by Jessica Hart
From the other end of the table, Caro tried not to notice how beautiful Francesca was, or how Philippe rested his arm on the back of her chair, how he smiled at her and leant close to murmur in her ear. There was no point in being jealous. She was the one who’d insisted he’d be good with Francesca, after all.
But it hurt all the same.
Get through the dinner, Caro told herself. Get through the ball. Then she could go home to Ellerby and remember what was really important.
Philippe and his friends were going sailing on the lake the next day. Caro had excused herself, saying vaguely that she had things to do.
It was all very well deciding to ditch her vintage look for something more elegant, but it was so long since she’d bought anything new that Caro didn’t know where to start. In the end, she had enlisted the help of Agnès, the most stylish of the maids, who made even the uniform they had to wear look chic. ‘I need a dress,’ she told Agnès, whose eyes lit up at the challenge of transforming Caro.
Off the peg wouldn’t do, Caro gathered. She needed a real dress, and Agnès had a cousin whose sister-in-law—or perhaps it was the other way round, Caro got a bit lost in the rapid French—was a Paris-trained designer just striking out on her own.
Ziggi turned out to have bright blue hair, and for a while Caro wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake in putting herself in her hands, but Ziggi made the dress in record time, and when Caro saw herself she was astounded. ‘You like?’
‘I don’t know what to say…’ Caro gaped at her reflection. Somehow those extra pounds had gone, and she looked svelte and stylish.
Agnès beamed. ‘You are like a princesse!’
‘Oh, no,’ said Caro involuntarily, backing away from her reflection. She wasn’t supposed to be looking like a princess. She was supposed to be looking smart enough not to embarrass Philippe, that was all.
But it was too late now. Ziggi had made the dress for her, and was confidently awaiting a flood of commissions after Caro wore it to the ball.
‘It just needs the hair,’ said Agnès firmly.
‘I’m ready.’
At the sound of Caro’s voice, Philippe turned sharply from the window. He’d been pacing around the apartments while she was closeted with one of the maids, getting dressed for the ball. The two of them were starting the evening with a glass of champagne in the Dowager Blanche’s apartments, and there would be hell to pay if they were late.
But that wasn’t why he was on edge.
It should have been a perfect day. He’d left the red boxes behind and been sailing with his friends. For those few hours, he’d been Philippe again, not a prince. The sun had shone, the company was good. Everyone had had fun. Only he had spent the entire time wondering where Caro was and what she was doing. She’d been evasive when he’d asked her what her plans were. He pictured her at her laptop, planning her return to Ellerby, maybe even arranging to meet Homebody, and he was seized by an irrational fear that she would be gone by the time he got back.
He’d made some excuse to turn the boat back to the palace earlier than planned, only to find the apartment empty. All the wooden-faced footman at the door could tell him was that Caro had gone out with one of the maids and a protection officer. It sounded safe enough, but Philippe couldn’t relax until she came back.
Then she’d come in and all the breath had leaked out of him. She’d had her hair cut, and it bounced chic and shiny around her face. The new look flattered the shape of her jaw, Philippe could see that, emphasising her cheekbones and making the navy-blue eyes look huge. She looked slimmer, sexier, infinitely more stylish.
She looked wonderful.
He hated it. He wanted the old Caro back, Caro with the messy hair that irritated him. He wanted to be able to pull the clip from her hair himself and twist his hands in the silky mass. He didn’t want this stunning stranger with Caro’s eyes and Caro’s voice.
‘What do you think?’ she asked nervously.
Somehow Philippe found his voice. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in makeovers?’
‘The Dowager Blanche is always going on about my hair,’ said Caro. ‘I thought I’d save myself another lecture.’
She had done it for him, Philippe knew. Now he turned, braced for another new look, and was astounded to find himself hoping against hope that she would be wearing one of her crazy vintage outfits so that he could go back to being exasperated.
He was out of luck. And out of breath.
