The Prince's Bride

by Sophie Weston

  He took off his jacket and settled it round her shoulders over the pretty linen blazer. The tension seemed to leak out of Hope as they stood there in silence.

  Eventually she leaned against his shoulder. The night breeze caught her descending hair and blew strands across her face and his.

  “I should have a headscarf like that lady in the post office.” He could hear the smile in her voice.

  “All right now?”

  Her hair moved against his cheek as she nodded.

  “Then shall we go home?”

  Jonas was more than half expecting her to say that she wanted to be alone. But Hope turned and kissed him hard and then said, “Yes. Oh yes. Please.”

  They made love with tenderness. With passion. Even, sometime in the small hours, with laughter again. But above all, with total honesty. She could not have told him she trusted him any more clearly.

  Humbled and profoundly grateful Jonas thought: now I know she feels the same as I do. We can work this out now. In the morning.

  But in the morning the world intruded with a vengeance. Mrs Anton called with the news that Poppy had broken her arm and was being airlifted back to Liburno for treatment.

  “And all she wants is to be with Moby. Could you possibly bring him to meet us?” Mrs Anton began to cry.

  “Poor Poppy,” said Hope in quick sympathy. “Poor you. Of course.”

  “I’ll drive you,” said Jonas.

  But his cell phone was already beeping. “Have you got a moment?” said Carlo, sounding strained.

  The Difficult Client had stormed back into the office, even more vitriolic than normal, with a major commercial dispute that had blown up overnight. He was now threatening to take it to every international court he could think of. Carlo didn’t actually order Jonas back to the office but when he said, “We’re really missing you,” Jonas grimaced.

  “Time’s run out on us, sweetheart,” he said to Hope. And to Carlo: “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Then to Hope: “Did I sound as grudging as I feel?”

  She shook her head. “Very supportive.”

  “That’s a relief. No one could have a better boss.”

  “Then he deserves his great brother.”

  “At least we’ll both be in Liburno,” Jonas and Hope said in chorus. They both laughed.

  They stood with their arms locked round each other, reluctant to say goodbye.

  “I still need to talk to you,” Jonas said, between kisses. “As soon as I’ve dealt this latest crisis.”

  “I’ll keep my diary free,” she teased. “Now go. Your brother needs you.”

  “You’re a hard woman.” But he disengaged and got into the car. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m out of the meeting.”

  She watched him until his car was out of sight.

  But Poppy had more than a broken arm. She had suspected concussion. She was certainly not making sense by the time Hope and Moby met them. Hope drove them straight to the clinic from the airport.

  Mrs Anton was half mad with worry and didn’t want to let Hope out of her sight. “Have you got another job to go to at the end of the week, Hope?”

  “No.”

  “Could you stay working for us?”

  “Glad to.”

  She texted Jonas.

  They texted a lot over the next few days. Jonas went off on a rescue mission to the Difficult Client’s lawyers in London while Hope ran a ten-hour working day round Moby and the invalid. When the rest of the family returned from their trip, it went up to fourteen hours. Poppy was still in hospital, not responding as well as everyone had hoped.

  Hope texted everything to Jonas as it happened. Sadly, she looked at the family’s schedule and sent: Can’t see me getting away this week.

  He replied: Of course you can’t. I’ve got lots of boring work to keep me busy. Don’t worry. Love you.

  And then Poppy had a relapse and Mrs Anton asked Hope for another favour. It was a lot tougher.

  “Blake’s got this official dinner tonight. We’ve taken a table and he needs a hostess. But I can’t leave Poppy. I can’t. Please help us out, Hope. There’s no one else we could ask this late.”

  Hope didn’t try to hide how much she hated the idea. How she loathed big parties, had none of the right clothes, and generally would rather climb the Alps in her bare feet.

  Blake Anton looked dreadful. “My wife would be really grateful,” was all he said. But Hope could see how hard he was finding it to stay reasoned and courteous. He checked his phone every spare moment he had – and some that clearly weren’t spare.

