by Jessica Hart
And as for the flirting that was going on ...! Nobody would guess that Flora was supposedly engaged to him, Max thought savagely. She seemed to have forgotten that she had invented that little story. Instead she was laughing immoderately at whatever Nico said, that husky laugh that seemed to trail teasing fingers over Max’s skin and clench at the base of his spine, or leaning forward to give Nico a good view of that spectacular cleavage. If the prince wasn’t careful, he would fall into it.
“There’s no use glaring, young man,” said the Dowager, who had been observing him with cynical amusement. “That’ll just encourage her.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said, taken aback.
“You needn’t get all hoity-toity with me,” she said. “I may look like an old woman, but I remember what it’s like to run rings round a man, and young Miss Deare over there clearly knows what she’s doing too.”
Max glowered.
“If it’s any comfort, it’s all for your benefit,” said the Dowager.
It didn’t look to Max as if Flora had any interest in him at all. That smile, that luscious display of cleavage was clearly aimed at the man next to her. A man, Max reminded himself, who was handsome, seductive and single – oh, and a prince if he wasn’t nauseating enough already.
A handsome prince who was clearly just as taken with Flora as she was with him. Why wouldn’t she be interested? Max reminded himself dourly. Nothing surprising about the fact that she would prefer Nico to a cranky divorced father of two.
He just wished that he wasn’t aware of every time she laughed or closed her lips over a mouthful of food, of every time she turned her head. He wished he could forget about how she looked in that dress with those unexpectedly spectacular legs, or how it had felt to kiss her, that yielding warmth and sweetness that had caught him unawares.
He wished he could stop thinking about what it would be like to sleep next to her tonight.
Between Flora’s flirting and the Dowager Princess’s pointed questions about their supposed engagement, the meal dragged interminably, and there was still more small talk to be endured in the White Drawing Room after dinner, where they were served coffee in impossibly fragile and probably priceless porcelain cups and saucers.
As if that wasn’t prolonging the agony enough, Jonas offered liqueurs. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, darling?” Max said to Flora with a meaningful look as she clapped her hands together.
“I’ll just have a little Calvados as a digestif to settle my stomach.” She smiled wickedly at him and something unlocked inside Max with a little sigh of warmth. Flora was swaying slightly, but her eyes were a deep blue and her mouth a warm, inviting curve and in that red dress she looked so delectable that Max began to feel dangerously giddy, almost as if he had had too much to drink too.
Almost as if he needed to gather her closer so that they could hold on to each other.
Luckily, Flora spotted Ally behind him, declared that she needed to speak to her and tottered off unsteadily on her heels.
“Max.”
Hope’s voice at his elbow jolted him back to reality, and he turned to his sister, hoping that she hadn’t seen him staring after Flora.
She had, of course. “I like seeing you and Flora together,” she said. “It makes me feel something good has come out of all this.”
Max had opened his mouth to deny that he and Flora were together when his brain caught up and he realized what Hope had said.
“Something good ...? Hopey, are you all right?” he asked in concern.
“Oh, yes, I’m just ...” She sighed. “It’s all a bit much, you know?”
Max followed her gaze around the drawing room with its marble fireplace, ornate plasterwork and elaborately swagged curtains. There were gold tassels by the yard, and more gilt on the groups of eighteenth-century sofas and chairs.
“I can imagine,” he said.
“Max,” Hope began impulsively, and then changed her mind. “Oh, ignore me!” she said with a lightening switch of mood. “Come and meet Nico.”
Frankly, Prince Nico was the last person Max wanted to meet, but he allowed himself to be towed across to the other side of room from Flora, who had established herself as principal entertainer, judging by the laughter around her. The Dowager Princess and the Crown Prince and Princess left early, and their departure was the sign for the party to relax, or relax even more in Flora’s case, Max thought darkly.
He had exchanged a few pleasantries with Prince Nico, but was glad to be rescued after a while by Celina Harris. He approved of her neatness, her dark smooth hair, her quiet grace and elegance, unlike some people he could mention, but it was hard to concentrate on what she was saying when Flora’s laugh was tangling up his senses and tripping up his breathing. Making him think about the way she had sprawled on the bed next to him and how easy it would have been to roll her beneath him and get his hands on that lovely, warm, creamy skin at last.
Making him wonder if he would have another chance that night, and what he would do about it if he did.
“Flora’s so fun,” Celina said. “Is she always the life and soul of the party?”
“Pretty much,” said Max.
He watched Flora across the room as she gesticulated, her face animated, and the group around burst out laughing anew. Did she always feel like being fun? Max wondered. How much of that cheerfulness was designed to make everyone else feel better? Even at her grandfather’s funeral she had made sure that she greeted everyone with a bright smile.
By the time Max made his way back to Flora’s side, she was well away.
“My fiancé!” she cried in greeting and flung her arms around his neck.
Max held her in a firm grip, keeping all that lush warmth pressed against him. She smelt of rosemary, he thought inconsequentially. Like the herb garden on a warm summer evening.
