by Raye Morgan
He was looking at her as though he thought her hopelessly naïve, but she didn’t care.
“I have some really unique plans. I’d like to go over them with you when you have a minute. Maybe tomorrow morning?”
She knew she was starting to show how much she loved her work, and she also knew that such an open attitude was probably considered completely tedious in his crowd, but she couldn’t pretend to be sophisticated—because she was anything but. He was the prince and she was the commoner—and she wasn’t going to try to be anything else.
“Wait until you see some of the menus.”
“I can hardly contain my excitement,” he said dryly, and, though he didn’t put that sarcastic, mocking tone he so often used in his voice, she could tell he was having trouble holding it back, and she flushed again.
Biting her lower lip, she vowed to quit trying to be polite. It didn’t pay with this man. If he wasn’t interested in having a normal conversation, so be it.
But then she noticed he was staring at one of the maps on the wall across from where he sat. Reaching out, he could just barely reach it. Very slowly, almost lovingly, he traced the outline of Italy with his forefinger.
“Italy’s a wonderful country,” she said.
He nodded but he didn’t say anything.
“I was in Rome last year for an Italian meringue seminar. It was a trip I’ll never forget.”
He gave her a dubious look. “The Italians have their own type of meringue?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. You slowly pour hot sugar syrup over stiffly beaten egg whites and keep beating until the whole thing has cooled. It makes a much more stable meringue.”
“Great. There’s nothing I hate more than an unstable meringue.”
He was making fun of her but she didn’t react. Her mind had gone back to his tracing the outline of the map. There was something almost sad and regretful about the way he’d done it and she wondered why.
“My grandmother was Italian,” she told him. “From Naples. My grandfather met her during the war.”
“Really.” He looked up, and for the first time his eyes seemed clear and interested. “My mother was Italian. She was born in Florence.”
Their gazes met and held in a stolen moment of mutual understanding, a connection across a vast, empty plain. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, and he looked away.
Her heart was suddenly thumping in her chest. Before she had time to catch her breath, he was speaking again, changing the subject.
“So, Emma Valentine. How did you get the job as my coronation food guru? I thought we usually used the in-house cook to do the dirty deed.”
“I’m told you have in the past,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed how she’d responded to that momentary bond between them. She couldn’t seem to control her pulse or her breathing around him as it was and the whole thing was getting darned inconvenient. “But this time…”
She stopped and started again.
“Well, you see, Todd Akers, your coronation manager, is a regular at our restaurant in London. We’ve become friendly over the years. So when he had this fantastic assignment, he knew of my work. He contacted me and asked if I would be interested.”
“And you were.”
“Oh, yes. It’s a chance of a lifetime for me.”
He looked at her, curious. “In what way?”
“Well…As I said before, it’s an opportunity to show the world what I can do. Make my reputation.”
“And from that will come more offers for other coronations?” he asked skeptically. “How many can there be?”
“And other large affairs as well,” she explained quickly. “Also, cooking shows on television. Cookbook contracts. Positions in cooking schools. All sorts of things.”
Including a chance that her father would finally feel that she’d made it in this profession. There was always that hope, dim as it might be. But she crinkled her nose and pushed those concerns away. She would worry about that when she was back in London.
“If all goes well,” Sebastian said softly, his face taking on a strange, dreamy look.
“Of course. If I fail…” She caught her breath and shook her head firmly. “No! I won’t even entertain the thought. I’m going to give you a coronation dinner fit for a king.” She couldn’t resist a quick grin. “So to speak.”
“So to speak,” he echoed, nodding. He glanced up at her again, his eyes hooded. “So you and Todd are…old friends.”
He said it in a significant way that added a spin she couldn’t let pass. Did he really think she’d been chosen for this job because she’d been…“friendly” with Todd? Frowning, she pulled back and stared at him.
“We are not ‘old friends’.”
He raised an eyebrow, searching her gaze. “New friends?”
“We’re not ‘friends’ the way you make it sound.” She pursed her lips, gazing at him. “You really are a cynical man, aren’t you?”
He shrugged with a nonchalance that came naturally to him.
“It’s a requirement for survival, sweetheart.”
He gave his statement a Humphrey Bogart twist that almost made her smile. Almost.
Instead, she got an urge to lecture him.
No! the rational part of her warned.
Just a little lecture. For his own good.
No! Don’t be crazy! What will you get out of it?
The lecture isn’t for me. It’s for him. And he needs it.
She waited a few seconds, but the rational side didn’t seem to have an answer for that, so she took a deep breath and charged ahead.
“Since you’re interested in survival,” she began, carefully feeling her way at first, “I’ve got a tip for you. It’ll make you a better monarch.”
He looked suddenly wary. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
She was rapidly developing a nervous twitch now that he was looking at her so intently, and wondering if it might not have been better to listen to her rational side after all, but she soldiered on.
“Requests and suggestions work better than orders,” she said as firmly as she could, concentrating resolutely on her stitches. “Don’t run roughshod over people, like you did with me just now. Make them want to help you by giving them the same respect you want from them.”
