He didn’t blink at the change in topic. “Since you are already six weeks along, there is no hope of a quick marriage stifling future rumors.”
“Hence your insistence on announcing my pregnancy before our official engagement?”
“The announcement will be a joint affair.”
“How lovely.” The entire world would think he was marrying her because she carried his child and potential future heir.
But then, was that any different than the knowledge they were marrying as the result of a political contract between two kings? Probably not. It was her own fault that she’d always considered the other as less important because of her feelings for Zahir.
Talk about burying her head in the sand. “I’d make a fine ostrich,” Angele muttered.
Zahir gave her a quizzical look, but she waved it off and said, “We could do something small fairly quickly.”
Lou-Belia was going to pitch the fit of a lifetime when she realized her only child’s wedding plans had to be rushed and scaled back.
“Small?” Zahir said the word as if doing so pained him. “For the Crown Sheikh of Zohra? I think not.”
“Everything doesn’t have to be done on a world leader scale.” Really, really, it didn’t.
Only the look on his face said it did. “Learn to accept the inevitability of it. We are political leaders, not celebrities to indulge in a secret ceremony on some private island. Our people will expect and deserve the opportunity to celebrate our joy with us.”
“Not to mention assorted world leaders and their hangers-on,” she grumbled as the reality of her change in circumstance began to make itself felt.
“It is inevitable.”
“So, what do you suggest? I would prefer not to waddle down the aisle nine months pregnant.”
“Be assured, it will not be that bad.”
“How bad are you proposing it be?”
“You would be best past this nausea.”
“Agreed.” Fainting on her walk down the aisle was not the impression she wanted to leave with dignitaries and world leaders, much less her future family.
“We are in luck. Usually trying for any event of this magnitude with any less than an entire year of planning would be impossible. Two years would be preferable, but my father is hosting a summit to discuss world oil reserves in two months time. Were we to coordinate the wedding celebrations to coincide with the summit, the important political guests would already be in Zohra.”
There was no room for sentimentality in that scenario, but she accepted that was her own fault. She couldn’t help wondering if they had followed the contract and a regular schedule of engagement and marriage, if it would not have been the same, though.
“Our wedding is a political event.” Which she’d known somewhere in the back of her mind, but had not really given thought to what that meant in the grand scheme of things.
She’d always looked at the Zohra-Jawhar connecting, never considering the further implications to her life.
Zahir was not one of his brothers. He was in fact a Crown Sheikh, uncontested heir to the throne of both an oil and mineral rich country.
“I’ve really messed up, haven’t I?”
He didn’t deny it, but quoted another favorite Arabic proverb. One that was pretty much the equivalent of, it is what it is.
“For all my fantasies and daydreams, I never really considered what being married to you meant,” she admitted.
“Had you attended finishing school rather than university, you would have had training in that regard.”
She forced herself to remember what he’d said on their night together, that an observation was not a criticism. “But you supported my decision to go to university.”
“I knew what marrying me would mean to you.” Again, the shrug was in his voice rather than his shoulders.
“Wouldn’t that make you even more determined I learn my future role?”
“I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life before we wed.”
“But …” Unsure what she wanted to say, she let her voice trail off.
“My mother and aunt have both promised to mentor you in your new role.”
“You’ve accomplished an awful lot in the two hours I slept.” Not that she was surprised by that.
She did know him well enough to know how efficient he was and how very adept at making things work, whether it be a property rights negotiation or a family dinner. It had always been a pleasure to watch him finesse those around him.
She could hardly complain he was doing it to her now.
But he shook his head. “I made the request years ago, when you decided to go to university in America.”
“It’s no coincidence that every trip to Zohra and Jawhar in the past several years has included significant time with the queens.” She’d been flattered, a little nervous and ultimately happy to spend time entertaining others with the respective women.
Though she would have traded that time for time with him in a heartbeat. That wasn’t something she needed to admit to right now, though.
“No coincidence,” he confirmed.
“I thought your mother was just getting to know me.”
“She was, but she was also teaching by example and trying to share knowledge of your future life with you.”
“Sneaky.”
“I prefer subtle. I did not want you overwhelmed by the realities of what your life would be, though I wonder now if we were too subtle.” His expression had gone contemplative. “You have too little understanding of what the role should and will mean for you.”
She couldn’t deny it, but it was still uncomfortable acknowledging that truth. “Maybe you didn’t want me getting cold feet and backing out of the contract.”
“Interestingly enough, I never once considered you would break the contract.” He shrugged and said a word she was pretty sure meant fool in French.
“You are not a fool.”
“I misjudged the character of two important women in my life.”
“ARE you comparing me to Elsa?” Angele asked in a deceptively calm voice, while her temper stirred.
She’d made mistakes, but she was so coldhearted that she would cheat on Zahir and then blithely try her hand at blackmail.
“Only in my false perceptions of you both, not your respective characters.”
Still, Angele felt the need to say, “I did not betray you like she did.”
He quoted another proverb, this one about seeing two sides of the same mountain leading to different impressions of the same thing. So, he read her attempt to walk away as a betrayal. She knew it had made him angry, because he’d admitted it. Understanding the source of that anger, only made it harder to know about.
Horrifically naive, maybe, but she hadn’t meant to let him down.
She turned her head away, looking at the painting over her small fireplace. It was a cheerful impression of jazz musicians on the streets of New Orleans, done after the rebuild of the city. It always infused her with hope. Right now, all she felt was malaise.
Knowing