A Royal Proposition

by Marion Lennox

  She had tried it on just once. It had been taken away to be altered, and now it appeared again in all its shimmering glory.

  The rest of the entourage stood respectfully back, the gown was slipped over her shoulders and there was a collective gasp from the entire room.

  The gown was deceptively simple. It was of made of smooth ivory silk, with a scooped neckline, tiny filigree sleeves and a bodice that showed every lovely curve. Beneath the bodice, the gown clung revealingly to her hips. Then, with a rope of rich ivory braid to delineate the skirt, it flared out into fold upon fold, sweeping to the floor at the front and drifting into a lovely rich train behind.

  The skirt was so heavy! Alastair’s grandmother hadn’t skimped when she’d had this dress made, and the hidden folds made the gown flare and swirl like magic.

  Marguerite darted forward and threaded a tiny delicate diamond tiara on Penny-Rose’s head. Then the florist fixed a trace of lily of the valley into her mass of tumbling curls and the hairdresser tweaked the curls this way and that, wanting just one curl to lie on the soft curve of her breast.

  And that was that. Finished.

  The effect was ethereal.

  ‘And I thought my leathers were fabulous,’ Heather breathed, and it broke the ice. There was a general chuckle, the beautician made one final adjustment and Marguerite stepped forward and took Penny-Rose’s hand.

  ‘Are you ready to meet your husband, my love?’

  Penny-Rose met Marguerite’s eyes. They were calm and steady, and they knew exactly what they were asking. And she drew in her breath. Marguerite knew!

  ‘I…’

  ‘I think you’re ready,’ Marguerite said softly. ‘Oh, my dear, this is just what I always dreamed of.’

  ‘Marguerite-’

  ‘Now, not another word,’ her soon-to-be-mother-in-law told her, and patted her hand. ‘You’ll spoil your make-up.’

  ‘Or I might crack it,’ she whispered, and managed a smile. But it was nonsense. The beautician had had enough sense to leave her skin flawlessly natural.

  ‘You’ll knock your husband’s socks off,’ Heather declared, and Penny-Rose’s smile faltered. She turned and took one last, long look in the mirror. The woman who looked back at her was a fairy princess.

  She’d been handed every weapon she could possibly need, she thought.

  The rest of it was up to her.

  Or how strong Alastair’s defences could be.

  She’d knock his socks off?

  ‘That’s my intention,’ she murmured. ‘OK, Alastair de Castaliae. Prince Alastair. Here I come. Ready or not.’

  They’d decided on no formal bridal party.

  ‘If you don’t want bridesmaids, I won’t have groomsmen,’ Alastair had said. ‘It’s just as well. There’s no one close enough to be an obvious best man. Whoever I ask, someone else is bound to be offended.’

  And it was ridiculous, given Penny-Rose’s fierce independence, that someone give her away.

  So they’d decided that she’d walk up the aisle by herself, she’d have no attendants, and Alastair would carry his own ring.

  Her sisters fussed around her as she arrived, but with her train arranged beautifully to sweep down the aisle behind her, they took themselves to the front row to watch her make her way to her bridegroom in solitary splendour.

  And all at once, solitary splendour felt very, very lonely.

  There must be a thousand people present, she thought dazedly, starting that long solemn walk as a lone trumpeter sounded.

  And then she saw Alastair.

  He was dressed in a soft grey morning suit-of course-and he looked magnificent. The only touch of colour was a crimson rosebud in his lapel.

  A rose… The flower of love… Marguerite had chosen the flowers, and Penny-Rose carried twelve matching buds in her bouquet.

  The sight, for some reason, made her feel like weeping. Red roses for her wedding day… It seemed almost a mockery.

  But Alastair was watching her, and his eyes were calm and reassuring. A tiny smile creased the corner of his mouth.

  Dear God, he was so…so…

  So Alastair. There was no other way of describing him, because that was who he was, and she loved him so much that she felt she was close to breaking.

