Her Royal Baby

by Marion Lennox

  She glowered even more.

  ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘Fine!’ she threw at him. ‘Fine. I’ll come to dinner in my rags and I’ll disgrace myself before your entire staff and you can snigger at me all you want. Fine. Just get out of my room now.’

  ‘I-’

  ‘Get out!’

  Fifteen minutes.

  Help.

  She could go as she was. She should, she thought grimly. She should do just that.

  But…she was Henry’s guardian. She had a place in this household until Henry no longer needed it. She should give it a fair go.

  The glimmer of laughter in Marc’s eyes came back to haunt her. Damn the man. How dared he place her in such a situation?

  He had tried to warn her…

  She stared at her battered backpack as if it was a personal enemy. What on earth was she to do? She just knew that Ingrid would be gorgeous, and playing beggar maid to a handsome prince and princess was not her cup of tea at all.

  But Lara had lived here for a while, she thought slowly. Lara, who chose and discarded clothes on a whim. If she’d lived here even for a short time… She bit her lip, indecision playing over her face. Could she? Should she?

  Why not? She was in a fairytale castle. Why not indeed?

  ‘Call me if there’s anything you want,’ Mrs Burchett had told her. ‘The bell connects to the kitchens. Normally I’d have one of the girls answer it, but tonight I’ll answer it myself.’

  She stared at the bell and then made her decision.

  She was a long, long way from the bush. She was a long, long way from home.

  Ingrid was growing impatient. Marc’s steward caught him on the stairs and detained him for another few minutes, and by the time he returned to the drawing room she could scarcely conceal her annoyance. ‘Where have you been?’

  Her tone was proprietorial enough to annoy him. ‘Inviting Henry’s aunt down to join us,’ he told her.

  ‘For dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does she want to join us?’ Ingrid asked incredulously. ‘I would have thought…’

  ‘You would have thought what?’

  He hadn’t been expecting Ingrid to be here waiting for him. In truth he’d been looking forward to a few days to work things out before he contacted her. But she was here now, and the fact that he didn’t feel like speaking to anyone had to be overcome.

  ‘Well, her sort…’

  ‘Yes?’ He stilled, watching Ingrid. ‘What do you mean-her sort?’

  ‘Well, she’s clearly not used to moving in our circles.’ Ingrid smiled her gorgeous smile and her gentle laughter tinkled out musically in the beautiful salon. ‘What did you tell me? You’ve dragged her here from the Australian bush? Darling, you’ll be lucky if she knows how to use a knife and fork.’

  ‘She’s Lara’s sister,’ Marc snapped, and Ingrid nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it amazing? That those two can be sisters…? Lara was a beauty.’

  ‘Tammy-Tamsin isn’t exactly ugly.’

  ‘No, dear, but those clothes…and those freckles…’

  ‘Do you want to go in to dinner?’ he asked shortly, offering his arm.

  ‘You don’t want to wait for our little mate from the bush?’

  ‘No need,’ said a dangerously controlled voice from the door. ‘Your little mate from the bush is right here.’

  She took his breath away. Marc turned to face the door and it was all he could do not to gasp.

  How had she done this in fifteen minutes?

  She was transformed.

  Gone were her faded jeans and her old shirt. Gone was Tammy Dexter, tree surgeon. In her place…Tamsin.

  The dress was deceptively simple-a sliver of brilliantly cut black silk. It had a scooped neckline and tiny capped sleeves. It curved into a cinched waist and hugged her hips to a short, short hemline. Her long tanned legs went on for ever to a pair of strappy black sandals that made her legs look even longer than they were.

  And the rest… Her burnished curls were brushed to a shimmering glory, swinging around her shoulders in a soft cloud. She’d found some make-up-just a little-just enough to add a tiny touch of colour to her lovely mouth and accentuate those huge brown eyes.

  She was stunning!

  ‘Where the hell did you get the clothes?’ he demanded, and her eyes creased in amusement.