He stared up at her, shaking his head, looking like a man who felt he was being wrongly accused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You.” She glanced at him and then back to the sewing. “You tend to order people about as though their lives aren’t as important as yours and—”
“No, I don’t.”
Now he was looking fierce, and his fierce look was enough to make her voice shake a little, no matter how tough she was determined to be.
“Yes, you do.”
He shook his head. “And, anyway, maybe their lives aren’t as important as mine.”
Throwing her free hand in the air, she appealed to the heavens. “See what I mean?”
“So you want me to pretend,” he said irritably, his jaw clenched. “To make nice.”
Her heart was racing. She’d offended him. She probably shouldn’t have brought it up. But she couldn’t back down now. She lifted her chin and held her own.
“Yes, if it comes to that,” she told him earnestly.
He glared at her. “You have some nerve, Emma Valentine,” he said in a voice that could have cut through steel.
“I know.”
He paused, staring at her, then shook his head. “Okay, Emma,” he said gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Oh.” Relief flooded her system. “Well. Good.” She wanted to laugh but she didn’t dare ruin everything. “Hold still,” she said as she tied off the knotted end. “There. You’re finished.”
Rising, he buttoned his jacket up to the neck and flexed his wide shoulders inside, then bent to look into a mirror.
“Good job,” he said coolly. “It looks great.”
She nodded, t
urning toward the doorway. “I’m off,” she said, avoiding another last look into his eyes. “Goodbye.”
“Emma.” He caught her hand and held it until she turned back to face him. “Thank you very much.”
She looked up in surprise. The way he said it, she had a feeling he didn’t overuse that phrase.
“Let me know if there is any favor I can ever do for you,” he added.
A certain warmth filled her. Was he saying this because she’d made him more aware? There was no way to tell, but she thought there was a chance her little lecture had actually done some good.
On the other hand, was that a mocking light she saw in his eyes? With a rueful smile, she turned. It was time to get away from him and his very potent sphere of influence.
But before she could escape, he reached out and stopped her again.
“Before you go, one word of advice for you, Miss Valentine,” he said coolly, his golden eyes cynical. “When you hang around a royal castle, don’t trust anyone.”
She frowned. Was he trying to scare her? Or was his warning for real?
“Not even the king?” she asked.
His smile was humorless. “Especially not the king,” he said.
The kitchen of Rolande Castle seemed to have a personality of its own—ancient, cavernous and crusty, with a certain medieval ambience. As Emma looked around it she could imagine knights of old stomping through, armor clanging, nabbing hunks of just-roasted meat with their swords. Modern stainless-steel appliances and other attempts at updating were overwhelmed by the dark atmosphere of centuries past lingering on. A huge arched brick fireplace took up one entire wall and the heat it generated was stifling. Large copper-bottomed pots hung everywhere.
“Chef Henri,” she said, presenting herself to the chef, a pudgy man with a sense of the dramatic and a mustache that reminded her of Salvador Dalí. “The housekeeper said you could use some help tonight, so I…”
The stocky man’s eyes flared with such outrage, she was stopped in her tracks and actually took a step backwards.
“I need no help,” he spit out. “I let you join us as a favor to Myrna. She say you need to learn. Well, you watch me. You learn plenty.”
Making a mental note to be sure to find something on the night’s menu to rave about—anything to begin to chip away at the hostility that bristled from him—she beat a hasty path to the dessert station. The evening’s treats were individual strawberry tortes with marzipan garnish, a dish she’d made before with award-winning results. To her relief, the pastry assistant wasn’t particularly antagonistic and they soon were working well together.
The room was full of a churning mass of people. It was lucky she was used to working in a crowd. After all, she’d been a head chef at her family restaurant for some time and a line cook for years before that. But there, the surroundings and resources were second nature to her. Here, she had to learn everything anew.
Time flew and suddenly it was the dinner hour. Not wanting to miss a thing, she left the dessert station to watch from the wings. A gong sounded and the march of the servers began. Two footmen, dressed in full livery, led the way. Each carried a tall silver scepter and wore a high brocade hat.
She followed them partway in to take a look, carefully staying to the shadows and pushing aside a heavy brocade drape to get a better view.
The dining hall was huge. The table looked big enough to launch airplanes into the sky. Heavy silver service framed delicate china encrusted with the royal family seal. The centerpieces ranging up and down the length of the table were made up of sterling silver candelabras entwined with roses. It was an impressive display.
Twenty-five to thirty people sat along the huge table. She scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar face, but couldn’t see anyone, not even Dr. Will.
But the prince was there, at the center of it all. At the moment he was engrossed in talking to the older man at his right and she felt a flash of relief that he hadn’t seen her. Time to go, before he did.
As though her thoughts were being beamed straight at him, his head rose and he looked right into her eyes. She stood frozen, unable to move. Seconds suddenly stretched out seemingly lasting for ever. And then he rose, nodding toward her and gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
She shook her head. He couldn’t be asking her to join him. Could he? She looked around for an escape, but one of the footmen had arrived by her side.
