A Proposal from the Crown Prince

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘It has a certain notoriety that will draw people in: the parties that were held there, the famous people that stayed there—and of course the thermal pool and the secret beach.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bring it up, Grandmamma, but I think the consultant’s right. It is the perfect location and the Villa Rosa markets itself. Plus the lawyers say it’s likely that my grandfather shouldn’t have gifted the villa away in the first place; because it is so close to the cliff top and because it has access down to the beach it’s situated on Crown land and therefore...’

  ‘Therefore it can’t be sold or owned by a private individual.’

  ‘Or inherited,’ he confirmed. He hesitated. ‘I know you keep tabs on everything that goes on around here. I wondered if you know who owns it now? I could ask around but I don’t want word to get out that we’re interested.’

  His grandmother shrugged. ‘Apparently that woman left it to a niece or something but it’s been empty or used as a holiday home since she died—they tell me it needs a lot of work. What are you going to do? Serve her notice?’

  Nico shook his head. ‘No. I’ll offer her money to sell. We don’t want the delay or cost of going to court—nor the publicity. But we can pay a fair price, tied up in a lot of legal documents that will hopefully persuade her to say yes sooner rather than later.

  ‘Do you know anything about this owner? Where she’s from?’

  His instincts had been right. His grandmother knew everything. She tilted her chin. ‘England, but I believe she arrived on the island a week ago. By public ferry, coach class, one battered bag.’

  Which meant she had been there when he and Posy...an unwelcome thought hit him. He hadn’t, had he? ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Marlowe. Rosalind Marlowe.’

  Relief flooded through him. Not the same woman after all. And coach class with one bag? That added up to one cash-strapped Englishwoman. She’d be putty in his hands. The sooner he got his tourism project up and running, the sooner he got married, then the sooner he could work on his ideas and create something real, something sustainable in his homeland. And then this whole Crown Prince deal might start to feel less like an unwanted burden and more like something he could live with.

  It was time to pay the owner of the Villa Rosa one very official visit.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  POSY CROSSED THE courtyard and eyed the garages curiously. They were in pretty good nick, their roofs sounder than that of the house itself. They would, with new doors, a new floor, heaters and a sound system, make pretty awesome studios.

  Just a quick DIY job then. Posy mentally totted up the possible costs, wincing before she got to the sprung floor, mirrors and barre. Converting wasn’t going to be that much cheaper than building from scratch and right now she was more geared up for a ‘lick of paint and a good clean’ type budget.

  Of course, she could always sell the stylish vintage car that she’d inherited along with the villa to pay for the work. Her sisters would never forgive her—she’d already had to hear rhapsodies about engines and paintwork and rpms—but unlike the rest of the Marlowes Posy’s interest in transport was limited to did it work and would it get her where she needed to go? Hanging onto a vintage car for the sake of it when it could be turned into cold, hard cash would be utter folly.

  Maybe she should offer Miranda and Imogen first refusal though...for a reasonable price because goodness knew she needed the money.

  She pivoted and looked closely at the villa in all its faded glory, trying not to glaze over the imperfections. Thanks to Immi the gardens were looking a lot more manageable and her sisters—and their various husbands and fiancés—had all helped make the inside more home-like, but there was no way she could even consider opening to paying guests until she had fixed the roof, put in a new boiler and pulled the kitchen into the twenty-first century. Then she’d have to make sure the bathrooms were all in decent enough condition for non-family use and check each bed for broken springs or damp. She’d need bed linen as well. And she still needed actually to qualify as a Pilates and ballet teacher...

  She sighed. The way she saw it she had two choices. Either she sold the villa or she stopped it being a liability and turned it into an asset. And it could, with some work—okay, a lot of work—be a very considerable asset. The island was famed for its hot springs, the rock pool offered a natural bathing experience all year round and the view and the gardens were tranquil enough to soothe any stressed city dweller. She had bedrooms to spare, more bathrooms than she could use if she bathed in a different one every day and plenty of nooks where people could settle with books or just to doze.

  She had the space, she had the contacts, she had the knowledge and, if she sold the car and ransacked some of the contents of the villa, she might be able to muster up enough money.

  Posy blew out a frustrated breath. Her other choice was to sell. That would solve the money problem but left her with no idea what a twenty-four-year-old ex-ballerina with one good GCSE to her name could do for the rest of her life.

  And the Marlowes were famously long-lived.

  Of course there was nothing stopping her jumping on a plane and returning to London either. When she’d falteringly handed in her notice Bruno had taken a far too keen look at her before telling her to keep in shape and exercise and if she changed her mind within the year there would still be a place for her in the company. For all her resolution to start again, when she lay awake in the middle of the night the prospect of slinking back and resuming her place in the Corps de Ballet was far too tempting. But if she returned to London would that make her a double failure? Prove that she didn’t know how to live?

  But she’d lived last night...