  ‘Now, here I was, wondering whether my manners were up to scratch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said stiffly, catching himself. She was right. As a greeting it was hardly appropriate. ‘I…Tammy, this is Ingrid. My…’

  ‘Partner,’ Ingrid finished for him, her dark eyes giving him a strange sideways glance. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you…Tammy.’ She came forward and took Tammy’s hand in her cool grasp, gave it a lightly welcoming squeeze. ‘How are you, my dear? We were just saying you must be feeling very strange. I wouldn’t have wondered if you’d wanted dinner in your room tonight.’ Her eyes perused Tammy and her look of light amusement deepened. ‘You’ve been raiding your sister’s clothes, I see. Well done, you. I was going to wrap them up and send them to charity, but if you can use them…’

  The implication was obvious, and Tammy flushed. But she held her cool. This woman reminded her of her mother, and Tammy had learned early that anger wasn’t a useful tool. Other methods were more effective.

  ‘I’m pleased that you did no such thing,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve yet to see the terms of my sister’s will, but I doubt her private property would be yours to dispose of. Legal writs are so tiresome, don’t you think?’ She took the flute of champagne Marc had poured for her and smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s just what I needed. And Dom Pérignon…my favourite.’

  Fifteen minutes ago she’d been saying that what she needed was a Vegemite sandwich. Marc blinked-but then maybe he would have blinked anyway.

  Wow!

  Until now he’d suspected Tammy had chosen her isolated profession because of an inferiority complex. Lara and her mother, Isobelle, were magnificent. They were creatures whose every feature screamed perfection, from the tip of their beautifully pedicured toes to their gleaming tresses. If Tammy had grown up comparing herself to such perfection-well, maybe anyone would have headed to the bush.

  But Tammy was just as beautiful as her sister or her mother, he thought. Maybe even more so. She wore very little make-up and no jewellery, but in her sister’s simple black dress she made Ingrid appear overdressed and over-made-up.

  And Ingrid knew. And Ingrid didn’t like it one bit.

  ‘Well, of course if they fit you…’ She was smiling, moving to the head of the table and gesturing to Tammy to sit. Hostess to guest. The gesture wasn’t lost on Marc who grimaced. Hell, he had things to sort out here.

  But Tammy still seemed unfazed. ‘It’d be a waste not to use them,’ Tammy agreed cheerfully. ‘By the look of the wardrobes I shan’t need to buy anything more until Henry inherits.’

  ‘You intend to stay that long?’

  ‘Henry needs a mother,’ Tammy said softly, sitting down as though she’d sat at such tables all her life. The butler was behind her-he assisted her into the chair and placed a napkin on her knees and she gave him a friendly, happy smile. ‘I guess I’m it.’

  ‘But if Marc and I-’

  ‘Will you have wine?’ Marc interrupted with a harried look, and Tammy gave him her very nicest smile.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Hell.

  Marc couldn’t sleep. Finally, at about two in the morning, he rose and took himself out for a walk in the gardens. It was a full moon. The moonlight was reflecting off the lake and the night was gorgeous. He walked the full perimeter of the lake. His strides lengthened as he walked and so did his sense of unease.

  What was he doing?

  Until Jean-Paul had died his life had been uncomplicated. Or…less complicated. He’d been able to keep himse
lf right apart from this family, and that was the way he’d liked it.

  He’d been brought up close to here, but miles apart in terms of lifestyle. His father had been the Crown Prince’s brother. The brothers had got on-once-but the children hadn’t. Jean-Paul’s mother had been a snob of the first order, who’d preened herself on her success in marrying Marc’s uncle, whereas Marc’s mother had been a warm, fun-loving woman who’d had little to do with royalty.

  For good reason. At the thought of his mother, Marc twisted his mouth into a grim line. What they’d done to her… This family…

  It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. It was past. He’d learned that the only way to cope with these people-with anyone who had any connections to the crown-was to be businesslike and brusque.

  Because he loved this little country he’d do what he had to do over the next few years. He’d wear the crown and hold the monarchy in good stead for his little cousin, but that was as far as it went. If Tammy-Tamsin, he told himself harshly; he’d keep this formal-if she could be persuaded to take a royal role then he could step back into the background. Which was what he wanted. He wanted to go back to his lovely little estate and get right away from these people.

