by Liz Fielding
She had just slipped her phone into its special little seam pocket – shaped so that it wouldn’t slip out – lippie and tissues into her clutch bag when there was a tap at the door.
It was a man in uniform but it wasn’t a footman.
She caught her breath. “Fredrik ...”
He was wearing dress blues with enough gold braid to gladden a haberdasher’s heart. Over it he wore a scarlet sash on which was pinned a gold and enamel order. He looked positively edible and she thought she might just swoon with lust.
“I’m giving you fair warning,” she said. “If anyone wants you to deal with some idiot climbing the palace wall tonight, they are going to have to come through me.”
“My deputy is in charge of security tonight. I’m unavailable for anything short of World War Three.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
She slipped her hand beneath his arm. “Fredrik, on the subject of World War Three –”
“You look beautiful, Ally.”
The compliment was so unexpected that she blushed. Blushed! Like a fifteen-year-old, but before she could stammer out a thank you, he apparently changed his mind.
“No ...” What ...? “You don’t need make-up, a fabulous dress for that. You were beautiful that first morning, without a scrap of make-up, in a pinafore that looked as if it had been worn by your grandmother. Tonight you’d make Cinderella weep with envy.” He stopped, glanced down. “Are you wearing glass slippers?”
He’d remembered what she’d told him that first morning, she realized. About taking it in turns with Hope to wear the Cinderella dress. That was better than any compliment.
“Not glass –” she lifted her skirt a little to show him red shoes that matched her dress “– I always thought glass would be desperately dangerous. And uncomfortable.” She looked up. “Will you still be my Prince Charming?”
“Ask me again when the clock strikes midnight,” he said, heading towards the ballroom.
“I have to wait that long?”
He didn’t blush but he stumbled and beneath the high collar of his jacket she saw him swallow.
“I hope that’s not your dancing leg.”
“Ally ...” He paused, took a breath. “I’m fine. Have you had a useful day?” he asked. “I understand you’ve been dashing all over place, buttonholing anyone who would talk to you.”
“Everyone has been very helpful. Fredrik ...” She couldn’t let him walk into this blind, but just as she was about to blurt out what had happened, his phone rang. “Off duty?” she demanded.
He kept walking as he checked the caller ID before accepting the call.
“Jensson.” He said nothing else, just listened, then switched the phone off before sliding it into his pocket. “Now I’m off duty, unlike you. As a royal bridesmaid and PR person, I think you’re supposed to be smiling.”
They had reached the foot of the impressive, sweeping flight of steps that led up to the ballroom. For one crazy moment she considered staging a fall to provide a distraction. Fredrik would have to take her to the emergency room and they’d both be out of the firing line when Princess Anna realized that her evening was about to be a disaster.
Tempting as it was, she couldn’t leave Flora and Max to face it alone so she took a breath, jacked her face up into her professional smile and negotiated the steps without tripping over her hem. Ignoring the gilded swags, the glitter of chandeliers, the men in uniform, the fabulous dresses, she sought out Flora, caught her eye and got an imperceptible shake of the head.
Unlike the reception, the last thing she wanted was a clear head and she took the glass of champagne that Fredrik handed her and drank it down in one go.
“Are you all right, Ally?” Fredrik asked as she snagged another glass from a passing waiter. “You seem a little tense.”
Tense? She felt as if she was about to crack but before she could tell him why, there was a rustle of frocks, a sudden silence and as she turned she saw Jonas and Hope standing in the doorway. Hope looked radiant, Jonas jubilant as he introduced his fiancée to the assembled guests.
The second glass of champagne followed the first.
“Better now?” Fredrik said, taking the glass and parking it on a passing tray.
She looked up at him. “You knew, didn’t you?” He wasn’t exactly smiling but there was that telltale crease at the corner of his mouth. “You knew all the time. That was Jonas just now, wasn’t it? Calling you to let you know he was on his way.”
He shrugged. “Hope texted Max to reassure him. Jonas texted me in case Anna decided to call out the troops.”
“To do what?” He didn’t answer. “Drag them back? Were you supposed to make her back off? I’m not sure there’s a medal big enough for that one.”
“Jonas and I are friends, Ally. We sat in the same classrooms, played on the same teams, covered for one another. Found ways in and out of the palace that no one else knew about. He was there when I was brought home more dead than alive. When being alive seemed like the bad option.”
Jonas, she thought, was his Hope, and her relief that the runaways had returned in time to save the show was washed away in a rush of regret that she hadn’t called him this morning.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have called you as soon as I knew they were gone. I wanted to tell you ... I was trying to tell you just now.”
“A bit late, Ally.”
“So you thought you’d let me sweat?”
The promise of a smile had gone and a muscle worked in his jaw as he said, “I wanted you to trust me.”
She swallowed. She was protesting too much and he didn’t believe her. Not quite. She’d chosen friendship over the possibility of whatever ‘tonight’ might have led to.
