by Jessica Hart
His great-aunt was watching his expression and her eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t marry her,’ she said.
Philippe turned abruptly and went over to stand by one of the long windows that looked out over the gardens. Below, he could see Caro, who was trying to teach Apollo to run after a stick.
She waggled the stick in front of the pug’s nose, and then threw it onto the lawn. Apollo sat on his rump and looked at her blankly. Caro pointed at the stick, then demonstrated by galloping onto the grass to fetch it. She brought it back and dropped it in front of Apollo, who regarded it without interest.
Watching her, Philippe felt some of his frustration ease and the corner of his mouth twitched.
‘Why can’t I marry her?’ he asked.
‘I’d have thought it was obvious! You will be Crown Prince one day,’ the Dowager said. ‘You owe it to your father to find a suitable bride. We don’t want Montluce to become the laughing stock of Europe.’
‘Several heirs to thrones around Europe have married commoners,’ Philippe pointed out. ‘It hasn’t done those countries any harm.’
‘Those brides at least look the part.’ The Dowager joined him at the window. ‘Can you say the same of Caroline Cartwright?’
She gestured down at Caro, who had repeated her demonstration with the stick and had stopped to catch her breath. Her face was pink, her shirt creased and her hair tumbled messily to her shoulders.
No, she didn’t look like a princess.
Unaware of their gaze, Caro pulled a clip from her pocket and put her hair up in an untidy twist before fixing it into place and smoothing the stray hairs from her face. The shirt strained across her breasts as she lifted her arms, and Philippe felt the sharp stir of desire.
‘Everyone likes her,’ he told his great-aunt.
‘The staff.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I heard she’s been hobnobbing with the footmen and distracting the kitchen staff. Tell her to stop it.’
‘It’s not just the staff.’ Philippe crossed back to pick up the paper she’d shown him earlier. ‘The people like her too.’ He tapped the article. ‘It says so here.’
A lesser woman would have snatched. As it was, there was a definite crispness in the way his great-aunt took the paper from him and reread the enthusiastic piece with an expression of distaste.
‘Everyone was charmed,’ she read, not sounding in the least charmed. ‘Hmm.’ Her expression grew thoughtful. Philippe could see her clever mind calculating.
‘This English girl isn’t for you, Philippe,’ she said at last. ‘You know that yourself. Perhaps you’re jaded and she’s a fresh taste for a while, but I don’t expect it to last and, if you were honest, you’d know that too. As it is, you’ll be bored in a month or so and then you’ll be ready for someone more sophisticated again.’
And then I’ll find Charlotte and bring her home, Philippe could practically hear her thinking.
‘In the meantime, if you insist on keeping Mademoiselle Cartwright with you, we might as well capitalise on her popularity. She’s new and different, so of course the people are enthused.’ She shrugged elegantly. ‘Take her with you when you go out on official visits. Perhaps she’ll draw some attention away from all these pipeline protests.’
‘It might be a better idea to talk to the protestors and settle the issue,’ Philippe suggested and his great-aunt stiffened.
‘Your father has already made a decision about the pipeline. These people have no business making a fuss about things they know nothing about. Camping on the streets!’ She snorted. ‘Ridiculous!’
‘Perhaps they have legitimate concerns.’
But the Dowager Blanche was having none of it. ‘That’s not how things are done in Montluce. It is not for you to interfere.’
‘One day it will be for me to interfere,’ he pointed out.
‘Fortunately, that day has not yet come,’ she flashed back. ‘I suggest you stick to what you agreed to do, unless you are hoping to drive your father to his death. He has already suffered enough from your recklessness and irresponsibility.’
She launched into a scathing lecture about his attitude, behaviour and prospects while Philippe gritted his teeth and reminded himself that she was an old lady who had lost both her sons.
‘Leave the government to Lefebvre,’ she said, winding down at last. ‘If you want to make yourself useful, encourage your more famous—and sober—friends to come to my annual ball. It’s in aid of an international medical charity, so it’s a good cause, and some celebrity guests might lend a certain cachet to the proceedings. That’s something you can do.’
Philippe thought about the flights he had funded, the planes he had flown into disaster areas, the boxes of tools and tents and water purification tablets that had helped people survive.
‘Certainly, Altesse.’
When at last the Dowager let him go, Philippe went straight down to the garden to find Caro. She was sitting on the steps from the terrace with Apollo, both of them puffing, in spite of the fact that Caro had had about ten times as much exercise as the pug.
Philippe was aware of his tension loosening at the sight of her. ‘It’s like a soundtrack to a porn film out here with all this heavy breathing.’
Caro swung round, her heart lurching unmistakably at the sight of him, tall and dark and devastating in the suit he had to wear to meet his great-aunt every day. Every fibre of her sang and cheered in recognition. This was the man who had loved her last night, the man whose hands had taken her to mindless delight. Whose body she had explored, inch by inch. Whose mouth…
Stop it! Caro told herself fiercely.
It was too early to be thinking like that, but once that bedroom door closed tonight… She shivered in anticipation.
‘I’m exhausted,’ she said. ‘Apollo doesn’t seem to have the least idea of how to be a dog. He doesn’t do walking or running after sticks or anything.’ She fondled the dog’s ears all the same. ‘Do you, dog?’