  From Tammy?

  Yes. From Tammy, he told himself savagely. She stirred him as he hadn’t believed a woman could.

  And he didn’t understand why. His sort of woman wasn’t like that. Not like Tamsin. His sort of woman was one such as Ingrid.

  Ingrid…

  The thought of her behaviour at dinner made his teeth clench. She’d been a bitch. He needed to get rid of her. After dinner, as she’d clung and expected to be taken back to his bed, he’d rebuffed her with more bluntness than tact.

  ‘I’m jet-lagged, Ingrid. I need my own bed tonight.’

  ‘I can just stay a while, sweetheart.’

  Sweetheart… The term sounded almost obscene coming from her. She was beautiful, and she’d been an elegant hostess for him in the past, but their relationship hadn’t lasted any more than a few short months. None of his relationships did.

  That was the way he liked it. The women in his circle were all tarred with the same brush as his aunt and Isobelle and Lara. He knew damned well what drove them. To bring a woman in from outside-to expose her to the goldfish bowl of royalty-would be to expose her to the same sort of pain his mother had experienced. He couldn’t do it.

  And Tammy…

  Why did his thoughts swing back to Tammy? Tammy, gazing at him from that huge tree she’d been working on. Tammy, asleep on his shoulder in the plane. Tammy, hugging her nephew, making him smile, swinging her bare feet while she sat on that huge, crazy bed.

  Tammy in the tiny black dress, beating Ingrid at her own game.

  Yeah, right. Get involved with Tammy and he’d be involved with this family for ever. He hated it. Hated it! And Tammy was just such a one as his mother. There was no way he’d subject her to-

  Subject her? What was he thinking of? Marrying the girl?

  Where had that thought come from? Ridiculous! He was so out of his comfort zone in all this that he didn’t know where he was.

  ‘Damn you, Jean-Paul,’ he told his dead cousin. ‘I’m not playing your games. I’m not playing any games. I do what I have to do and then I get out of here.’

  Tammy…

  Don’t be a fool, he told himself as he rounded the last bend and trod up the steps back into the castle. I should never have kissed her. God knows why I did. One thing’s for certain: it’s never going to happen again. She doesn’t want me just as much as I don’t want her.

  But…how much was that?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MARC woke to laughter. He groaned and opened one eye to discover it was eight a.m. That’d teach him to wander round the lake in the small hours. His head was still in a time zone a thousand miles away.

  Maybe he’d imagined the laughter, he thought, still hazy from sleep. One thing this palace never encouraged was laughter.

  But there it was again, drifting up from under his windows. Definitely laughter. Tammy’s?

  A knock and Dominic was entering. The butler set his tray on the bedside table and started to pull the curtains. He smiled in sympathy as Marc grimaced.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you did organise a meeting with M’sieur Lavac at nine.’

  ‘At nine?’ Marc groaned again. ‘M’sieur Lavac?’

  ‘The accountant, sir,’ Dominic told him in the reproving manner of a senior person to a child who has to be occasionally indulged.

  ‘Yes. Right.’ The palace accountant. M’sieur Lavac. Of course. Dominic was pulling aside vast brocade drapes and the light hurt his eyes ‘Who the hell is laughing? Surely it can’t be T… Miss Dexter?’

  ‘Did they wake you, sir? Shall I tell them to stop?’

  Them? ‘Tell who to stop?’

  ‘Miss Tammy and Master Henry.’ Dominic paused by the windows and gazed down at the south lawn, a smile playing over his normally taciturn face. ‘I’ll admit I’d be reluctant to stop them. It does my heart good to see them here. We never thought we’d see a child back at the palace. And this aunt of the little Prince…’

  ‘She meets with your approval?’ The temptation was too great. Jet-lag or no jet-lag, Marc rose to see for himself.

  They were right beneath his windows. A steep and grassy bank led down to the lake, and Tammy had climbed to the top, with Henry in her arms. While Marc watched she lay down on the grass, set the little boy down before her so they were almost nose to nose, held his hands tight-and they rolled down the grassy verge together.