“I think it’s time we got you to bed,” he said dryly. “We had an early start, and you’re tired.”
He manoeuvred her out of the room and they began to descend the marble staircase. “You’d better hold on to me,” Max told Flora.
“Well, I might,” she said, taking his arm. “But only because I’m a bit wobbly in my heels,” she added with dignity, only to spoil the effect with a hiccup. Covering her mouth with her free hand, she peeped a glance at Max, laughter dancing in the blue, blue eyes.
“God, you’re pissed,” Max sighed, but he could feel the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself.
At last they made it back to the room. He propped Flora up inside while he closed the door, and by the time he turned back, she had staggered over to the bed and flopped across it, face down.
Max stood looking at her for a moment, and then he went to sit on the bed by her feet so that he could pull off the frivolous shoes. Unthinkingly, he massaged the balls of her feet, and she made a sound low in her throat, like a purr, and like a cat, she rolled luxuriously over and flung her arms above her head.
There was a roaring in Max’s ears, and a dark haze in front of his eyes. Was he really expected to sit here, while Flora lay in tempting abandon, her mouth curved so invitingly? Letting go of her foot to lean over her in anticipation, Max stopped at the sound of the unmistakable whistle through her mouth. She might look seductive, but Flora was sound asleep.
When Flora woke the next morning, the inside of her skull was thumping and her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Cautiously, she prised open her eyelids, and winced at the glare. She was lying under the covers in her bra and the thong she had bought specially to wear under the red dress, which appeared to be draped over a chair she could just see out of the corner of her eye without turning her head, which seemed too risky a procedure to attempt just yet. When had she taken her dress off?
Oh, and now it seemed that she had been sleeping with her mouth open and had dribbled onto the pillow. Excellent.
Flora lay rigidly still in the hope that the thudding in her head would subside, while hideous flashes of memory
jumbled around in her brain.
Drinking champagne.
Sore feet.
Telling the Crown Princess that she and Max were engaged. God, what had she been thinking?
The meal had been good; she remembered that. Trying to talk to Nico while Max’s smile tugged at the edge of her vision.
Thinking another Calvados would be a good idea.
Clinging on to Max on the marble staircase.
But then what?
Blearily, she heard the door open and footsteps approaching the bed. “Are you awake?” Max asked.
“Eurgghh,” was all Flora could manage.
“Not feeling well?”
“I think I might actually be dying.”
“That’s what happens when you guzzle a vat of Calvados on top of a crate of champagne,” said Max unsympathetically but he poured her a glass of water, and helped her up, ignoring her yelp of pain when what felt like a cleaver split her head, so that she could sip at it. “Here, I brought you a couple of aspirin,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Flora weakly as she collapsed back against the pillows, very conscious that she was only in her underwear. “Um, last night ...? Did I undress myself?”
“You roused yourself enough to turn over so that I could unzip you, but that was as much as you could do,” Max told her. “I had to manhandle you out of your dress. It wasn’t the easiest job in the world, but it had some compensations,” he added in a dry voice, and she flushed, thinking of just how much flesh must have been on display.
“Where did you sleep?”
He nodded at the bed. “Right next to you.”
“Oh.” Her colour deepened. “But we didn’t ... er, you know ...?”
Max put on a puzzled expression. “What?”
“You know ...”
“Sorry, I’m not following,” he said, straight-faced.
Flora scowled. He was being deliberately obtuse. “Did we have sex or not?” she said through gritted teeth, and Max reeled back, clapping his hand to his heart and assuming – she was sure – a shocked expression.
“You mean you don’t remember? The earth moved, the angels sang, stars burst overhead –”
“Very funny,” she interrupted him mirthlessly. “Be serious, Max. What really happened?”
“Well, luckily for you, I’ve never been into necrophilia. It was all I could do to sleep at all with you snoring like a sailor all night.”
“Great.” It just kept getting better and better. Dribbling, all her podge revealed, and now snoring.
“It was a memorable night, I can tell you that,” he said. “Although clearly not for you.”
“I wish I could remember it,” sighed Flora. “Max, did I do anything awful? I’d hate to have embarrassed Hope.”
“I don’t think Hope was embarrassed. The royal family on the other hand ...”
“Oh God, what did I do?”
“You kicked off the evening with a bare-faced fib to the Crown Prince and Princess about us being engaged,” Max reminded her severely, and she bit her lip.
“I do remember that,” she admitted.
“And then, having engaged yourself to me, you proceeded to spend the whole night flirting with Prince Nico, and making me look a fool.”
Flora pulled a face. “I’m sure I wasn’t flirting. I’ve always been hopeless at that.”
“It looked like it from where I was sitting,” said Max. “Even the Dowager Princess commented on it. She told me you would lead me a pretty dance. She seemed to find that amusing for some reason,” he brooded, remembering.
“What form did this flirting take?” asked Flora suspiciously.
“Oh, you know. Batting your lashes and tilting your head and giving him lots of opportunities to peer down your cleavage. Smiling at whatever he said. Oh Nico, that’s so interesting. Oh Nico, you’re so handsome.” Max put on an excruciating falsetto voice and his imitation simper was so ridiculously exaggerated that Flora couldn’t help laughing.