“It’s your job, Fredrik,” she said, turning away to applaud as a slow waltz began to play and Jonas took Hope in his arms to dance her around the ballroom; to hide the fact that for some reason her eyes appeared to be watering. “You told me yourself, you are never off duty.”
“That’s something I need to change.” After a few moments, other people began to join in and Fredrik said, “I think this dance is slow enough for a crock like me. Unless you’d rather wait for someone else?”
She didn’t want to dance. She wanted to run away and hide somewhere, but like Fredrik she was on duty so she jacked up her smile. “My mother, or possibly my grandmother, taught me that the first dance should always be with the man or woman you arrived with,” she said, turning to him. “After that you can go and put your feet ...”
The words died on her lips as he touched a crooked finger to her lower lid. “Is that a tear?”
“It might be,” she admitted as it spilt over and soaked into his glove. “I cry at soppy movies, too. And puppies on Facebook. I have even been known to get emotional at the first sighting of baby ducks.”
“Who are you?” he asked. “What have you done with Ally Parker, hard-nosed gossip writer?”
“It’s true,” she said. “Ask Flora. She’ll tell you that I have to use industrial-strength waterproof mascara.” Unable to hold his gaze, she looked across at Jonas and Hope. “I was worried about Hope – we both were – but it’s obvious that whatever was wrong, Jonas has fixed it.”
“You and he have a great deal in common.”
She swallowed, shook her head. “Too heavy. This is a party, Fredrik. Let’s dance.”
He looked at her for a moment longer, but then his hand was at her waist, her hand in his. He was from that class where boys were taught to dance and he guided her slowly around the ballroom until, as the floor became more crowded, he drew her closer and she wasn’t aware of moving at all. Only of her cheek against Fredrik’s jacket, his arm around her. Of breathing in the scent of clean linen, soap, warm skin and never wanting this moment to stop.
Too soon the set ended and the orchestra struck up something livelier. Prince Nico claimed a dance and Fredrik surrendered her. “Time to do your duty, Cinderella. Just make sure that ton
ight, when the clock strikes twelve, we have a date.”
She rested a hand briefly on his arm, held his gaze for a moment. “You’ll find my shoe on the stair,” she promised.
Fredrik watched as Nico twirled her away to dance to something fast but she moved on before the music slowed again, waltzing with old courtiers, quickstepping with royal cousins and dancing something very silly with Prince Carlo but when she turned her eyes always found him.
Jonas joined him for a moment, not saying anything as he followed his gaze, watching as Ally produced a mobile phone from some hidden pocket to take a selfie with Carlo.
“How does she get away with that?” he asked. “Anna expressively forbade phones. More to the point why are you over here watching her when you could be dancing?”
“She’s somehow managed to convince Anna that she’s housebroken. I believe it has something to do with the quality of her curtsey.”
“That would do it.”
“As for the rest, it’s not who you dance with, Jonas. It’s who you leave with.”
Jonas briefly touched his arm, a gesture that encompassed a lifetime of friendship.
Ten minutes later the supper gong sounded and Ally was at his side.
“Having a good time?” he asked as she leaned against him, a little flushed from dancing and too much champagne.
She groaned. “I’ve smiled so much that my face feels as if it’s about to crack in half and much as I hate to admit it, I danced myself to a standstill last night.” She looked up. “Please tell me it’s twelve o’clock.”
“Not even close,” he said, “but I imagine Prince Charming, if he had anything about him, would have invited Cinderella to take a reviving breath of air in his rose garden.”
“Lucky Cinderella,” she said, fanning herself with her hand.
“It’s too early for roses but would stars make an adequate substitute?”
“Stars ...”
She stopped fanning herself and as she looked up they were both remembering that moment in Combe St Philip when he’d told her about the stars in the mountains.
“The air will be seriously fresh,” he warned. “You might want to change into something warmer.”
“Warmer?”
“Tank, T-shirt, shirt, sweater. I’ll be waiting in the courtyard.”
Without another word they broke away from the crowd moving towards the buffet supper.
“This feels so naughty,” she said as they reached the grand staircase. “Like leaving a party without saying thank you to your hostess.”
“I’ll send her flowers,” he said.
“Everyone will send her flowers. Surprise her. Send her chocolates.”
“Chocolates?”
“I’ll bet no one ever sends her chocolates.”
“Does she look like a woman who eats chocolate?”
“She looks like a woman who should have temptation put in her way.”
Chapter Ten
As Ally crossed the vast lobby she was doing a good impression of a swan. On the surface everything was serene, graceful as she calmly smiled her thanks to the footman who leapt to open a door for her. Underneath everything was in turmoil.
Her heart and pulse were racing each other as if they were competing in a hundred-yard sprint. Her stomach was churning with excitement, nerves, a whole load of emotions that she couldn’t pin down.
Once she was out of sight of the flunkies, Ally took off her shoes and ran. By the time she reached her door her dress was unzipped and five minutes later she was wrapped up in her warmest clothes.