  Clearly they’d done it time and time again. They ended up on the bank of the lake, both bubbling with laughter, the baby holding his hands out for more. A cluster of ducklings and their mother watched from the water’s edge, seemingly almost as bemused as Marc.

  And for Marc it was a strange feeling. Incredible! He watched Tammy’s laughing face and felt a surge of such desire it threatened to overwhelm him.

  But this wasn’t a desire he knew. It was crazily mixed up, he thought. His feelings for Tammy were merging with what she represented. Because in there, too, was a desire to do what she was doing-to play with the baby he’d already started to love.

  Love? He didn’t do love, he told himself, startled. He was there in the background to safeguard Henry’s inheritance. That was all.

  He didn’t do love!

  The butler was watching him with a strange expression on his face and Marc tried to catch himself. To appear nonchalant. He let the drapes drop back into place.

  ‘Have the staff taken to Miss Tamsin?’ he asked, as casually as he could. Which wasn’t as casual as he’d have liked.

  Dominic didn’t notice, or at least he didn’t appear to notice. ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  With those three short words there was no doubting that Tammy had Dominic’s entire approval. And that of the staff. ‘Miss Tamsin was up at six this morning and she ate breakfast in the kitchen. We were shocked, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She brought the little one down with her and…well, by the end of breakfast Mrs Burchett says we couldn’t have found anyone more different than…’

  He faltered at that, and came to an embarrassed halt, but Marc knew what he’d been about to say.

  ‘Than her sister?’

  ‘I…’ Dominic coughed and then met his eyes with honesty. ‘Well, yes. Princess Lara wasn’t universally liked. You know that. Prince Jean-Paul and Princess Lara never took it upon themselves to pay any attention to the staff. When they took the baby away Mrs Burchett and nearly every other woman on the staff practically broke their hearts. They’d been wanting a child in the palace for so long.’

  ‘Yes.’ Half of Marc was listening, but he was distracted. His hand had involuntarily pulled the drape aside again. It was as if he couldn’t drag his eyes away.

  They looked wonderful. Their laughter was infectious and he found himself smiling just to see their pleasure. Tammy was lying on her back
now, holding the little boy above her at arm’s length, crowing up at him as if they were both children. She was barefoot again-it seemed to be her normal state-and dressed once more in her standard shabby jeans and T-shirt.

  In one sense she looked a pauper, but in another she looked a million dollars!

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but will you be taking them back to Renouys?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Back to your own property. Will you be taking Miss Tamsin and Master Henry back to Renouys to live?’

  ‘Oh.’ Marc was still distracted, but he made himself think that one through. ‘Why would you think I’d do that?’

  ‘The inheritance clause you’ve told me about says the child needs only to stay in the country. Not here in the palace.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So we thought…the staff have been saying that maybe you’d be taking them back to Renouys to live with you there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Dominic was still probing. That was the trouble with aged retainers, Marc thought grimly. Not enough respect. Dominic had known him when he was in short pants, and the demarcation between master and servant was growing more blurred by the minute. ‘But you’re not planning on staying here yourself?’ He was shamelessly inquisitive and Marc grimaced. ‘You know I’m only here until I get the mess that my cousin left sorted out. Miss Tamsin will stay here. There’s no need for me to stay as well.’

  ‘The place needs a master.’

  ‘I’ll be on call if you need me. I can’t stay here indefinitely. It’s not my home.’

  ‘You’re Prince Regent for twenty-five years,’ Dominic said softly. ‘For some that’s a lifetime. You could live here.’

  ‘I don’t wish to.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Dominic, no.’ He was still watching Tammy, but the laughter had gone. The feeling of entrapment he’d had ever since Jean-Paul’s death was threatening to overwhelm him.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Ingrid-’

  ‘Miss Ingrid has nothing to do with my decision on where I’m to live.’ He flashed Dominic a suspicious look. The elderly butler could take liberties where no one else could, but enough was enough. ‘Stop fishing.’