Stepping into the Prince's World

by Marion Lennox

  ‘Because you want me to prove myself?’

  ‘Claire, you don’t need to prove a thing,’ he told her, his voice gentling. ‘You’ve already proved you’re the woman—’

  ‘Not another word,’ she interjected, suddenly breathless. ‘Not one more word, Your Highness. But, okay, let’s head to this gymnasium and see if I can throw you.’

  * * *

  She could throw him.

  He lay on his back, stunned, and looked up at the diminutive woman above him with incredulity.

  At her first approach he’d allowed her to throw him. He’d learned some martial arts himself—it had formed part of his army training. Then, bemused by Claire’s claim to skill, he’d performed a token block—because he suspected that, yes, she really could throw, but he was large and skilled himself, and he didn’t want to hurt her pride.

  That thought had lasted all of twenty seconds, which was the time Claire had needed to move in, feign an amateurish movement, change swiftly to a move that was anything but amateurish and have him flat on the mat.

  She grinned down at him. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, soldier.’

  Soldier. For a moment she’d lost the Prince thing. She was having fun, smiling down at him, laughing at the ego that had had him misjudging her.

  So then he got serious. He rose and circled and thought about everything his martial arts sergeant had told him.

  As a soldier Raoul was trained to work with any number of different weapons. He could work on tactics, set up a battalion for attack, retreat, advance, camouflage, exist on meagre rations, survive with bush craft...

  He could do this.

  He moved in to attack, thinking how best to throw her without hurting her.

  The next moment he was on his back again, and he didn’t have a clue how he’d got there. Whump! He lay, winded, on the mat, and she was smiling down at him with the same patronising smile that said this throw had been no harder than the first.

  ‘What the...?’

  ‘I told you I was good,’ she said, with not a hint of false modesty about her. ‘Believe me?’

  ‘Teach me that throw.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Please,’ he said humbly, and she put down a hand to help him up.

  He gazed at it with incredulity, and then grinned and put his hand in hers. She tugged him up, and he let her pull, and the feeling was amazing. He wanted to kiss her again—very, very badly—but she was in full martial arts mode. She was sensei to his pupil and she was serious.

  They had an hour during which he learned almost more than in the entire time the military had devoted to teaching hand-to-hand combat. And at the end he still didn’t know a fraction of what this woman could do.

  * * *

  Karate was fun.

  Dressmakers were scary.

  The appointment was for two. Showered in the lavish gymnasium bathrooms, dressed again and with make-up newly applied, she should be ready for anything.

  She wasn’t.

  Henri had come to find them. Raoul had left her for his own fittings and Henri had escorted her to a massive bedchamber on the second floor.

  He swung the door wide and four women were waiting for her, all in black, all with faces carefully impassive.

  ‘You’ll take care of Miss Tremaine,’ Henri said.

  ‘Of course,’ the oldest woman said smoothly, and closed the door on Henri and turned to appraise Claire.

  She was a woman whose age was impossible to guess—slim, elegant, timeless. She also seemed deeply intimidating. Her gaze was surely a dressmaker’s appraisal—nothing more. Claire shouldn’t take it personally. But it was hard not to as every inch of her body was assessed and while the other three women stood back, silent, probably doing the same thing.

  ‘Excellent,’ the woman said at last. ‘I’m Louise Dupont. These women are Marie, Belle and Fleur. Our job is to provide you with whatever you need for the grand ball and for the preceding official engagements which we’re informed you’re invited to attend. Belle has a list of the requirements. Would you like to tell us your ideas first, so we have an idea where we’re going?’

  ‘Simple.’ It was as much as Claire could do to get the word out. ‘I’m not royal, and I’m not accustomed to such events. If I could, I’d wear a little black dress...’

  ‘A little black dress to a royal ball...?’ Louise’s expressionless face almost showed a flinch, and the women behind her gasped.

  ‘I know I can’t do that, but I’d like something that won’t make me stand out.’

  Certainly, mademoiselle,’ Louise said woodenly, and swathes of cloth produced, and sketches, and a part of Claire was thinking, What a coward.

  Among the swathes of cloth were brocades, sequins, tulle, lace of every description. But sense was sense. She chose beige for one of the anniversary dinners and a soft green for the other. Matching accessories. Deeply conservative. Then the ball dress...

  ‘I really can’t have black?’

  ‘Their Majesties would consider it an insult,’ Louise told her, and so Claire fingered the silver tulle for just a moment and then chose a muted sensible navy in a simple sheath design.

  It will look elegant, she told herself, and the way the women set about fitting the cloth to her figure she knew it would.

  And then Raoul arrived. One of the women answered the door to his tap. Whatever he’d tried on, he’d tried on fast. He was back in his casual trousers and open-necked shirt, but he stood in the doorway looking every inch a prince. He stared at the pinned sheath of navy cloth covering Claire and groaned.

  ‘I knew it. Get it off.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Louise turned and saw who it was, but her attitude hardly changed when she did. ‘I beg your pardon—Your Highness.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s suitable for a royal ball?’