Philippe’s face was set in grim lines as he sat down on the steps beside her, hooking two fingers inside his collar to loosen it. He was looking forbidding, and Caro leaned against his shoulder, bumping it in greeting.
‘How did today’s ticking off go?’ she asked, wanting to see him smile, wanting to see the tension leak from his shoulders.
‘Oh, you know. I’m a disappointment to everyone. No sense of duty. Why couldn’t I just marry Lotty, blah, blah, blah. The usual.’ Philippe spoke lightly, but she sensed it was with an effort.
‘Oh, dear, she’s not warming to me, is she? After I walked Apollo, too!’
‘She’s hoping my passion for you will burn out before your wardrobe brings the entire state of Montluce into disrepute. Our little trip to the market didn’t go down well,’ he told her. ‘You’re on the front of all the papers.’
Caro sat bolt upright. ‘I am?’
‘You’re a celebrity now,’ said Philippe, ‘and now the Dowager Blanche is going to use you. You’re to accompany me on the various visits I’ve got to do. The idea is that everyone will be so excited about what you’re wearing that they won’t be interested in the gas line protests. She’s counting on a media frenzy.’
‘A media frenzy? About me?’ Caro stared at him in disbelief.
‘Hard to believe, I know,’ he said. ‘Especially given your propensity for jumble sale cast-offs. You can start tomorrow. I’m opening a new wing at the hospital in the afternoon, so you can come to that.’
‘But won’t it look a bit official?’ Caro pulled a face. ‘Everyone will think we’re about to announce our engagement if I start tagging along like that. I wouldn’t have thought the Dowager Blanche would have wanted to encourage that idea.’
‘She doesn’t, but I managed to convince her that I am utterly besotted by you.’
Caro leant so that their shoulders were touching once more. It was amazingly comforting. ‘She’s still worried about Lotty, and she’s fretting about us,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should tell her that you
’ve no intention of marrying me. That would make it easier for her. You could say you’re just obsessed with my body.’
‘I could, but I’m not going to. Let her fret,’ said Philippe. ‘In fact,’ he went on, smoothing her hair behind her ear and fixing his eyes on her mouth, ‘let her fret right now.’
It was pathetic. The merest graze of his fingers and she went to pieces. Caro swallowed. ‘I thought we agreed no touching when we’re alone?’
‘But we’re not alone,’ he said. ‘My great-aunt is certainly glaring down at us from the window up there, and who knows who else is watching? There’ll be some footman who might like to earn a little more by leaking how in love we are to the press. I don’t think we should deny him his perk, do you?’
His hand slid underneath her hair and he tugged her gently towards him and, as he put his mouth to hers, Caro closed her eyes at the jolt of wicked pleasure. She ought to push him away, she thought hazily. This was a mistake.
But it didn’t feel like a mistake with the sunlight spilling around them on the steps. It felt right, it felt perfect. Parting her lips with a little sigh, she abandoned herself to the sweetness that surged through her, and the current that ran like wildfire under her skin.
One hand rested on the stone step, the other crept up to Philippe’s arm and she sank into him, giving back kiss for kiss until Apollo decided that he needed her attention. He started to bark and scrabble at Philippe until they broke reluctantly apart.
‘Get out of here, dog,’ said Philippe, telling himself to keep it light, not wanting Caro to guess how shaken he was.
‘He’s defending me,’ said Caro, giving Apollo a pat with a hand that was still trembling. ‘He thinks you’re hurting me.’
‘I’m not hurting her, mutt.’ Philippe pretended to glare at Apollo and reached for her again, but Caro evaded him and got to her feet, brushing herself down.
‘Not yet,’ she said under her breath.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Waving and shaking
Isn’t it amazing how quickly you can get used to things? I feel as if I’ve been living in a palace and hanging out with royalty for ever! It’s only been a month, but already I’m an old hand at waving and shaking hands, and my curtsey is coming on a treat.
I’m not sure why, but your grandmother decreed that I should accompany Philippe on official visits—maybe she thinks I’ll embarrass him so much he’ll dump me in favour of someone more suitable, i.e. you? But you’re safe for now. Philippe still can’t accept that vintage is a style choice and is invariably rude about what I’m wearing, but otherwise we’re getting on fine.
Caro stopped typing. Getting on fine. It sounded so bland, but she couldn’t tell Lotty the truth. She couldn’t tell her how Philippe closed the bedroom door every night and looked at her with that smile that made her blood zing. How they made love with an abandon that made Caro burn just to think about it. How the touch of Philippe’s lips or Philippe’s hands quivered over her body all day. Sometimes she would look at him and the knowledge of how the muscles in his back flexed at her touch would thrill through her, and she would long for night to come so that she could hold him again.
No, that was between her and Philippe. It was their secret, their other life, the one she struggled to keep separate the moment they stepped through the bedroom door.