She had no idea how far they would have to go to leave the lights of the city behind but it was unlikely she’d get a signal so the last thing she did was open her tablet and despatch the emails she’d drafted to her mother and the vicar. Then, as an afterthought, she flicked through the photographs she snapped that night and sent the one of her and Prince Carlo as an attachment to her mother. Because she deserved it.
She tossed it, along with her phone, into the big shoulder bag in which she carried everything she might need, ever, and hurried out to the courtyard.
Fredrik flashed the lights of a big 4x4 to attract her attention, then leaned across to push the door open.
He looked her over as she settled in her seat, raising his eyebrows when he reached her boots. “You came prepared.”
“There’s nothing in the diary for tomorrow so I was going to ask the palace press office if they could arrange a trip into the mountains.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re there?” she offered.
“And the real reason?”
Because they were his place, had been his life and she wanted to feel something of what he felt when he was high up, breathing thin air, risking his life. Because she wanted to know him better.
“I’m going to write about San Michele on my ‘royal bridesmaid’ blog,” she said. Also true.
“What bridesmaid blog?” Before she could answer he said, “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
“The press office are totally happy with it,” she said, taking no notice. “So is Princess Anna. San Michele is making a huge effort to attract tourists, film crews, anyone who will bring money into the country.”
“I had heard,” he said, less than enthusiastically. “They are all spitting pips that the wedding won’t be held here.”
“A wedding isn’t a promo opportunity but their frustration is understandable so I’m doing my bit to maximize exposure. They are very excited about the possibility that one of the gossip magazines might do a feature on the country.”
“Is there anyone in San Michele you haven’t managed to charm?” he asked.
“You?” she suggested.
That seemed to throw him and for once he had no comeback.
“Admit it, Fredrik, you fancy me, you’re up for a fling, but I don’t for a minute believe that you’re charmed by me.”
She thought, hoped that he was going to deny it. Instead he slammed the 4x4 into gear and headed out of the palace grounds.
She’d spoken the truth and his response was honest, if not quite what she’d been hoping for but this, whatever this was, would not survive beyond the wedding and it was far better that deep emotions were not engaged.
Even as she thought it she knew she was kidding herself. Her emotions had been engaged from the first moment she’d seen him. They had been a very mixed assortment, to be true, but tangled up with the irritation, amusement, a very strong impulse to be naked with him, there was something deeper that was entirely new. A feeling that she did not recognize, but suspected that when it was all over, was going to leave her feeling empty.
Fredrik seemed disinclined to talk and Ally settled herself back in her seat, looking around as they climbed out beyond the city, passing first through farmland, then plunging into thick forest where the only light was from their headlights.
They turned off the main road and drove down a forest road for a while until, without warning, they were back in the open on a track crossing high alpine pasture.
An owl, drifting low over the ground, was caught in their headlights but as she turned to Fredrik to ask if there were wolves in the mountains, or bears, she could see that his jaw had noticeably tensed.
“Fredrik ...”
Climbing was Fredrik’s passion. Like his father before him.
His mother had spilled it all out over lunch. His father had been warned of the danger but being on the mountains mattered more to him than life or death. If he was going to die he didn’t want to be strapped to a hospital monitor but high up on a rock face.
“Fredrik was climbing with his father almost as soon as he could walk. He was fourteen when I married Alessandro. He refused to come to the wedding, instead climbing San Michele’s highest peak solo to plant his father’s flag on the summit.” She sighed. “He hasn’t been near the mountains since his injury. It has been a far greater loss than Eloise.”
“Ally?”
Fredrik glanced across at her. She’d been going to say that they didn’t have to go any further. They were high enough. The only visible lights were far below where fishing villages were strung out along the coast.
“Shall I put on some music?” she suggested.
He shrugged and she sorted through CDs stacked in the storage box between them.
There was an eclectic mix. Rock, jazz, classic. An Elgar Cello Concerto recorded by Eloise Jakolin.
She put it back, grabbed something else but before she could stuff it into the player, he reached out, caught her hand to stop her. “Play it.” He didn’t wait for her, flipped the case open, pushed the CD home and drove on as the slow opening to the concerto covered the silence.
What had started out as an exciting adventure had gone downhill from the moment she’d got in the car. Ten minutes later he pulled over, turned off the engine, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak until, what seemed like hours later, the music stopped.
“Did Dominic tell you about Eloise?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Your mother.” She turned in her seat to face him, not prepared to sit there feeling guilty for having raked up something he would rather forget. “Isn’t that why you wanted me to have lunch with her? So that she could talk about you. Tell me the things you find it hard to talk about?”
The fact that he’d met Eloise Jakolin at university, fallen in love with her, that she’d won some international music prize and while Fredrik was struggling to walk, she was busy booking international tours ...
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
No man reached his thirties without having some kind of relationship. She’d been in one herself but nothing serious enough to survive the move home to Combe St Philip. The lack of support when she’d needed it had stung but Nick had made no bones about the fact that he wasn’t the kind of man to waste his weekends hanging out in a country village.
It was nothing compared to Fredrik’s loss of both his passion and his love.