“Prince Sebastian requests your presence, Miss Valentine,” he said smoothly, offering her his arm. “Come this way, please.”
She looked at him, beseechingly. “Do I have to?”
He nodded, unsmiling. “Yes, Miss Valentine. Please.”
This was a very bad idea. She knew that instinctively, and for a moment she toyed with making a run for it. What would he do? Send the dogs after her?
But no. She didn’t want to make a scene. Besides, he was the boss. Maybe he wanted her to sit beside him and comment on the food, or plan a few meals, or chat about nutritional values.
Maybe. But not very likely.
She sighed. Might as well make the best of it and try to act as though she sat down with royalty every day.
“Lead on, MacDuff,” she muttered, taking the footman’s arm.
CHAPTER FOUR
“SEBASTIAN, your father would be so proud of you.”
The prince gave his uncle a skeptical glance, wondering if he was talking about the same father he’d grown up with.
“My father used up all his sense of pride on my brother Julius,” he said dryly. “And look how that turned out.”
“Ah, yes.” The Duke of Sandstrove nodded his heavy head, looking for all the world like a sage old lion. “As they say, pride goeth before a fall.”
Sebastian wasn’t too sure what that had to do with anything, but he let it go. Sitting at the head of the table, his uncle on one side and the ornate chair that had stood empty since his mother died on the other, he nursed a crystal goblet of scarlet wine and surveyed the people who had come to dine with him. They were all here, all the usual suspects. He’d known most of them all his life.
They had gathered to welcome him home. Or so they said. Actually, they’d all come together to make sure he understood what was expected of him.
He understood all right. What they wanted was obedience—obedience to tradition, to the past, to the way things had always been done. And, most importantly, obedience to the group of élite courtiers, a sort of protectorate, who had taken over running the country when his father had fallen ill, and who expected to go on running things—even after Sebastian was crowned.
Too bad. They were in for a big disappointment.
That thought had barely surfaced in his mind when his gaze met Emma’s across the room. Something electric flashed between them, and he thought he knew what it was—inspiration. She would be the perfect foil. Rising, he signaled a request for her to join him, then turned and spoke to a footman, who hurried over to escort her.
He saw the look of confusion and then horror on her face and he actually had a qualm, but it passed quickly and he stood waiting for her to arrive at his side.
“Miss Valentine. I’m delighted you could join us.” He turned toward the table. “I know you will all be happy to welcome Miss Emma Valentine, our special coronation chef.”
He didn’t wait for a reply and that was a good thing, as most of the diners were slack-jawed with astonishment and likely unable to speak. The contrast between her severe white uniform and their bejewelled and beribboned attire was a stark one. They seemed as stunned as a herd of cattle that had run up against a barrier to their feed trough.
“You’ll excuse the members of my future court and other assorted hangers-on for not rising to greet you, Miss Valentine,” he said in a clear, firm voice making sure everyone heard. “They usually have better manners, but, tonight, I’m afraid they’re a bit rusty.”
He threw them all a wide, sunny smile, lingering pointedly on his cousin Romas, whose dark fa
ce was scowling. “I know they will brush up on their etiquette and be ready next time you grace us with your presence.” He pulled out the empty chair at his left. “Please be seated.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, moving to do as he suggested, but the furious sideways glance she cast his way made him grin.
A shocked murmur went through the assembly as he helped Emma into the chair. He knew they couldn’t believe he was asking her to sit there—his mother’s chair. They were going to be surprised by a lot of things before he was finished.
“This is just crazy,” Emma whispered. “What are you doing?”
“When I figure that out,” he whispered back, leaning close as he pushed in her chair, “you’ll be the first to know.”
Pasting on a bright smile, she looked up and down the table. There wasn’t a sound. Everyone was staring at her, aghast. Chefs didn’t sit down next to princes. It wasn’t done. They thought this a scandal—and a little bit nuts. And she thoroughly agreed.
Uncle Trevoron, the duke, leaned toward Sebastian as he dropped back into his own ornately carved chair.
“My boy, look closely,” he whispered loudly, eyeing her chef’s whites. “She’s a cook.”
“Yes, Uncle, she’s a cook. Todd Akers found her in London and brought her here to prepare the coronation dinner.”
The duke cleared his throat, trying to be diplomatic. “That’s all very well, but she’s a cook.”
“He’s right,” Emma said evenly, turning her shoulders as though to prepare to rise. “I think I’d better go back to the kitchen.”
“Not yet.”
His fingers loosely circled her wrist and she looked up into his face, startled. His gaze was cool and direct. She settled back in the chair, her pulse rate escalating. What on earth did he have in mind here?
“So nice to meet you, Miss Valentine,” said a voice from across the table.
Emma looked up and met the kindly smile of a middle-aged woman with perfectly styled hair and a brown silk drapey dress that didn’t quite succeed in its job of hiding her pleasingly plump figure.
“My aunt Trudy,” Sebastian murmured. “Duchess of Sandstrove.”