  How could she do this? she thought wildly. She was marrying the man under false pretences. Alastair didn’t want a wife who loved him to bits. He didn’t even really want a wife…

  Panic was suddenly close to overwhelming her.

  And then she saw Michael. Her baby brother.

  Alastair’s promise that he’d have no attendants had gone out the window. Michael had Alastair’s ring in his hand, he was wearing a morning suit to match Alastair’s and the look on his face was as if he’d been handed the world.

  The sixteen-year-old had flown halfway around the globe to be at his sister’s wedding, but until this moment he’d been thoroughly confused by everything that was going on. Sixteen-year-olds were insecure at the best of times. Unlike Heather and Liz, he’d hated this.

  But now he’d been handed a part to play, and what a part! Best man! And in his free hand-the one that wasn’t holding the ring…

  For heaven’s sake, Mike was holding a leash. He was holding Leo!

  The pup had been brushed to an inch of his life, and he’d never looked so splendid. The scars on his side were almost healed, but they were completely covered by a magnificent crimson doggy coat. He wore a studded collar, his lead was crimson suede and he beamed at the approaching bride and wagged his tail as if this entire ceremony was being put on for his benefit.

  Her brother. And her dog…

  Alastair had done this-for her!

  She couldn’t help it. Panic subsided, and despite the aura of solemnity-despite the state officials and the hundreds of people she’d never seen in her life, despite the grandeur and the fuss-she chuckled.

  This would be OK.

  She loved this man so much… He’d known how alone this ceremony would make her feel, so he’d done the two things that could ease her fears.

  He was some prince!

  And surely the only thing to do with a prince like this was to marry him?

  And Alastair watched his bride come toward him with a feeling in his chest that was almost as close to panic as hers.

  What was he doing? Marrying?

  This wasn’t real, he told himself. It was a pretence. It was a mock wedding, made for the best of purposes-to protect his tenants and to provide for their future.

  In twelve months he’d let this woman go and he’d marry a sensible woman-a woman who suited his lifestyle.

  Belle.

  But the thought of Belle was suddenly very far away. What was real was Penny-Rose.

  No! She was Rose, he told himself. For some reason it was a distinction it was important to keep. Penny-Rose was for those who loved her. Rose… Rose was to be his formal wife.

  So it was Rose who was walking toward him, her eyes wide and her face determined. Despite her determination, her steps were faltering.

  She was fearful, he thought. Damn, it hadn’t been fair to drag her into this. Into the goldfish bowl of royalty.

  But she was so beautiful she took his breath away! She was wearing his mother’s dress, a dress that would have been equally beautiful a hundred years ago. She looked timeless and serene and incredibly lovely. In fact, she looked just as a princess should.

  His princess.

  For a year.

  The time frame was suddenly gut-wrenching. But then…he saw the exact moment she registered that Mike and Leo were by his side. He saw the serenity and solemnity vanish, along with the fear. Laughter flashed into her lovely eyes, her lips twitched with pleasure and as she reached him he heard a low, lovely chuckle.

  ‘Oh, Alastair…’

  Her laughing face was raised to his and he gazed down at her for a long, long moment.

  Then he calmly took her hand and smiled back.

  This was s
uddenly very, very OK.

  His princess.

  Her prince.

  And while the world watched, they turned together to be made one.

  The wedding celebrations went on through the day and far into the night. And what a night! Because the weather was perfect, the sides of the marquee were raised so the dance floor was partly over the river and partly over the pasture. The moon was brilliant. The night was brilliant! No one wanted to go home.

  And everyone wished to dance with the bride. She was passed from one partner to another and her feet barely had time to touch the ground. Alastair was free to do as he willed.

  Which was just what he wanted, he told himself, trying not to follow his new wife with his eyes. She was dancing with one of his business partners now, clasped around the waist in a manner that made him want to-

  ‘Alastair?’

  He paused as he realised who was calling. Belle…

  Belle’s presence had been necessary here, if only to allay gossip, and there was no reason now that they shouldn’t speak.

