actually walk on it.
‘There will be a state wedding held for us at the end of the month. It cannot be avoided,’ Rashad murmured. ‘My people expect such a show and to do otherwise would be to create a great deal of comment.’
Tilda was rigid with disbelief, but she made no immediate response. She felt as though she were sinking into quicksand and only she was aware of the emergency. She could not credit that he simply expected her to go along with all such arrangements as though they were a genuine couple!
Rashad continued to pursue his deliberate policy of politely ignoring the tense signals Tilda was emanating. If he set an example, it was possible that in time she would learn to mirror his behaviour. ‘May I call for dinner to be served?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know about you, but it seems like a very long time since we last ate a proper meal and I confess that I am hungry.’
That reference to food was the proverbial last straw for Tilda. Her tension gave suddenly as she spread her hands wide in a helpless gesture of frustration. ‘I can’t do this, Rashad … I really can’t! How do you manage to act as though everything’s normal?’
‘Discipline,’ he told her quietly.
‘Well, it’s freaky and unnatural,’ Tilda told him feelingly. ‘We have to talk about this—’
‘Why? Nothing can be changed. We’re married. I am your husband. You are my wife. We must do what is expected of us.’
‘Sacrifice doesn’t come naturally to those of us who were not raised to be royal and perfect!’ Tilda declared.
His strong jaw line set. ‘I am not trying to be perfect.’
‘Your father and your sisters are lovely. What a welcome they’ve given me!’ Tilda shook her silvery fair head, struggling to find the right words with which to voice her deep unease at the role that had been forced on her. ‘Doesn’t deceiving them into believing that we’re a real couple bother you?’
‘Of course it does, but it is the lesser of two evils. I can only regret the actions that brought us to this point. But I also accept that the truth would shame and distress, not only my family, but also our people. A respectful pretence is the best option on offer to us.’
Tilda was very tempted to look for something large and heavy and throw it at him in the hope of extracting a less logical and dispassionate response. ‘But this is a total nightmare.’
Accustomed to her love of exaggeration, Rashad surveyed her with glinting golden eyes of appreciation. Even after a day that would have taxed most women to the edge of hysteria she still looked absolutely amazing: glorious hair, glorious skin, glorious eyes, glowing and full of life. Out of politeness, courtiers, government officials and staff had tried not to stare at her, but the pure impact of her beauty had proved too much for many. That she had not betrayed the smallest awareness of that attention had impressed him. He had felt proud of her.
‘Not a nightmare,’ Rashad chided gently.
‘Well, it is a nightmare for me!’ Tilda condemned, her temper finally letting rip in the face of such indifference to her feelings. ‘I don’t routinely lie to people. I can’t feel comfortable faking stuff. I don’t have the first idea about how to act like your wife—’