  “Oh what the hell,” she said. “It’s only one evening out of my life. I can stand it, if you can.”

  She texted Jonas but wasn’t surprised to get no reply. He’d said that he had some lawyer event that evening and would have his phone off. He must already have left.

  So Hope dressed in a frenzy. Mrs Anton had directed her to borrow a sophisticated bronze satin dress that was a lot more figure-hugging than Hope normally wore. Fortunately she was slimmer than her employer. Mrs Anton had bought high-heeled strappy shoes to go with the gown, too. They were also too big. But with some party gel for tired feet and an extra hole drilled in the strap, they worked well enough. She put her hair up rapidly.

  “It’s the official declaration of last year’s vintage. The wine buyers have been in town for two days. Tonight is to celebrate it. It’s at San Michele’s premier vineyard, hosted by the royal family,” Blake Anton explained, whipping through his text messages. “Our guests –”

  “I know who the guests are. Mrs Anton gave me the list with bios attached. I’ve learned what I can and it’s on my phone if I forget anything.”

  For a moment his mood lightened. “You’re a miracle.”

  She chuckled. “You won’t say that when I fall off these shoes.”

  But she concentrated hard and it seemed all right. She had to remind herself to stop fiddling with the feathery curls against her neck and to keep the matching silk shawl over her bare shoulders in case the too-large dress slipped too far. But apart from that she felt altogether more relaxed than she would have dreamed possible.

  I must remember to tell Jonas, she thought. He may just have cured me of my party phobia.

  The chateau was a jewel, set in breath-taking formal gardens full of neatly trimmed hedges, life-size sculptures and one of the largest baroque fountains she had ever seen. They entered through wide double doors into a vestibule with a marble floor, massive portraits and chaises longues against each wall. A great curving staircase led to what the attendants described as the anteroom.

  A flunkey told them, “San Michele wine is being served. The Royal Party will join you there.”

  Hope remembered the first time she had drunk San Michele wine. She smiled and blushed a little, hugging the memory. Something else to tell Jonas. It would make him laugh.

  The anteroom seemed to stretch the entire width of the house. It was full to bursting point with chattering people in their best, the men in tuxedos or impressive military uniforms with braid and medals, the women in ball gowns and jewels.

  The Royal Party arrived without a fanfare. Someone pointed out Crown Princess Anna, circulating graciously a few feet away.

  In the middle of the room, the Crown Princess met up with her husband and they headed up what rapidly turned into a column of special guests shuffling in line to go to the top table.

  “It’s like primary school,” Hope said involuntarily. “We used to go to the swimming baths in a crocodile like that when I was eight.”

  One of Blake Anton’s guests said, “You know, you’re right.”

  And Hope thought that maybe she might actually enjoy this party, after all, in spite of the ball gowns.

  She must tell Ally Parker as well as Jonas. Ally and she had always walked together to the swimming class. These days Ally was an interviewer for Celebrity magazine and presumably knew all about grand parties. But she might not have come across the royalty croc
odile protocol. It would make her laugh.

  The Crown Princess led the way into the banqueting hall on the arm of a tall, distinguished-looking man with white hair, a sash and medals.

  “Guest of Honour,” someone murmured. “Master Sommelier. The lady with Prince Carlo is Head of the San Michele Winemakers’ Association.”

  There followed a procession to the long top table with everyone else falling in behind. Blake Anton, who did big formal dinners all the time, had consulted the seating plan well in advance and efficiently located his own table. It was in front of some magnificent gold and glass doors.

  Hope, seated between an American Master of Wine and a French wine writer, realized it was going to be a long evening. Train spotters, she thought, would be thrilling by comparison. But she smiled and listened to them both in turn, and tried to look as if wine fascinated her as much as it did them.