  ‘It’s what Miss Tremaine wishes.’

  ‘Miss Tremaine wishes for the fairytale—don’t you, Miss Tremaine?’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Louise, Miss Tremaine is returning to Australia after the ball, to life as a country lawyer. This ball is a ball to be remembered all her life.’

  He strode across to where the remaining bolts of fabric lay and lifted some white lace shot with silver.

  ‘This, I think. Something amazing, Louise. Something that makes the world look at Claire and know her for the beauty she is. She’ll be wearing my mother’s tiara...’

  ‘Raoul!’ She should have used his formal title but she was too gobsmacked. ‘I don’t want to stand out. Plain is good—and I’m not wearing a tiara.’

  ‘You saved my life. If that’s not a reason to lend you my mother’s tiara I don’t know what is. She’d be proud to have you wear it. You need a dress to match. Something magnificent, Louise. Something fairytale.’

  ‘Would you like us to set up screens so you can supervise?’

  ‘No!’ Claire retorted.

  Raoul grinned. ‘What? No screens?’

  ‘Go away!’

  The women stared at her in astonishment—a commoner giving orders to royalty?—but Raoul was still smiling.

  ‘Only if you promise to indulge in the fairytale. The full fantasy, Claire. Remember what Henri said? Have fun. Louise, can you do fairytale?’

  ‘Certainly, Your Highness,’ Louise told him, sounding intrigued.

  ‘Then fairytale it is,’ Raoul told her. ‘Get rid of that navy blue.’

  ‘Raoul...’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he said, still smiling at her, and his smile was enough to have every woman in the room trying to hide a gasp. ‘But you will have fun.’

  ‘I will have fun,’ she said grimly.

  ‘That’s my brave Claire. Go for it.’

  * * *

 
And in the end she did have fun. Raoul left and she had two choices—she could try and incorporate a bit of bling into her image of plain or she could go for it.

  With the women’s blatant encouragement she went for it.

  ‘I do like a bit of fairytale,’ Louise admitted, letting her dour exterior drop.

  Raoul had suggested the white lace shot with silver, and after a little thought that was what Louise recommended. The design she suggested was a gown of true princess splendour, with a low-cut sweetheart neckline and tiny slivers of silver just off the shoulders to hold the bodice in place. A vast skirt billowed and shimmered from a cinched waist, and a soft satin underskirt of the palest blue made the whole dress seem to light up.

  That was the vision. For now it was only draped fabric, held together with pins, but Claire gazed at herself in the mirror and thought, What am I doing here?

  She needed to ground herself. She needed to find Rocky and go home, she told herself as more and more of the shimmering silver was applied. To Australia. This fairytale was sucking her further and further in.

  But she couldn’t leave until after the ball.

  At last the interminable measuring was done. ‘You’ll do our Prince proud,’ Louise told her, permitting herself a tiny smile, and Claire tugged on her jeans and blouse as fast as she could and wondered how her presence could possibly do anyone proud. She felt a fraud.

  Raoul was in the hallway, calmly reading, clearly waiting for her. He had Rocky on his knee. Rocky bounced across to greet her with canine delight and Raoul smiled—and she was in so much trouble.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘Picnic in the grounds?’

  ‘Raoul, I should...’

  ‘There’s a whole lot of I shoulds waiting for us in the wings,’ he said gently. ‘For now, though, let’s put them aside and focus on the I wills.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  RAOUL DIDN’T RETURN to her apartment that night, and neither did she stay in the palace. It had been a risk for one night; another night would be pushing things past reasonable limits if they were to keep the media treating their relationship as platonic. As they must.

  Claire slept fitfully in her sparse apartment. She woke early, eager to throw herself back into work, which was far less confusing than being with Raoul. She was due to meet the head of Raoul’s fledgling social services department. She drank coffee and read her notes from the previous week, trying to block out the fantasy of the weekend. Then, still with time before the car came to collect her, she retrieved the newspapers Raoul had organised to have delivered to her door.

  She opened the first one and froze.

  The page was entirely taken up with a photograph. Claire and Raoul, underneath the chandelier. The moment their waltz had ended. That kiss. The photograph had been blown up to the extent that the images were grainy, but there was no mistaking the passion.

  This was no mere kiss. This was a kiss between two lovers. This was a man and a woman who were deeply in love.

  She gasped and backed into the hallway, as if burned, dropping the paper on the floor. She stared down at it in horror.

  The headline...

  Roturière Australienne Pièges Notre Prince.

  Commoner Australian Traps Our Prince.

  Scarcely breathing, she picked it up again.

  The first article she read had been hurriedly but deeply researched.

  When she’d first arrived in Marétal the press had given their readers a brief background of the woman who’d rescued their Prince.

  Lawyer taking time out from successful career to caretake an island...

  It had sounded vaguely romantic, and the description had been superficial.

