Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the more reason to make sure that he had no need to defend Constance.
‘To return to your own position. You told me yourself that you prefer to have an occupation. By coincidence, we have no accurate star maps of this region. It was my ambition to remedy that, but I now realise that, as Prince, I will not have the time to devote to it. Anything you can do to update the charts I have would be most welcome.’
He was pleased to see the sparkle return to her eyes. ‘You really mean it?’
‘I told you, I never say what I do not mean.’
‘Oh, my goodness, I could kiss you!’ Constance’s cheeks flamed. ‘Not that I meant— That is I would not dare— I mean, it would be highly inappropriate, given that I hardly know you. And even if I did know you, I am not in the habit of bestowing kisses on any man—and even if I was, well, I ought not to kiss you now that I am betrothed. So there’s no need to look as if you...’
‘As if I want you to kiss me,’ Kadar said.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what my expression was, but what I was thinking was that I would, notwithstanding all the perfectly valid reasons you have given why you shouldn’t, like you to kiss me. And would very much like to kiss you back.’
Constance looked every bit as surprised as he by this admission. He should not have said it, but he had, and it was true. He wanted to do a great deal more than kiss her, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about just what that entailed, in all its delicious detail, since her arrival last night. But if she was going to be here at the palace for the next three months, he’d have to find a way of ensuring that he did not kiss her, so Kadar said the one thing he was certain would make it impossible for either of them to act on their impulses.
‘But I can’t kiss you. It would be, in your own words, highly inappropriate since I too am betrothed.’
Two nights later, Constance stood next to the low parapet on the roof terrace, watching the sun sinking over the port of Murimon, evoking the completion of the daily journey of the mythical Greek Titan Helios and his sun chariot, returning to the east in preparation for the morning. The spectacle of night falling over the Arabian Sea filled her with awe. The colours of the last rays streaking the sky, reflected in the sea, were so blazingly vibrant they deserved new names. Existing colours could not do them full justice. The night fell so quickly too, dusk was over in a heartbeat. One minute the sky was blue. Then multi-hued. And then indigo. The stars did not emerge hesitantly like a gaggle of shy debutantes as they did at home, they exploded into the sky, huge discs of silver and gold, not cautiously twinkling, but with all the confidence and bravado of the most celebrated of courtesans.
She left the parapet to make her way over to the heap of cushions she had set out by the telescope. Lying back, she gazed up at the sky, accustoming her eyes to the dark. Above her, the nightly parade of stars had begun in earnest. The moon was on the wane, a mere sliver of a crescent. The moon god Anningan had been so busy chasing his love, the sun, that he had not eaten. In a day or so, he would disappear from the sky for three days while he came down to earth to hunt. When he returned he would grow fatter, waxing from a crescent to his full, buttery pomp. And then once again, he’d become distracted by his lady love, and forget to eat. This tale was Constance’s favourite of the many depictions of the moon’s phases, though she pitied poor Anningan, tied to the flighty sun, forced to do her bidding, without a will of his own. He might as well be a wife.
She wriggled more deeply into the mound of cushions and reminded herself that it was destructive to think such negative thoughts. Her mother had given her a list of positives, a litany she had recited over and over to her daughter, as if repetition would give them veracity. They were all variations on the same theme. Constance’s marriage would be carefree because Constance’s husband was rich. Constance would be happy because her husband was happy, because how could a rich man not be happy, when he wanted for nothing. At a stroke, Constance could both secure her own future, and rescue Mama’s.
Her mother’s logic was fatally flawed, but she could not be persuaded that replenishing Papa’s coffers would secure nothing, save a hiatus while he invested it recklessly with his usual flair for picking those schemes most unlikely to succeed. As for Constance’s future—that logic had more holes than a sieve. Mr Edgbaston’s money was his own to do with as he wished, as was his wife. Having paid such a large sum for her, rather than increase her value to him, wasn’t it likely that he’d expect a great deal in return, whatever the devil that turned out to be!
Far from attaining any sort of independence, as Mama had repeatedly claimed she would, for she knew her daughter almost as well as her daughter knew her, Constance would be entirely beholden. Papa had dismissed her pleas to include any personal allowance in the betrothal contract or even any widow’s jointure, as a matter of detail, not wishing to risk asking for anything that might endanger the deal. Constance was effectively penniless. Worse in fact, because now that her trousseau was at the bottom of the sea, she was going to be starting out married life in debt to her husband for the very clothes on her back.
Just thinking about it made her anxious. What if she didn’t please this stranger she was to marry? What if he disliked her? What if she disliked him? The very idea of pretending made her skin crawl. The fact that she would have to, that she would be expected to, that she would have no choice—that was the worst, the very worst part of it. She was twenty-five years old. She knew her own mind. She didn’t want to get married. She never had. It was quite simple. She didn’t want to do it. She really didn’t want to do it.
But she had to, so there was no point in working herself up into a state. It had to be done. Though not quite yet, thank goodness. There would be no ship for months. Two months, perhaps three. Plenty of time for her to come up with a strategy to make the best of a bad lot. More than enough time. In fact, so much time she would be best putting it out of her mind entirely and turn her thoughts to more immediate concerns.
Such as the fascinating and enigmatic Prince of Murimon and the revelation that he wanted to kiss her. That he, Kadar, was engaged to be married. Constance could still not decide what to make of either fact. Or which was the most interesting to learn.
She knew absolutely nothing more than these stark facts, and since he had communicated with her only through brief dispatches since, she had had no opportunity to press him further. Mind you, she doubted very much that tactic would be successful. If he didn’t want to talk about it, he would give her one of his looks. She had labelled them in her head. Number one, the Haughty Prince. Number two, the Mind Reader. Number three, the Sphynx. And then her two favourites. Number four, the Bone-Melter. And Number five, the Blood-Heater.
Kadar wanted to kiss her. Kadar would not kiss her because he was promised to another. And so was she. Was it sophistry to argue that such a kiss was permissible because it could mean nothing? Probably. Wouldn’t she make a better wife if she knew how to kiss? Perhaps, though she couldn’t pretend that she would be kissing Kadar for any other reason than that she wanted to kiss him. Which she did, despite knowing it was wrong of her, she really did. And he wanted to kiss her. If only he did not, it would be easier. She should be hoping that he had changed his mind. She would be fibbing if she told herself she hoped any such thing.
The sky above her was inky black, giving the brightest stars a bluish hue. With the moon so emaciated, and now that her vision was adjusted, she could see hundreds of distant pinpricks of light in addition to the main constellations. Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius were all clearly defined tonight. As ever, looking up at all this celestial beauty, Constance was filled with a sense of wonder. She was one tiny being, on one tiny planet in a nebulae spinning at unimaginable speed through a vast universe filled with a myriad of other nebulae. All of this had existed for countless thousands of years, and would endure for thousands more to come.
In comparison, her lifetime was the mere blink of an eye. Her three months here in Arabia was too tiny a period to even register. Constance began to set up the telescope, making the necessary