  “Don’t worry.” The American was proving much more down-to-earth than his French colleague. “The big speeches were all done this afternoon at the tasting. Someone will thank the Crown Princess. The Crown Princess will thank us all for coming. And then the dancing starts.”

  “I look forward to it,” she said courteously. It was true. After two hours of acidity, malolactic fermentation and noble rot, dancing, even in these shoes, would be a welcome relief.

  His Serene Highness Prince Jonas was wearing the formal mess dress uniform of a Commander of the Royal San Michele Navy. It was, as he said himself, a snazzy number in navy blue with gold buttons and epaulettes, aiguillettes, a white waistcoat and a black bow tie. No one could call him unobtrusive. But he was, at least, sword-free.

  He was also, now, in a towering temper. He’d received a text that made him roar like a hunting lion, after which the Palace staff, who were used to him as the amenable brother, walked round him on tiptoe.

  Jonas knew it and was powerless to hide his fury. It was so unfair. The woman hated dances. She said so herself. She had no right to change her mind at absolutely the worst moment.

  All those times when he had so nearly told her the full truth about himself, and decided not to because the time hadn’t felt right! Well no time could be worse than now. And now he had no choice but to tell her. In fact he’d be lucky if he got to tell her himself before some busybody said, “Oh look, there’s Prince Jonas.”

  He’d called for a guest list. Any faint hope that Blake Anton was taking his guests to some other celebration faded at the first glance. The list was alphabetical. The Antons were at the top. There was even a note beside Mrs Anton’s name that she would be absent and represented by Miss Hope Kennard, due to Poppy Anton (aged eleven) being in hospital with complications following concussion. The Crown Princess was advised to say a few words of sympathy to Mr Anton. His party was at Table 8.

  Jonas consulted a floor plan. Table 8 was by the windows onto the terrace. That might help. But he’d have to work fast.

  “I need someone to deliver a note,” he barked. “Now.”

  Hope decided that big parties weren’t so bad after all. She had danced a sedate waltz with the French wine writer and a distinctly more adventurous polka with a San Michele viniculturist. The Crown Princess had visited their table, offering Blake Anton her sympathy and wishing all the foreigners welcome to San Michele. And then a footman cleared his throat behind Hope and slid a note onto the table in front of her.

  “To reach the statue garden you go out of these doors, turn left, and then left again onto the west terrace,” he murmured.

  “Er. Thank you. I think.”

  She looked round. But no one had noticed her note arriving. Half her fellow guests were dancing and the rest were chatting either to someone else at the table or somewhere in the room.

  She opened it. The signature was almost illegible. But then her eyes adjusted to the rapid scrawl and the reception became the best party she’d ever been to.

  Darling, I’m here too. Work, of course. I’ve got a load of duty dances. I’ll be in the statue garden 10.15–10.45. Meet me there, if you can.

  There was a big black arrow, telling her to turn over. On the other side he had scrawled a truly appalling map. Just as well that the footman had told her how to get there, she thought.

  She picked up her bag and shawl, smiled generally round the table and slipped out onto the terrace into the crisp evening air. Someone had put pyramid heaters on the terrace, living flame in a glass case, and people were grouped close to them, laughing and drinking, several of them smoking. They took no notice as she strolled past them.

  Once she came to the very end of the terrace and rounded the corner, it was like being in a different world. It was cold without the warmth from the ballroom or the pyramid heaters. The far garden was in darkness but Hope saw statues illuminated by chilly blue spotlights. The fountain, too. It was a bit creepy, if she were honest. She didn’t care. Jonas was out there somewhere.

  She ran down the terrace, completely forgetting that she didn’t trust Mrs Anton’s shoes. Her feet barely touched the ground.

  Shallow steps curved down into the statue garden, faintly lit by small inset spots. Someone was standing there in the half dark. She knew the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head; the way he moved the moment he heard her footsteps.

  She stopped. “Jonas.” It was a whisper of joy, of excitement. Of homecoming.

  “Hope? Hope?”

