Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride Read Free Page A

headdress in place. He was both tall and lean, yet she had the distinct impression of a latent strength in the broad set of his shoulders.
    â€˜Lady Constance Montgomery,’ the official announced in his thick accent, giving her a little push. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Kadar of Murimon.’
    The heavy wooden doors closed behind her with a resounding thud, the Prince turned around, and Constance’s heart skipped a beat, her mouth went dry, and the muscles in her belly clenched in a visceral surge of desire that took her entirely by surprise.
    He was young, no more than thirty. His brow was high, his face long, his nose strong. Austere features, not handsome in the conventional sense, actually slightly forbidding, framed as they were by his headdress. Definitely not a man who needed his regal robes to underline his natural air of authority. It was evident in his demeanour, in that haughty expression, and in those remarkable eyes, which were almond-shaped and wide-set, a curious colour which was neither grey nor green. Like all the men in this land, he wore a beard, but his was trimmed very close, not much more than a dark shadow, drawing attention to the contrasting smoothness of his cheekbones, the disturbingly sensual curve of his mouth. Beneath her rustic tunic, Constance felt her skin flush as heat suffused her. Those lips were sinful.
    â€˜Lady Constance.’
    With a start, she dropped into a low, sweeping curtsy. She had been staring at the Prince like a ravening wolf. Her eyes lowered, she had the sense of a lithe grace as he crossed the room towards her, his feet clad in black slippers embroidered with gold, his robes fluttering around the long length of his legs. Dear heavens, she should not be looking at his legs. She raised her eyes. Slim hips. She oughtn’t to look at those either. A belt slung around his narrow waist, chased with gold and at the centre, an enormous jewel glowed red and luminous, like a diamond lit by fire.
    â€˜Please, rise.’
    His voice was husky. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. For goodness’ sake, Constance, pull yourself together! The hand he extended was slim, the long fingers artistic, the nails neatly trimmed. His skin was cool to the touch. Mortified, she realised her own palms were clammy, her skin most likely ruined beyond recognition by a combination of salt and sun. Which all paled into insignificance when compared to her windswept hair, which most likely looked as if it had birds nesting in it, her sack-like gown and her grubby bare feet. She felt like Cendrillon in Monsieur Perrault’s story. It was a shame this prince had no slippers to offer her. She curled her toes further under her tunic.
    â€˜Your Highness, it is an honour,’ Constance said.
    â€˜In the circumstances, I am not sure that “welcome” is the most appropriate epithet to use to describe your somewhat unconventional arrival in Murimon, but I hope you will allow me to welcome you to my kingdom nonetheless.’
    Surprise made her forget protocol. ‘Oh, you speak English beautifully.’
    â€˜Thank you. My childhood tutor would be most gratified to hear that.’
    Colour flooded her cheeks, for his words were lightly ironic. ‘I did not mean to imply astonishment that you can speak my language, only delight. It is a pleasure, Your Highness, to make your acquaintance.’
    â€˜I fear that sentiment may alter when you hear what I have to say. Please, won’t you sit down?’
    The chamber was even bigger than she had realised when she first entered it. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the blaze of light cast by the extraordinary chandeliers, Constance could see it was almost the same proportions as the tea room in the Bath Assembly Halls, with the same style of double-columned balcony on the side opposite the windows. But there the similarities ended. Every available wall surface in this salon was tiled, row