  Heat flared in her cheeks, an answering warmth in her breasts and low deep in her stomach and she fought the urge to hide behind her hands like a small girl caught out in a misdeed. What had she been thinking? Taking her clothes off in front of a complete stranger? Allowing him—no, wanting him—to touch her like that in public? She had never behaved so recklessly, so provocatively. It was all too easy to blame the moonlight, the sea, the need to feel wanted. But she was the one who had wanted. She was the one who had initiated. Not that she’d kept that control for long...

  She shivered as flashbacks of deep, sweet kisses, long, torturous caresses, whispered endearments overwhelmed her. She had never known it to be like that, at once so wild and urgent and yet so tender. It had taken every inch of resolution to walk away, disappearing before midnight because every fairy tale reader knew not to stay beyond the witching hour. They’d agreed on just the one evening but she’d taken her time as she’d moved along the beach, just in case he called after her, asked to see her again.

  She’d been half disappointed when he hadn’t, the feeling intensifying when she’d reached the jetty and turned back to find him gone. Okay, more than half disappointed.

  Posy wandered back towards the house, the day stretching before her, empty and meaningless just like the day before and the day before that. She’d mechanically stretched and gone through her exercises earlier that morning, keeping her muscles warm and her body supple, but her books sat unopened, her crochet hook lay unused and the colouring books were still pristine. Turned out she wasn’t much good at relaxing and doing nothing.

  Maybe she should start going through the house—she had a list of contents somewhere along with valuations. Whether she sold up or sold enough to convert the villa into a retreat she still needed to know what was where and if she wanted to keep any of it—not that her tastes ran to shelves filled with vases, ornaments, boxes and the numerous other knick-knacks that filled the villa. When she had come to visit her godmother as a child she’d loved to play with them all, creating intricate games and scenarios for the various china animals. Now they were just clutter, gathering dust.

  The d
ouble doors that led into the grand double-height conservatory stood open, the sun reflecting off the panes of coloured glass randomly interspersed with the plain glass. It must have been gorgeous in Sofia’s, her godmother’s, heyday, filled with climbing plants winding their way up the leaded panes, providing much-needed shade and contrast. Sofia had held parties in the room attended by movie stars, European aristocrats and millionaires; if Posy closed her eyes she could still see the glittering jewels around the throats and in the ears of the women, the long, elegant cigarette holders, the cocktails circulating on silver trays. If rumour was to be believed Sofia had had her own share of diamonds and other precious stones but all that was left was paste and crystal, pretty but worthless. Sofia had sold them all as her looks had faded and her lovers had melted away.

  She’d still been a consummate hostess though. Posy had loved coming here. Sofia had always treated Posy and her sisters as if they were small adults, not children. Posy had never known what to expect from one day to the next—they might get dressed up in some of Sofia’s old couture gowns and hold a party, canapés and mocktails at three in the afternoon for just them. Or Sofia might decide they needed to redecorate the dining room, or teach them to snorkel, or take them into the town for oysters and champagne. But mostly she allowed them freedom to swim, sunbathe and run free so that they returned to the UK tanned and relaxed. Posy treasured the visits even more once she had started at ballet school, her holidays no relaxing time off but filled with residential courses around the country. The two carefree weeks she managed to snatch at Sofia’s were a welcome contrast to the rigid, disciplined life she had chosen. The rigid, disciplined life she was trying so hard not to miss.

  She jumped as the bell tolled solemnly. Who could that be? The house had been empty since Immi left a month ago and no one apart from her family knew she was here.

  She didn’t have to answer it. If she stayed quiet they would probably just go away.

  The bell tolled again, low and commanding. ‘Don’t be such a coward,’ she scolded herself. After all Imogen’s fiancé, Matt, had lived on the island for several years. It would be just like Immi to get a friend of Matt’s to check up on her. She knew her sisters were worried about her decision to move into her money pit of an inheritance, to leave London, to quit her hard-fought-for career; of course they’d send in an intervention.

  Well, the intervention could just intervene right out. She was fine. Almost.

  The bell tolled for a third time as she moved briskly through the hall, a room large enough to hold a ball in if the conservatory was otherwise engaged, and she wrenched open the front door, indignation buzzing through her veins. ‘Hold your horses. I’m here. Oh!’

  Her hand tightened on the door. ‘Nico?’

  She wasn’t sure at first. The expression in the blue eyes was a mixture of surprise and determination, the dark hair slicked back, the broad shoulders and narrow waist covered by a perfectly cut light suit. But her body knew him instantly, every pulse beating rapidly as he looked straight at her.

  ‘Hello, Posy.’

  Any thought he might have come looking for her, that this was the start of the kind of whirlwind romance she’d read about but never experienced, evaporated in the late morning sun. There was no flirtatiousness in his voice, no seduction in his eyes. Whatever Nico wanted here it didn’t include a re-enactment of last night.

  That was fine. She didn’t expect anything else. Hoped maybe, in that first flare of surprise, that he might be pleased to see her but two could play at the ‘polite strangers’ game. She forced her hand to relax, her face to remain still, her highly trained muscles obeying in instant precision. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for Rosalind Marlowe. Is she here?’