The last scrap of air in his lungs evaporated at the sight of Caro standing in the doorway. Her dress, cunningly ruched at the bodice to flatter her figure, was red, a rich ruby colour that fell in elegant folds to the floor. Above the striking neckline, her shoulders rose, lush and glowing. She looked stunning.
Philippe cleared his throat. ‘You didn’t get that at a jumble sale.’
‘No.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I’ve never worn a dress like this before. Agnès has done my make-up for me, too. I feel…odd.’
‘You don’t look odd—for once,’ Philippe couldn’t resist adding.
That sounded more like him. Caro had been feeling stiff and awkward, like a little girl in her mother’s shoes. She couldn’t interpret the look in Philippe’s eyes, but her pulse was thudding and thumping. She was glad to hear the acerbic note in his voice. It made her feel more herself, too, and she relaxed into a smile until Philippe spoiled it by stepping close to her and tilting her chin with one hand.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said, stroking his thumb along her jaw line, and Caro’s smile faded at his expression.
‘So do you,’ she said unevenly. It was true. He was magnificent in a formal uniform of a dress coat, with gold epaulettes and a sash.
‘We’re a pair, then,’ said Philippe and held out his arm before Caro could reply. ‘Shall we go?’
The Dowager’s sharp eyes swept over Caro critically as she negotiated a curtsey in her long dress. ‘I see you’re wearing a decent dress for once,’ she said. ‘Simple but very effective. Hmm.’ Lifting a hand, she summoned her lady-in-waiting. ‘Hélène, can you bring me the Hapsburg set?’
Caro glanced at Philippe, who had gone very still. ‘What’s a set?’ she mouthed, but Hélène was already back from the next room and handing the Dowager a flat leather box.
‘Ah, yes…’ The Dowager Blanche gave a hiss of satisfaction as she lifted out a diamond necklace that made Caro gasp. ‘I wore this at my engagement ball. I think it would be appropriate.’
‘Oh, no,’ stammered Caro. ‘I couldn’t…’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped the Dowager, with a return to her old form. ‘You’ll look naked in a dress like that without any jewellery, and clearly Philippe hasn’t bought you anything appropriate. An oversight,’ she said, and Caro saw Philippe wince.
‘It’s far too valuable,’ she tried to protest, but the Dowager stopped her with a disdainful look.
‘It’s just for tonight.’ She held out the necklace to Philippe. ‘My fingers are stiff. You put it on her.’
‘Avec plaisir.’
The diamonds flashed as he draped the necklace around Caro’s neck and fastened it with deft fingers. His hands were warm as they lingered on her shoulders.
‘Now the earrings.’
Caro put those in herself. She was trembling. It felt all wrong to be wearing these incredible jewels. She wasn’t a princess. But the loan of the necklace was a symbol of the Dowager Blanche’s approval, another step towards accepting Philippe. How could she possibly say no?
‘There.’ The Dowager stood back at last. ‘You both look most acceptable for once.’
A select group of guests were invited to a formal dinner before the ball. It was served in the state dining room, at a huge table laden with glittering dishes. Caro was relieved to be sitting next to Philippe’s friend, Jack, who had twinkling eyes and a merry smile. He oozed charm and flirted as naturally as breathing, but somehow it was impossible to take him seriously.
But then, that was h
ow she had used to think of Philippe, Caro realised.
‘Philippe’s changed,’ said Jack as if reading her mind. ‘He’s not as restless. Before he’d take off at a moment’s notice and the more dangerous the situation, the more he liked it. Just hearing about some of those aid flights made my hair stand on end, I can tell you. It was like he was driven to risk himself as much and as often as he could, and then he’d come back and party, cool as you please.’
He paused at Caro’s expression. ‘You do know about the flights?’
‘Yes,’ said Caro, ‘I know.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Jack, relieved. ‘He gets very haughty if I mention it sometimes, and just brushes it aside. A lot of celebrities use charity work to raise their own profiles, but Philippe just gets out of his plane and slips away before anyone can thank him.
‘I’ve never spoken to him about it, but a field director for one of the agencies he helps told me once that he finances a lot of the operations he flies too,’ Jack confided. ‘Of course, the rest of the time he spends amusing himself—skiing, sailing, partying. People think that’s all there is to him.’
They both looked up the long table to where Philippe sat, charming Francesca on one side and a haughty countess on the other, and looking every inch the idle aristocrat, as if a thought beyond amusing himself and others had never crossed his mind.
‘It’s easy to underestimate Philippe,’ said Jack.
Caro’s eyes rested on Philippe’s face, searching for the man she knew was there behind the playboy mask. The man who was teasing and tender, the man who had risked his relationship with his father to do what he thought was right. The man whose smile as he closed the bedroom door made her bones dissolve.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it is.’
Philippe watched Caro with her head close to Jack’s and made himself unclench his fingers from the stem of his glass before he snapped it. They were getting on well. Too well.
He couldn’t blame Jack. Caro was like a flame in that red dress. Warm, vibrant, mesmerising. Philippe was still reeling from the sight of her. Fastening the necklace around her neck, it had been all he could do to stop himself dragging her back to his apartments and kissing her senseless.
You can’t give me what I really want.
It hasn’t been real.
I want to go home and have a real life.
Philippe repeated Caro’s words to himself like a mantra. She was right. He couldn’t ask her to live like this all the time. She would hate it. Tonight she might look the part, but this wasn’t what Caro really wanted. An ordinary life, she’d said. An ordinary man who would love her and stay with her and be able to give himself completely.
He couldn’t be that man. He couldn’t let down his father and give up his inheritance to live in Ellerby with Caro. What would he do there? He didn’t know how to be ordinary.
And Caro didn’t want to be here, although you would never guess it to watch her chatting to the starry guests in the same way that she talked to the staff and the stallholders in the market.
Philippe saw her smile at one of the footmen and hold up a thumb and finger in a message of approval to the chef, Jean-Michel. She had spent much of the previous week in the kitchens, discussing the menu with him. Philippe suspected that, given the choice, Caro would rather be down there in an apron than up here in the state dining room dripping diamonds.
But she knew instinctively how to circulate amongst the guests when the ball opened. Between them, they tried to talk to everybody and make them all feel welcome. The muscles in Philippe’s cheeks ached with smiling as he danced with as many women as possible.
Just once did he succumb to temptation and dance with Caro. Holding her close, he thought about how right she felt in his arms. She fitted him perfectly. Her hair was soft against his cheek, and he could breathe in her scent.
When had she become so familiar to him? Her face was hidden against his throat, but he didn’t need to see her to picture the precise bold sweep of her brows, the exact curve of her mouth, the stubborn set of her chin.
How was he going to manage without her? In one blinding moment, Philippe knew that he couldn’t.
‘Don’t go back to Ellerby, Caro.’ The words came out in a rush, unbidden. ‘Stay here with me. Please.’
Caro pulled back slightly to look up into his face. ‘Philippe, I can’t,’ she said, her eyes anguished. ‘I don’t belong here.’
‘You do! Look at you! There isn’t a person here who wouldn’t believe you were born a princess.’
She smiled shakily at that. ‘This is make-believe. Perhaps I can look the part in this dress and your great-aunt’s diamonds, but what about tomorrow when I hand back the necklace and am wearing my vintage clothes again? Nobody would be fooled then.’
‘The truth is you don’t want to belong.’ Philippe couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
‘I do.’ Caro’s throat was tight. ‘I want to belong more than anything, but not here.’
The ball was a huge success, everyone said so, but it felt like a nightmare to Caro. Her face felt rigid with smiling as she moved through a blur of colour and chatter and music. She could feel the weight of the necklace around her neck and she touched it constantly, alarmed by the dazzling glitter of it that kept catching at the corner of her eye. It felt all wrong to be wearing something so magnificent. Caro smiled and smiled and felt wretched. Every now and then she would get a glimpse of Philippe through the crowds, tall and strong, effortlessly the centre of attention, and every time her heart would flip over and land with a sickening thud.
There was a prince who had finally found his place.
There was a man who flew through gunfire and tropical storms if help was needed.
There was Philippe, who held her every night and whose body she knew almost as well as her own.
She loved all of them, but none could give her the home and family she craved.
‘I’m never going to belong in a royal palace, Philippe, and you know that as well as I do.’ Caro could hear her voice beginning to crack, and she swallowed. ‘Please don’t say any more. It’ll only make it harder than it already is.’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’
All around them, people danced and laughed. The chandeliers sparkled and the band swung into a new number to cheers.
‘So tonight is our last night?’ said Philippe.
Caro’s throat was so constricted she could barely speak. ‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘This will be the last time.’
Caro woke first the next morning. She lay with her arm over Philippe, feeling it rise and fall in time with his steady breathing. Her face was pressed into the back of his neck, and she could smell the clean, male scent of his skin. She loved him, and her heart was breaking because she knew she had to leave him. It would be better for him and better for her, she knew that. But it hurt so much, she couldn’t breathe.
It had been nearly three in the morning before they were able to leave the ball. Together they had walked in silence, not touching, up the sweeping staircase and along the corridor to Philippe’s apartments. Even at that time of the night, there was a footman on duty outside to open the door.
Philippe had barely waited until they were inside before he reached for Caro, and she had gone willingly, fiercely. Late as it was, they had made love in a desperate silence. There were no more words to say.
Philippe stirred and rolled over to face Caro. He smiled at her, and her heart contracted. This was the man she would remember always, the man with blurry eyes and rumpled hair and early morning stubble, not the magnificent prince of the night before.
‘We need to talk,’ she said, and his smile faded as memory returned.
With a sigh, he rolled back to stare up at the ceiling. ‘Now?’
‘We ought to decide what we’re going to tell everyone.’ Caro pulled herself up against the pillows, taking the sheet with her. She had to be matter-of-fact about this. It wouldn’t help Philippe if she
started howling the way she wanted to.
‘We can say that you met Francesca at the ball and we’ve had a big row because I’m jealous,’ she suggested. ‘You can tell everyone I’ve stomped off in a huff, if you like.’
Philippe scowled. ‘I don’t like. No one would believe it, anyway. You’re not the stomping type.’
‘All right, if anyone asks, we’ll just say that we’ve decided we’re incompatible,’ said Caro. ‘At least it has the advantage of being true, in a way.’
Philippe fixed his eyes on the ceiling. He had woken to find Caro beside him and, for one wonderful moment, everything had felt right. And then she had reminded him that she was leaving and the rawness was back. This was why he had never let a woman close before. He had known that she would just abandon him in the end, the way his mother had done.
Intellectually, Philippe knew that wasn’t fair. Intellectually, he knew that if it ever came to choosing a wife, he needed one who was prepared to let him keep his distance. He knew that Caro would be happy in Ellerby. Oh, yes, intellectually, he knew quite well that she was right about everything.
But it still felt all wrong.
‘How are you going to get home?’ he asked later, when they were up and dressed and sharing an awkward breakfast.
‘I booked a flight from Paris yesterday,’ Caro told him. ‘I’ll get a taxi to take me across the border, and then I can get a train.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Philippe said irritably. ‘Yan will take you to Paris. When do you want to go?’
‘When I’ve said my goodbyes,’ she said. She got up to wash her coffee mug and plate, a habit she had never been able to shake. ‘I’d better take the necklace and earrings back to the Dowager, too,’ she said, determinedly bright. ‘At least I can make her happy. That’s one person who’ll be glad to see me go!’
But her audience with the Dowager Blanche didn’t go at all as expected. When Caro explained that she would be going home that day, the Dowager stared at her unnervingly. ‘For good?’