  Strange that it felt almost like a betrayal…

  But Belle didn’t notice. She looked very pleased with herself. ‘I’ve been talking to Marguerite,’ she announced. ‘She tells me you’re taking Rose’s family on your honeymoon. That’s a great idea.’

  ‘It’ll take the pressure off,’ he agreed, still watching his wife twirling across the floor. Then he thought about what he’d said. Why should there be any pressure?

  Belle was raising one elegant eyebrow. ‘Pressure? Surely you’re not worried that she’ll ravish you?’ She wasn’t worried at all. Rose was such an insignificant little thing, her tone implied, and Alastair was forced to smile.

  ‘Of course not. I mean…having other people to share the conversation. It’ll help.’

  He received a blinding smile of sympathy. ‘She’ll bore you within a day,’ Belle agreed. ‘Poor darling.’

  It wasn’t fear of boredom that was worrying him, he decided, but if that’s what Belle thought, maybe it was just as well.

  ‘I can cope. This marriage is only for twelve months,’ he reiterated, and it was as if he was reassuring himself.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Belle kissed him lightly-a gesture that was as natural as any guest congratulating a bridegroom-and then she stepped back. Their path was set and she, for one, was sure of the rightness of what they were doing. ‘Secure your fortune and then we’re settled for life. Off and do your duty, my darling. Just don’t let the creature fall in love with you.’

  The creature…

  Belle hadn’t meant it as it had sounded, Alastair decided as he succeeded in claiming and dancing with his lovely new wife, but the description rankled.

  It rankled for the rest of the evening.

  She was not a creature. She was his wife.

  Just for a year.

  His hold grew imperceptibly tighter, and his patience with other men wishing to claim her grew thin. A year wasn’t very long…

  ‘Belle’s looking lovely,’ she told him as the music slowed and he held her close.

  ‘She is.’ He swirled her around and smiled down into her dancing eyes. ‘And so’s the man you were just dancing with.’

  That had her startled. ‘What-lovely?’

  ‘You might say that. He wouldn’t mind. Maurice is gay.’

  ‘Oh…’ She choked on laughter. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, but if he insists on wearing a pink bow-tie and matching braces he has to expect a suspicion or two.’

  She choked again. ‘What an ungentlemanly thing to say. You sound almost jealous, Alastair de Castaliae.’

  ‘How could I be jealous?’

  ‘How indeed? When you have Belle right where you want her.’

  Right. She was right. He did have Belle. Sort of.

  But meanwhile, he had his wife right where he wanted her.

  In his arms.

  They danced until dawn. Then, as they bade farewell to the last stray guest, Alastair glanced at his weary bride and felt an almost overwhelming urge to pick her up and carry her back to his castle. Further. Back to the ready and waiting bridal chamber.

  Which was all very well, but he wanted a change to their plans. He wanted the door between them to be unlocked!

  In days of old he could have done it, he thought savagely. If the prince were the real lord of the manor, he could have claimed this woman for twelve months-properly taken her-then discarded her and taken another.

  But he couldn’t think of another. He could only think of the woman by his side. He absorbed the weariness on her lovely face, the way her soft body yielded to his touch, the fragrance of her. The way she looked…

  He’d never seen a woman as lovely as his wife looked tonight.

  His wife?

  He was going nuts, he thought. He should stop thinking like this. He must! She was just…Rose. There was no ‘his wife’ about it. Not really.

  This was a business arrangement and nothing else.

  ‘Tired?’ he managed, and she chuckled.

  ‘How can you doubt it? Oh, but, Alastair, it’s been the most wonderful day. A day to remember for ever. And my gorgeous gown hasn’t turned to rags yet.’ She managed another chuckle. ‘The pumpkins have stayed at bay, and I have twelve months to go before my midnight.’

  She did. Twelve months. Twelve whole months. The thought was suddenly immensely cheering. She’d be with him until then, working as he worked…

  The thought of her work reminded him of something important.

  ‘I have a wedding gift for you,’ he told her.

  ‘A wedding gift…’ She gazed up at him in surprise. ‘There’s no need. You’ve given me enough.’