  ‘You’re talking to her. I’m Rosalind,’ she clarified as his forehead crinkled. ‘Rosalind shortened to Rosy, my family called me Rosy-Posy and then when I started to dance, they kind of lost the Rosy in a Ballet Shoes Posy Fossil way.’ She was babbling. Great. ‘Not that that matters. What do you want?’

  The mask had slipped a little; Nico was looking uncomfortable. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again after last night and now here you are looking for me but not knowing it’s me. I don’t want someone who makes me uncomfortable in my house. So probably not. Whatever you want to say to me you can say right here.’

  * * *

  Nico narrowed his eyes. Two minutes in and already this whole situation was slipping dangerously out of control. It was his own fault. He should have heeded the warning bells clanging loudly the instant his grandmother mentioned that the villa had passed to an Englishwoman. There was a reason Posy had sprung straight into his mind. She was the logical choice, appearing on the beach the way she had last night, her conviction that he was trespassing, her surety that she was safe to swim naked—but the difference in name had allowed him to ignore his premonition. Big mistake.

  None of this would matter if he hadn’t given in to temptation last night; this was a lesson, if ever he needed one, not to engage in al fresco fun and games with complete strangers. Maybe it was a good thing he was about to be safely and dutifully married.

  Posy held onto the heavy oak door as if it were supporting her—and as if any moment she might swing it shut in his face. Nico suppressed a smile—he couldn’t remember anyone refusing him entry before.

  She was casually dressed in soft grey yoga trousers and a matching vest top, her gorgeous dark hair twisted up into a messy bun, her face make-up free, emphasising the disparity between them. He’d wanted to wrong-foot Rosalind Marlowe, to impress her with his title, his designer suit, his offer. He didn’t want to wrong-foot Posy, dark-eyed naiad of the night before. He should have called first, given her a chance to put her armour on just as he had his.

  Either way he needed a sharp change of tactic. ‘In that case will you take a short walk with me? Just along the cliff top,’ he added as she stared at him doubtfully. ‘There’s a matter I really need to discuss with you.’

  ‘Is it to do with last night?’ Pink blossomed on her cheeks as she asked the question but she held his gaze defiantly.

  ‘Last night? No. I didn’t realise you lived here.’

  ‘Where did you think I lived? There’s no other house for a mile.’

  ‘Secretly I thought you really had come from the sea—or more prosaically that you’d sailed round. Not many people think they’re allowed to stop off at the beach but those who do know that they’re almost guaranteed to have the beach to themselves and that the jetty makes it a safe mooring.’

  ‘We always assumed it belonged to the Villa Rosa. The beach, I mean. We never saw anyone else on it when we were kids. It was our own playground.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My sisters and I. There’s four of us.’

  ‘Four? Are any of them here with you now?’

  ‘They’ve all been and gone. The villa’s been a bit of a godsend this year. I don’t know what we’d have done without it. I didn’t expect Sofia—my godmother—to leave it to me and I’m not entirely sure what to do with it but I’m grateful we all had somewhere to come when we needed it.’

  She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it—there, that was positive. Better focus on that than the glow in her eyes when she had mentioned how grateful she was to own it.

  ‘Look, Nico, we can’t keep talking like this. Come on in. I didn’t mean to be rude but you startled me.’

  She held the door open and Nico stepped into the large, light-filled hallway. The panelling was painted white and hung with bright abstract paintings, the floor covered in white tiles; a glass-sided staircase curved along one wall onto the landing above. Doors on either side stood ajar; through one he glimpsed a huge dining table capable of seating at least twenty, through another a room filled with
vintage furniture, the plastered walls covered in delicate murals. But for all its sumptuousness the famed Villa Rosa felt shabby and a little grubby, cobwebs coating the plasterwork, lines of grime in between the tiles.

  ‘I know, it’s kind of ridiculous for one person, isn’t it? Far too much to look after.’ Posy read his thoughts with unerring accuracy. ‘Of course, when she first lived here, Sofia—my godmother—filled the place with visitors. She didn’t really live on her own until the mid-eighties. And it must have been so expensive to keep up—some rooms are just covered in dust sheets and shut away. This way. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Nico’s eyes widened as she took him through another faded, but lavishly decorated and ornamented, hallway and into an impressive, if in need of urgent repair, conservatory. He was right. This place would make a superb boutique hotel.

  It was also disconcerting. His grandfather’s influence was stamped all over the place, in the hunting prints hung along one wall to the cushions flung casually on a wooden bench, embroidered with King Ludano’s own personal seal. The parties held here were legendary—parties his grandfather had funded and attended rather than concentrating on improving the lives of the people who lived and worked on the island that gave him his title and their loyalty.

  Nico rocked back on his heels and stared up at the roof. He’d been so busy mourning the loss of the future he had been working towards, so busy mourning his cousin, so busy bitterly resenting the title and responsibilities due his way that he’d forgotten what it all meant. Forgotten what he owed every man, woman and child born on this island or who chose to make their home here. A monarchy might be absurdly old-fashioned but that was what they had and it was up to him to make the best of it.