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Crowned: An Ordinary Girl
NATASHA OAKLEY


Crowned: An Ordinary Girl
Natasha Oakley





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

A few words from Natasha
on her latest story…
Someone told me there are currently forty-one eligible princes in the world. Right or wrong, that set me off thinking. Maybe it’s because I’m British, and I know that if one of our royal family sneezes it’ll be reported somewhere the next day, but I’m not sure I’d like to marry a prince. Not really. But what if you fell in love with him without knowing he was a prince? And what if he was your first love, the man you’ve never quite recovered from? That’s what happens to Marianne. Of course, Prince Sebastian is quite wonderful….

Natasha

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU’RE reading Chekhov. Have you read any Tolstoy?’
Dr Marianne Chambers hesitated midway through the second paragraph of the paper she was proofreading. A small frown pulled at the centre of her forehead as she recognised the uncanny echo of a long-ago conversation.
It had to be impossible. Why would he be at the Cowper Hotel during an academic conference? She was being completely ridiculous.
But…
The memory of that sunny afternoon tugged at her and her frown deepened. It was the same upper-class English accent, with the same hint of something indefinably ‘foreign’ about it.
And exactly the same words.
Marianne remembered them verbatim. In fact, she remembered every single blasted thing Seb Rodier had ever said to her—from the first moment he’d seen her reading Chekhov on the steps of Amiens Cathedral.
A shadow fell across her page and the voice behind her continued. ‘Or Thomas Hardy? Now, he can be really depressing, but if you like that kind of thing…’
Dear God, no.
Marianne’s head whipped round to look directly up into a calmly smiling face. Older, more determined maybe, but still the face of the man who’d completely derailed her life.
Back then he’d worn old jeans and a comfortable T-shirt, seemingly an exchange student like herself. Now he stood there in a designer suit and smelt of seriously old money.
There was no surprise in that. She must have seen several hundred newspaper photographs of Prince Sebastian II over the years, but not one of them had prepared her for the overwhelming sense of…yearning she felt as she met his dark eyes.
‘Hello, Marianne,’ he said softly.
Seb!
His name imploded in her head, while every single moment she’d spent with him all those summers before came whizzing back into high-definition clarity.
Every dream.
Every heartbreak.
In the space of a millisecond she felt as though she’d been sucked back in time. Just eighteen years old. A long way from home and living with a family she barely knew. She’d been so scared, so very scared. Waiting for him. Hoping for a telephone call…
Anything.
Wanting to understand what was happening. Wanting him. Desperately wanting him.
She’d wondered how this moment might feel. Not that she’d ever anticipated she’d find out. He’d left…and their paths had never crossed again.
And why would they? Lowly paid academics didn’t often run into members of the aristocracy, let alone an honest-to-goodness blue blooded royal.
‘Seb?’ It was difficult to force the words past the blockage in her throat. ‘Sh-should I call you that? Or is it Your Highness? Or…Your Royal Highness? I don’t know what I—’ Marianne reached up a hand to brush at the sharp pain stabbing in her forehead.
He moved closer and spoke quietly. ‘Your Serene Highness, but Seb will do. It’s good to see you. How have you been?’
Somewhere in the background Marianne could hear the sound of laughter and the clink of teaspoons on china. Incongruous sounds of normality as everything around her started to spin.
‘Fine. I’ve been fine,’ she lied. ‘And you?’
‘Fine.’ Seb moved round to stand in front of her. ‘It’s been a very long time.’
‘Yes.’
He paused, his brown eyes seeming to melt her body from the toes up. ‘You look amazing. Really amazing.’
‘Th-thank you. So do you.’ Damn! ‘I mean…you look…’ She trailed off, uncertain of anything—except that she really couldn’t do this. Whatever this was.
‘May I sit beside you?’
No!
What was he doing? They weren’t merely friends who’d happened to bump into each other. Far from it. She might not have much experience of meeting ‘old’ lovers, but surely you didn’t sit there making conversation as though you didn’t know exactly what the other looked like naked?
Marianne shuffled the typed sheets back into her file. ‘Can I stop you?’ Her eyes flicked to the two grey-suited men standing a respectful distance away in the otherwise deserted foyer. Bodyguards, she supposed. ‘I imagine Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee make it their business to see you get what you want.’
‘Georg and Karl.’
‘You give them names?’
His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Actually, no. In Andovaria we still consider the naming of children to be entirely the prerogative of the respective parents.’
He sat beside her as blithely as if the last ten years hadn’t happened. ‘Unlike Denmark, where the queen needs to give permission for the use of any name not on the approved list.’
‘How forward-thinking of you.’
‘We like to think so.’
Marianne gave her head a little shake as though it would somehow bring the planets back into alignment. He said the name of his country as easily as if he’d never lied to her. He seemed to take it for granted she’d know it now and there was nothing to be gained by pretending she didn’t.
His photograph was beamed all over the world. Every hairdresser in the country probably had a magazine with his picture in it. She’d seen him skiing, mountain walking, standing on the steps of Poltenbrunn Castle, at assorted royal weddings…including his own.