  He took the last steps three at a time and caught her up in his arms. “My darling, my darling. I thought I’d missed you. Kiss me.”

  He sounded so shaken that she almost didn’t recognize his voice. But she recognized the way he held her, one hand spread between her shoulder blades, the other thumb stroking her jawline convulsively, as if he couldn’t believe she was there. She laughed softly, as she had done before, and feathered a kiss across the stroking palm.

  Jonas gave a choking laugh. So he remembered too. “Tease. Not like that.”

  His arms tightened and she gave herself into that wondrously familiar full-body kiss, all her senses on fire. She cried out in a kind of anguish and he broke the kiss, holding her strongly while they got their breathing under control.

  “You smell different,” she said lovingly, when she could speak.

  “Do I?” The boa constrictor grip might have lessened but he wasn’t letting her go any time soon. He pretended to sniff her neck experimentally and ended by kissing her throat. “You don’t.”

  Her head tipped back under his exploring mouth but she said, a little breathlessly, “Not very complimentary. I must have smelled of rainwear and wet dog mostly.”

  “Nope.” Then he found her mouth again and breathing was no longer a possibility.

  Later, when they were sitting on the top step leaning against each other, she said, “You usually smell of the forest.”

  He was startled. “Do I?”

  “And now it’s something very indoors-y and sophisticated.”

  “Sophisticated!” He hooted. “Probably mothballs.”

  She reared away from him, half laughing, half genuinely astonished. “What?”

  “Damn uniform. It only gets an outing a couple of times a year. I always have to dress up in some uniform or other for these damn things. I don’t know why. My father never does. But my sister-in-law has this bee in her bonnet ...”

  “But why?” she said. “I’m sure it’s very smart. But why wear it if you don’t like it?”

  “Ah.”

  For some reason she thought: that doesn’t sound good.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hope tried humour. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Jonas. But you’re a terrible liar. You’re not even trying to sound convincing.”

  It didn’t work. He said stiffly, “I’m sorry about that.”

  She had never heard him sound like that before. It almost scared her. She refused to give in to it and tried make a joke instead. “There’s no need to sound like a customs officer about to make me to open my bags.�
��

  “Oh God!”

  “I’m sorry?” Hope said blankly.

  And then suddenly there was a light at the end of the balustrade. Someone was swinging a small lantern. A voice hissed, “Your Serene Highness? Are you there?”

  Instinctively they both huddled down, out of sight. Grateful for the lightening of the atmosphere, Hope laughed silently and whispered, “They must have lost a royal!”

  He didn’t laugh with her. Maybe that was when she knew something was badly wrong. Or maybe she was still trying to tell herself that her dawning suspicions were all down to her own wretched imagination.

  Either way, Jonas went very still. And then he said in a heavy voice that she really didn’t recognize, “No they haven’t lost anyone. Stay here. Or you’ll really hate the fuss that will break out.”

  And, just like that, between one second and the next, her suspicions crystallized, were justified and brought her world crashing round her ears.

  Jonas stood up and went along the narrow terrace to meet the man with the lantern.

  Crouching in the darkness on the steps, Hope heard him say in his own language, “I’m just coming.”

  “Message from Count Fredrik, Sir. The Lady Mayor of Liburno is the next on your dance card. She sat out her dance with the Head of the Growers’ Association and now she’s in a terrible temper. Count Fredrik says please can you can reconcile the warring parties?”

  Hope was numb.

  At least I’m getting better at the language, she thought, with something between righteous fury and despair.

  “Go back to Count Fredrik and tell him I’ll be right there.”

  Your Serene Highness. Count Fredrik. The Mayor of Liburno. Reconcile the warring parties.

  Hope took off her shoes, so they shouldn’t give her away clippetty clopping on the stone staircase, and slipped – no, ran – into the darkness of the garden.

  At least I can’t get lost. Turn left at one of those blasted statues and I’ll find the main drive. And where there is a drive, there is a gate to leave by. Eventually.