  There was nothing superficial about this. Overnight someone had been in touch with an Australian journalist, who must have travelled fast to the tiny Outback town of Kunamungle. There was an exposé of her childhood poverty and scandal, even a nasty jibe from the publican—‘She always thought she was better than us—she was dragged up in the gutter but ambition was her middle name...’

  More coming! the article promised, and Claire thought of the fraud allegations and what might come out—what would come out—and she felt ill.

  This was sensationalist journalism and it cheapened everything. She felt smutty and used and infinitely weary.

  She flicked to the next paper.

  Prince Désire Paysanne...

  Prince Desires Peasant.

  The phone rang. It was Raoul. He spoke, but she couldn’t make herself reply. She leant against the wall, feeling she needed its support. The papers were limp in her hands. She dropped them again and felt as if she wanted to drop herself.

  ‘Claire, talk to me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say,’ she whispered. ‘I knew this would happen. So did you.’

  ‘I need to see you.’ He groaned. ‘But I can’t. The media have staked out the palace gates. I’ll be followed if I come to you and it’ll make things worse.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to face them down together?’

  Together? With all that implied? ‘No!’

  Somehow she hauled herself together. She was here to do a job and she would do it.

  ‘I have an appointment with the head of your social services department in half an hour,’ she told him. ‘In this precinct. I imagine the media can’t get in here?’

  ‘They can’t. You’ll still do that?’

  ‘I promised,’ she whispered. ‘It’s what I came here for.’

  ‘You came here for so much more.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and anger came to her aid now—fury plain and simple. ‘I didn’t. I agreed to take on a job. If I go home now then your papers will say that every single thing they’ve printed is true. That I came here to trap you...’

  ‘We both know that’s a lie.’

  ‘I bet that’s what they said about Cinderella.’

  ‘We’re not basing our relationship on a fairytale.’

  ‘You said it,’ she said wearily. ‘Raoul, it’s impossible. This is real life. We had...we could have had...something amazing...but amazing doesn’t solve real-life problems. You know I’m not good enough for you.’

  And he swore—an expletive so strong she almost dropped the phone.

  ‘Um...’ she said at last. ‘My translation isn’t that good.’

  ‘Claire, I will see you.’

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘It does neither of us any good.’

  ‘You did promise you’d come to the ball.’

  She fell silent then. The ball... She had promised. And there was the dress. And there was Raoul. And he’d be in his gorgeous regimental uniform.

  Cinderella had her midnight, she thought ruefully. Maybe she, too, could have her ball and her midnight. There’d be no glass slipper afterwards, because happy-ever-after only happened in fairytales, but the ball would be something she could remember all her life.

  She shouldn’t. The sensible part of her brain was screaming at her: Don’t, don’t, don’t!

  But there was still another part of her—the part that remembered Raoul holding her in the waltz, the part that remembered a dress of shimmering silver, the part that knew for the rest of her life she’d remember one night...

  And she had to finish what she’d come here to do. She’d do her work, she’d have her ball and she’d go home.

  ‘Okay,’ she whispered.

  ‘Okay, what? Claire...’

  ‘I will come to the ball,’ she told him. ‘As long as...as long as you don’t attempt to see me before then. I won’t come to the receptions. Just the ball. And I’ll finish the work I’m here to do this week so I can go home straight afterwards.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any kind of sense’

  ‘It does,’ she said sadly. ‘It makes
all kinds of sense. It’s anything else that’s just plain lunacy.’

  * * *

  Raoul read the papers from cover to cover.

  They were tearing Claire to pieces. No mercy... This woman wasn’t good enough to be the future Queen. The papers said so.

  A fury was building inside him—a rage so cold, so hard, that it was all he could do not to smash things. The palace was full of excellent things to smash. Priceless china, artwork that still had the power to take his breath away, precious carpets and furnishings...

  Right now he wanted to put a match to the lot of it and watch it burn.

  Instead he forced himself to keep reading as he knew that Claire, when her work for the day was done, would read.

  Together they could face them all down, he thought. This wasn’t insurmountable. In time they’d see...

  But she wouldn’t let that happen. He knew that with a dull, unrelenting certainty. Claire’s self-image had been battered from birth, and the ghastly Felicity and her cronies had smashed it to nothing. He knew how wonderful she was, but she’d never let herself believe it. She’d be miserable here, knowing everyone was looking down at her. Her self-image wouldn’t let her go past it.

  The whole situation was impossible. He slammed his fist down on his desk, causing his coffee to jump and topple and spill onto the priceless Persian rug.

  Excellent. A good start.

  There was a faint knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he snapped, and Henri was at the door, looking grave.

  ‘I am so sorry, Your Highness,’ he told him.

  ‘So am I.’ He hesitated, and then thought, Why not say it like it is? ‘The paper’s right. I love her.’

  Henri stilled. ‘Truly?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘This criticism will pass.’

  ‘She doesn’t think she’s good enough, but she’s better than all of us put together. What am I going to do? I can’t demand she stay. I can’t insist she subject herself to this sort of filth.’ He picked up the top newspaper and tossed it down onto the pool of spilled coffee.