“I bet I wasn’t that bad!”
“Not far off,” he grumbled. “I felt an absolute fool. First prince who comes along and my alleged fiancée ignores me completely!”
“Well, I’m very sorry,” said Flora placatingly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I survived.” Max relented. “The truth is, you were good fun,” he admitted. “You helped brush through one or two sticky moments, which would have been much more awkward if you hadn’t been there keeping everyone laughing.”
Alarmed, Flora sat up, if cautiously. “What kind of sticky moments?”
“Nothing dramatic, but I’m worried about Hope. She’s not herself.”
“I remember thinking that before ... I hope she’s okay.”
“Probably pre-engagement-party jitters,” said Max. “She should have had a vat of champagne like you, and then she’d have been fine.”
Flora looked fixedly at him. “Are you quite sure I didn’t do anything too embarrassing last night?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Max, deadpan, but a smile was lurking around his mouth in a most distracting way.
“That’s a relief.” Flora seized on the excuse to close her eyes and lean back, although the almost-smile still danced behind her eyelids. “Doesn’t make my head feel any better, but it is a relief.”
“You can’t have everything,” Max agreed.
A little silence fell. “How long have you been up?” Flora asked at last, opening her eyes.
“A while. I’ve had breakfast with Holly and Ben. I thought I’d better tell them we’re engaged now.”
Flora winced at the memory. “What did they say?”
“Ben said cool, and Holly wants to be your bridesmaid too. I said I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, of course not ... but wait, hang on ...” Flora put a hand to her aching head. “She knows we’re not really getting married, doesn’t she? I mean, they know what’s going on?”
“If they do, it’s more than I do,” said Max.
Chapter Thirteen
“How are you feeling?” Ally was sitting on a terrace, looking as stylish as ever, her feet up on balustrade and a notebook on her lap. She grinned as Flora lowered herself very cautiously into a chair beside her.
“Disgusting.” Flora looked at the cup and saucer on the table beside Ally. “Where did you find the coffee?”
“Oh, my dear!” Ally put on a grandly patronizing voice. “You don’t get your own coffee. You ring a bell and someone will bring it to you.” Picking up the little bell on the table, she demonstrated, and sure enough, a discreet footman appeared and asked what Flora would like in impeccable English.
“Coffee, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s a weird life, isn’t it?” said Ally when he had gone. “I mean, it’s fabulous for a few days, but would you like to live like this all the time?”
“No. I’d hate someone else doing all the cooking, for a start.”
“I should interview you some time about what you’re doing for the wedding. I need to get Max on what it’s like to host a royal wedding, too,” she remembered. “Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s gone on some boat trip that’s been organized for the kids.”
“Didn’t you want to go?”
“I could hardly crawl out of bed, let alone face bobbing around on a boat.” Flora held on to her still-thumping head. Just thinking about being on a boat made her feel seasick. “I opted to stay here and die quietly instead. I am never drinking again, by the way.”
The footman appeared with her coffee just then, and she sipped it gratefully.
“So, you and Max?” said Ally when he’d gone.
“There is no me and Max,” said Flora firmly.
“Hey, I heard you got engaged.”
“That was my fault. I got a bit carried away by the pretence, that’s all.”
“I thought you looked pretty good together last night.”
“Oh, please.”
“You must have thought about it.”
“Well, maybe once or twice,” Flora conceded, “but that lord-of-the-manor thing doesn’t really do it for me.” Liar, she thought. “And anyway, he’s not available.”
“Sure he is. He’s divorced.”
“He’s not emotionally available. Nothing’s changed from when we talked about this before, Ally. Stella’s always ringing him up and checking on him, and he never tells her to leave him alone.”
“They’re probably talking about Holly or Ben – and by the way, when did you get to be so good with children? I watched you on the plane. You’re great with them, and they obviously love you.”
Flora shifted uncomfortably. “They’re kids. They love everyone.”
“You can’t hold talking to Stella against Max, Floradear. She’s always going to be Holly and Ben’s mother. She’s part of the package, and surely it’s better that they get on instead of fighting the whole time, which is what a lot of divorced parents I know do. That’s what happens if you get involved with a divorced guy if he’s got kids.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I’m not getting involved,” said Flora, pushing the memory of that kiss firmly aside. “It would never work, even if either of us did want to get involved, which we don’t. Max is wedded to Hasebury Hall. That’s his life and he’s never going to leave it, and I’m going back to London just as soon as I can sell the cottage after the wedding.”
“The wedding’s not until June,” said Ally, flipping her notebook closed and getting to her feet. She smiled down at Flora. “A lot can happen in five months,” she said.
When Max found Flora later, she was sitting under a vine-covered pergola on a terrace overlooking the sea, busily scribbling in a notebook. Her expression was absorbed, and the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves overhead threw dappled shadows over her face. As he watched, she dropped her pen and notebook into her lap and stretched her arms above her head with a happy sigh as she looked out at the sea.