Philippe has a punishing schedule, arranged by Lefebvre and your grandmother to keep him out of mischief, he thinks. Over the past month we’ve visited hospitals, inspected factories, attended receptions, sat through endless concerts and admired some really impressive charity projects. I guess you’re used to all of this, but it’s all new for Philippe as well as for me. I think he’s really good at it, actually. He always rolls his eyes when he sees what’s on the schedule for the day, but I’ve noticed that he’s got a real knack for seeming charming and interested without losing that glamour that makes people feel special for having the opportunity to meet him in the first place. It’s charisma, I suppose.
I tag along in the background. Philippe always tells me I’m going to be bored, and sometimes when I hear what’s in store, my heart sinks a bit, but you know what? I always end up enjoying myself. I’ve been overwhelmed by the welcome we get. I know it’s for Philippe, but sometimes people call out to me and want to shake my hand too! Little girls are always thrusting posies at me, and by the time I get home—
Caro broke off. She shouldn’t think of the palace as home. It was a place she was staying for a couple of months and she had better not forget it. Ellerby was home. She deleted ‘home’. She typed instead:
By the time I get back to the palace I’m laden with flowers. My French is improving by leaps and bounds, but I still need Philippe to interpret most of the time. I’m not sure he always translates correctly, because there always seems to be a lot of laughter, and I have a funny feeling it’s all at my expense! But he swears blind he’s not taking liberties.
So basically, Lotty, I’m having a great time! Even on the most tedious of visits, I can always catch Philippe’s eye, which makes it easier to sit through some symphony of squeaky chairs or an earnest explanation of the difference between pre-stressed and reinforced concrete (bet you’re sorry you missed that one!) It’s hard not to enjoy yourself when everyone is so kind and friendly and nice to you all the time! Maybe I would get sick of it after a while, and I don’t need to tell you how sore your hand is at the end of the day after it’s been shaken a million times, but for now it’s good fun. I’ve got the rest of my life to be just one in a crowd, after all!
Caro
xx
Not every day was taken up with visits. Sometimes Philippe had meetings with ministers or senior officials and, of course, he had to check in daily with the Dowager. Every morning a red box of government papers would arrive, which he would have to read and discuss with his great-aunt. Caro knew how much he loathed those meetings, and how torn he was between wanting to make some real changes and a reluctance to distress his father.
In spite of the difficult relationship between Philippe and the Dowager Blanche, Caro suspected that he didn’t want to hurt her either, so he swallowed his frustration and talked about going back to South America, where he could fly and do something more useful than shake hands. Caro thought it was a shame. He had the potential to be a thoughtful and progressive ruler, if only his family would accept him for how he was.
It was hard now to remember how dismissive she had been about Philippe at first. She had seen him as a two-dimensional figure, a cardboard cut-out of a playboy prince, and he played up to that, as if he didn’t want anyone to guess that beneath the glamour and the good looks, beneath that dazzling surface gloss, was a man of integrity and intelligence, who chafed at the restrictions of royal life, while yearning—Caro was sure—for his father’s approval?
She fell into the habit of walking Apollo in the gardens whenever Philippe met with the Dowager Blanche so that she could be there for him when he came out. He was always rigid with frustration, and it took a little while to coax him back into good humour, but Caro made him stroll with her by the lake and, between the tranquil water and the mountains and Philippe gradually unwinding beside her, that soon became one of her favourite parts of the day.
By and large, they were sticking to their agreement, although Philippe cheated whenever they were in public. It gave him the perfect excuse to touch Caro: a hand in the small of her back to move her along, an arm around her waist, fingers tucking stray tendrils of hair behind her ears, a knuckle grazing her cheek in a brief caress.
‘Just annoying the Dowager Blanche,’ said Philippe, holding up his hands innocently whenever Caro tried to protest.
‘Stop it,’ she would mutter, but she didn’t mean it. Ignoring the strict instructions of her brain, her body clamoured for his touch, however brief. She only had to watch him turn his head and smile at the crowd, or bend down to shake an old lady�
�s hand, and Caro’s treacherous body would clench with longing for the night to come.
She didn’t tell Lotty that either.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Style icon
Caro, you’re in Glitz!!!! There was a whole piece about how you’ve revolutionized fashion in Montluce. I understand a vintage dinner jacket is now the must-have item in every Montlucian woman’s wardrobe! I was drinking a cup of tea (I LOVE tea!) when I opened the magazine and nearly spat it everywhere when I saw your picture. Then I couldn’t explain what was so funny to Corran and had to make up some lame excuse about thinking that I recognised you. I hardly did! You look like you’d be a fabulous princess. Why didn’t we swap places before? Why don’t you and Philippe think about making it permanent? It says in Glitz that he adores you…is there anything I need to know?????
Xxx Lotty
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Style icon
Who’s Corran?????
Cxxxxxxxx
Caro didn’t want to lie to Lotty, and it was too complicated to explain the arrangement she and Philippe had made, so she left it at that.
In her inbox at the same time was a message from Stella, who had also seen the Glitz article and had made a point of showing it to George and Melanie. George looked sick as a pig, she reported gleefully, and Melanie wasn’t looking nearly as perky now.
Caro closed Stella’s email without replying immediately. George and Ellerby seemed so distant now. It was hard now to remember how desperately she had loved George, how hurt she had been when he had left her for Melanie.