She even remembered the name of the girl he’d married—and divorced, although they’d called it an annulment. Amelie. Amelie of Saxe-Broden. Everything about that wedding seemed to have attracted the attention of the world’s media and she’d not been able to shut it out.
If she’d needed any other impetus to get on with her life, that had been it.
Marianne drew a deep breath. ‘So, what brings you to England? Is there some royal event I missed hearing about?’
He shook his head. ‘No, this is an entirely private visit.’
‘How lovely.’ The sarcastic edge to her voice shocked her. What was happening? She felt like a piece of fabric that had started to fray. Marianne bent to put her file into her briefcase as sudden hot tears—part anger, part sadness—stung the back of her eyes.
She mustn’t cry. Damn it! She’d done more than enough of that. It was as though seeing him again had pierced a hole in the dam she’d built to protect her from all the emotions of that time.
Marianne pulled her briefcase onto her knee and concentrated on fastening the clasp. ‘Are you travelling incognito this time?’ She spared him a glance. ‘I suppose the men in grey,’ she said, looking at Georg and Karl, ‘might curb the possibilities a bit.’
Seb’s already dark eyes took on a deeper hue. ‘You’re still angry with me.’
Something inside her snapped. ‘Just what exactly did you think I’d be?’
‘I suppose…’ Seb twisted the ring on his right hand and glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure the foyer was still empty of anyone who might be listening. ‘I suppose I hoped—’
‘You hoped. What? That I’d somehow have forgotten you walked off into the night and didn’t bother to contact me? Th-that you lied to me? Funnily enough, Seb, that kind of thing tends to stay with you.’
‘I—’
She cut him off. ‘Lovely though this has been, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ve got an incredibly busy morning and—’ she stood up and Seb stood with her ‘—I need to gather my thoughts.’
‘Marianne, I—’
‘Don’t!’ She adjusted her grip on the handle of her briefcase. ‘D-don’t you dare. It’s a full decade since I’ve been remotely interested in anything you have to say.’
‘I didn’t lie to you.’
About to walk away, Marianne froze. How dared he? How dared he stand there and say that—to her? For a moment she was too dumbfounded to answer.
Then, on a burst of anger, ‘Really? Somehow I must have misheard you telling me you were Andovarian royalty. How can I have got it that muddled? Stupid, stupid me!’
His face reacted as though she’d slapped him. Strangely that didn’t feel as fantastic as she’d thought it would, but she continued relentlessly, ‘And to think I’ve just spent years of my life thinking what a complete waster you are.’
Seb stood a little straighter. ‘I admit I didn’t tell you I was the crown prince—’
‘No, you didn’t!’
‘—but there were reasons for that.’
Marianne almost snorted with contempt. It hadn’t taken much introspection, even at eighteen, for her to work that out for herself. Faced with the discovery her Seb Rodier was about to be enthroned as his country’s ruler, she’d made a good guess at what those reasons might be.
Only she didn’t share his belief they were justifiable. Ever. No one had the right to treat someone as he had her. Crown prince or not.
‘Rodier is my family name. I didn’t lie to you about that and I—’
‘Of course, that makes all the difference,’ she said silkily, still keeping her voice low. ‘You knew I’d no idea who you were and you deliberately omitted telling me. I didn’t even know you weren’t Austrian. I’d never even heard of Andovaria. You certainly never mentioned it and I dare say you made sure Nick didn’t either.’
‘I never told you I was Austrian.’
‘You said you lived a short drive from Vienna.’
‘Which is true. I…’
Marianne closed her eyes. This was a childish and pointless conversation—and she’d reached the end of what she could cope with. She held up her free hand as though it had the power to ward off anything else he might say. ‘Honestly, I don’t care any more if your real name is Ambrose Bucket and you live in the vicinity of Saturn. It wouldn’t change anything. You did lie to me—and I don’t forgive you.’ She would never forgive him as long as she had breath in her body.
‘Marianne—’
‘No!’ No more. Her one coherent thought was that she needed to escape. Anywhere—as long as it put enough distance between herself and His Serene bloody Highness.
She kept her back straight and one foot moving in front of the other. She needed air and she needed it now. Marianne headed straight for the wide double doors and practically ran down the shallow steps.
Seb. Seb Rodier. Even though she knew he was the ruling prince of a wealthy alpine principality she couldn’t think of him that way. To her this Seb was merely an older version of the nineteen-year-old language student she’d met in Amiens. The one she’d eaten crêpes with, walked beside the River Seine with and, damn it, loved.
Marianne bit down so hard on her bottom lip she drew blood. Oh, God. Not swearing, praying. She just wanted the memories to stop flooding through her.
Her feet slowed because they had no choice. London traffic blocked her way and the coffee shop she wanted was on the other side of the road.
And why was she running anyway? Experience had taught her that there was nowhere to go that would stop the pain from jogging alongside. More slowly she crossed the road, dodging between the stationary taxis that were banked up at the junction.
Coffee. That was all she wanted right now. Coffee and a moment to gather herself together. She smiled grimly. Just enough time to place the mask firmly back in place.

Seb let out his breath in one slow, steady stream, resisting the temptation to swear long and hard, as he watched Marianne walk away.
That could have gone better. It had been a long, long time since anyone had made him look, or feel, quite so foolish. How many sentences had he managed to complete at the end there? Two? Maybe three?
For a man who was famed for his ability to say the right thing in any social situation, that was unprecedented. As unprecedented as it was for anyone to speak to him without the due deference his position demanded. Thank heaven the foyer was deserted of everyone but his own people.
Seb looked over his shoulder at his two bodyguards. ‘How much of that did you hear?’
He saw Karl’s lips twitch. In any other man the expression would have counted as impassive, but in Karl it was laughter.
Seb ran an exasperated hand through his closely cropped dark hair. ‘Try and forget it,’ he said, walking past them and further into the narrow reception area.
It was an unnecessary instruction. Karl and Georg would never divulge anything about his personal life—not to the Press, not even to other members of their team. He’d do better to direct that selfsame instruction at himself—try and forget it. Concentrate on what had brought him here.
But forget her?
He pulled a wry smile. Now, that was easier said than done. If merely reading the name Marianne Chambers in print had pulled him up short, it was nothing compared to how it had felt to actually see her.
Until that moment he hadn’t truly believed Professor Blackwell’s protégée would turn out to be the language student he’d met in France—but she’d been instantly recognisable. Casually dressed in blue jeans and white T-shirt she’d reminded him so much of the eighteen-year-old he’d known. He could never have expected that.
And she’d been reading. Something had snapped inside him when he’d seen the flash of white as she’d flicked over the page. She’d always been reading. Anything and everything. Even that first time—when Nick had tried so hard to stop him going to speak to her.
It was the only excuse he’d had for approaching her. If there’d been anyone within earshot…Seb pulled a hand through his hair. God only knew what the headlines would have looked like then.
‘Your Serene Highness—’
Seb turned to see an agitated man scurrying towards him across the acres of rather dated carpet in the company of his private secretary.
‘—we’d no idea you’d arrived yet. I’d intended to have someone on watch for you and—’
‘It’s of no consequence. Mr…?’
‘Baverstock. