Page 7 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8

Somehow, Sofia maintained her composure for the rest of the ceremony.

She waved and smiled from the gilded open-topped carriage that bore them from the cathedral back to the palace along streets lined with people.

She watched from the balcony as six jets passed overhead in V formation, trailing red, white and green smoke to the whoops and cheers of the crowds below.

But beneath the surface, her emotions churned like a tempest.

How could she have lost control like that? And what lay behind his appalled response to it? Could she have revealed how she felt about him? Did she physically revolt him? Was he suffering from buyer’s remorse?

Whatever it was, it had major implications for tonight.

She’d been anticipating the consummation of their marriage with very mixed feelings.

On the one hand, it was something she’d dreamed of for months, and whenever she thought about it, hot thrills of excitement darted through her.

But on the other, the circumstances were very much not the stuff of dreams, and whenever she thought about those the thrills evaporated.

It didn’t help that she hadn’t a clue how Ivo felt about it.

Would he make the most of the experience or simply grin and bear it?

She rather suspected that, despite her wildly oscillating thoughts on the subject, she’d want to do anything but grin and bear it, which was a concern.

What if she got so swept up by desire that she threw caution to the wind?

She couldn’t risk revealing she was in love with him through her actions.

Or accidentally blurting it out in the throes of ecstasy.

This arrangement was one-sided enough already, and if he ever discovered how she truly felt, he might think her a sentimental fool.

He might lose respect for her, and right now that was all she had.

So she must not disrupt the deal or put her emotions in further danger by recklessly lowering her guard again.

Unfortunately, she could not plead a headache or request a delay.

She had a legal obligation to fulfil. But how hard could it be to disengage from the proceedings?

she wondered as she did precisely that during the photos.

She’d spent a year keeping her feelings for him to herself.

And yes, continuing to do so when he was on top of her, beneath her, moving inside her might present a challenge, but she’d grown adept at shutting down her emotions when it came to certain things.

Blocking out her parents’ constant rowing had been the only way to deal with it.

So it would be fine. She indulged her love for Ivo because some bizarre masochistic part of her craved the torment, the buzz that made her feel so alive, but she could not afford to indulge the attraction.

Therefore, she vowed with steely resolve as, back in the Chamber of the Robes, she stepped out of the wedding dress and into something more suitable for the reception, no matter how fantastic he was in bed, no matter how much she wanted him and how great the temptation to give in to pleasure was, she would resist doing so with everything she had.

By the time the last of the guests had left, at around about eleven, Ivo was running on fumes. The internal battle he’d been waging since five o’clock this afternoon had completely sapped him of strength.

Up until that point, he’d been doing an excellent job of controlling his unacceptably dramatic reaction to Sofia.

He’d spent the two days in Paris reminding himself of the dangers of weakness and fortifying his defences, and so effective had this strategy been that the photo shoot had presented no problem at all.

The rehearsal had been a breeze. He hadn’t batted an eye when she’d appeared at the door to the cathedral this afternoon, wearing a long fitted white dress that somehow managed to simultaneously convey modesty, extravagance and sexiness.

Because he’d bullet-proofed himself so successfully he had not experienced a minor earthquake at the sight of her, looking more beautiful than he could ever have imagined but also curiously and achingly alone.

He’d paid no attention whatsoever to the sudden clamouring urge to meet her halfway down the aisle and take her hand in his, and not once during the first hour and a half of the ceremony had he lost focus.

He’d mastered his desire for her so skilfully—he’d believed—that he’d no qualms at all about kissing her at the altar.

It was only when their mouths met that he realised how very wrong he’d been.

When she’d grabbed his arm as if it were a lifeline, seeming to melt into him on a soft breathy sigh, the burst of heat that had shot through him had nearly taken out his knees.

Suddenly racked with overwhelming need, he’d been on the point of wrapping her in his arms and kissing her properly when a low clearing of the throat from beside him had pierced the thundering desire and snapped him out of his daze.

That had very nearly become a kiss that was for anything but show, he’d thought grimly as he’d fought for the control that had momentarily deserted him.

If the archbishop hadn’t brought him up short, he might well have had Sofia flat against a pillar within seconds, her with her skirts around her waist and him beneath them.

In full view of the congregation. The clergy.

His mother. In a cathedral. Without a thought for the scandal. Or the sacrilege.

So much for assuming he had his response to her in hand.

He’d been right to suspect she might be dangerous.

She threatened his equilibrium. She made him want to forget all about his obligations and his priorities, and the irony of the situation was not lost on him.

He’d specifically selected her to be his bride because she understood the requirements of the role.

He’d banged on about them enough. Yet it seemed that he was the one in need of a lecture on the importance of duty and commitment.

He was the one in jeopardy of putting his needs before those of his country.

And what appallingly primitive needs they were.

The reception had been torture. He’d strengthened alliances and paved the way for lucrative new trade deals, but all the while he’d been agonisingly aware of her—every second of every minute of every hour.

During dinner, the speeches, the dancing.

His mother’s passing comment about the heat of the kiss—which he’d been trying to forget—hadn’t helped. She’d admitted to being envious, but she had no business being envious. Royalty didn’t have the luxury of such self-centred emotion, so what on earth had she been thinking?

And then there’d been the unpleasant encounter with his dissolute second cousin, who’d rudely interrupted a conversation he’d been having with Finland’s ambassador shortly after the speeches.

‘Congratulations,’ Tommaso had said boozily, giving him a slap on the back that had nearly knocked him into the Finn.

‘And thanks for saving me from a fate worse than death. Phew. Just in time, right? All that responsibility. Marriage. Kids. Jeez. Where’s the fun in that?

’ His unfocused gaze had landed on Sofia then, and his grin had turned disgustingly predatory.

‘Mind you,’ he’d added, oblivious to the mine-strewn territory he was entering, ‘if I’d had to marry her it might have not been so bad.

She’s hotter than the sun. Let me know when you’re done with her, cuz. We could have good times.’

Ivo had never thought he possessed either a protective or a violent streak but in that moment, in response to such unfathomable disrespect, he’d experienced both.

A red mist had clouded his vision. His pulse had pounded so hard at his temples that he’d felt as if his head were about to explode.

He’d wanted to rip Tommaso’s throat out and feed it to the sharks in the aquarium on the other side of the city.

Somehow he’d managed to resist the temptation to slam his fist into his cousin’s jaw, but the roaring surge of emotion had thrown him further.

He’d never felt so unhinged. It had taken him a good half an hour to calm down.

He still wasn’t entirely himself. And he would shortly have to take his brand-new wife to bed, which would test his control like it had never been tested before.

But he would prevail, he vowed as, having retired to his suite, he toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes and headed for the shower.

He would not lose his head and the monarchy because of a woman.

The attraction he’d shared with the Countess Carolina had led him to very nearly miss his investiture as Grand Duke of Ficanza.

A search party had eventually tracked him down to her hotel suite and he’d never been so shaken up, so mortified and ashamed.

But had that put him off? No. Astoundingly, he’d fancied himself in love with her.

So in love with her, in fact, that he’d been blind to the treacherous nature that had not only concealed her faithlessness but also her loyalty.

When he thought about what could have happened had he actually married her, he felt physically sick.

At some point she’d have revealed her true colours and he’d have been destroyed, unable to focus and dangerously preoccupied.

There’d have been no unity. Stability and security would have been compromised.

He’d have been no better than his grandfather, and once again the country would have suffered because of the selfishness of its rulers.

As a result of that horrendous experience, he’d promised himself that he would never let anyone down again, least of all himself.

Like his father before him, duty and responsibility would always be his number one priority.

And right now, that meant suppressing everything but the need to consummate the marriage as per the clause in the constitution designed to legitimise the union and his heirs. As quickly and efficiently as possible.

So why, he wondered with a frown, having emerged from the bathroom and donned a robe a good thirty minutes after he went in, was he stalling?

Why was he stalking to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself an enormous whisky?

He’d never needed Dutch courage. He’d never shied away from doing what was necessary, however much he might want to.

So why now, when only half an hour remained for him to fulfil his obligations, was he procrastinating—again?

The delay in finding a bride had been one hundred percent down to work, but on this occasion the trouble was Sofia still messing with his head.

And such a situation was as ridiculous as it was unacceptable, he thought grimly as he downed the drink in one and felt the heat of alcohol burn its way through his body.

He had to stamp out these appalling… jitters …

and get a grip. He could not continue to allow himself to be derailed like this.

He was the King, for God’s sake. He ran a country.

He negotiated multibillion-dollar deals on a daily basis.

He crushed insurgents. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t vulnerable. He was invincible.

And so he would not, he vowed as he slammed down his glass and braced himself, be felled by a wife.