  ‘Not quite enough.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I realise I don’t know you very well, so I asked Bert what you most wanted, and I’ve got you just that.’

  ‘You asked Bert… Then I can’t imagine,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Shut your eyes.’ The dawn was just starting to break. The bride and groom had decided not to make a formal departure, which left them now at the entrance to the marquee, on the river bank and alone.

  ‘I’ll lead you,’ he said softly, and he took her hand in his. ‘Trust me?’

  With all my heart, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She merely nodded, and let herself be led.

  Her wedding gift was on the other side of the castle. They made their way in the soft dawn light across the pastures of buttercups and poppies, to where the new wall was being built.

  The team had finished the most urgent repairs, but there were miles of fencing yet to go. A whole year’s worth of stone-walling, Penny-Rose thought happily.

  And then she saw Alastair’s gift.

  It was a vast mound, about six feet high and eight feet square. It was wrapped in some sort of white parchment, and a vast gold bow about three feet high adorned the whole thing.

  What on earth…?

  ‘It’s soap and a hand-towel,’ Penny-Rose said faintly and Alastair grinned.

  ‘Some soap! Nope. Bad guess. Try again.’

  ‘A toaster, then?’ She giggled. ‘Or a casserole?’ Her thoughts slipped sideways. ‘We’ve been given so much… We’ll have to keep careful notes and send everything back.’

  At the end of the year…

  It was a bad thought. It sobered them both. But the parcel was still in front of them, enticing in its mystery.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Alastair demanded.

  ‘I don’t think I dare.’ She was eyeing it as if it might bite. ‘It looks like it could be a rhinoceros.’

  He grinned. ‘Damn, you guessed.’

  She smiled, but her smile was troubled. ‘Alastair, you needn’t have done this. It makes it seem…’

  ‘Makes it seem what?’

  ‘It makes it seem almost a proper wedding,’ she whispered, and her words felt good to Alastair.

  He might only have her for a year, but a year was better than nothing.

/>   For heaven’s sake, what was he thinking?

  The current had caught him unawares, and he was being swept along without realising it. Which was ridiculous, he thought savagely, hauling himself back to some sort of common sense. Hadn’t he made himself a vow when Lissa died? Had Lissa’s death taught him nothing?

  This was a marriage of convenience. Nothing more.

  As was this gift to his wife. It wasn’t a proper gift. It was only…

  ‘Open it,’ he said, and she cast him an uncertain glance. Something had changed.

  ‘Open it,’ he growled, and she took a deep breath. OK. Keep it formal. Concentrate on the parcel.

  And what a parcel! She had to tug the vast ribbon until it floated free, and after that she had to pull aside the parchment. And inside were…

  ‘Copestones?’ She stood back in incredulity. ‘You’ve given me copestones?’

  ‘Bert said one of the reasons he employed you was that you were a copestone perfectionist,’ Alastair said, trying not to sound too pleased with himself. These stones had taken a lot of organising. ‘He also told me the main reason your hands are a mess is because you chip the damn things until they’re perfect.’

  ‘But otherwise they don’t look good.’ Penny-Rose was lifting a single stone and staring at it in disbelief. Copestones were the stones used to top and weight her wall. Chosen and chipped well, they made the wall look great-the icing on the cake! But it could take her almost half an hour to chip a stone to this shape, and on this job Bert had refused to give her the time.

  ‘There’s too much to do. We can’t afford your standards here,’ he’d told her. ‘This is farmwork. We have a job to do and we need to be economical.’

  She’d agreed, but she made them perfect anyway, working into her lunch-hours and evenings to get them right so her stones would still look magnificent in hundreds of years.

  But they took so much effort, and here they were, already cut.

  ‘How…?’ She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. ‘How…?’

  ‘I employed men off site,’ Alastair explained. ‘Bert showed them what you’ve been doing and said we wanted more of the same. They delivered them this morning.’ As she replaced her stone, he lifted her hands and fingered her rough skin. ‘So, for the next year you can go on stone-walling all you like, but the hardest bit’s done.’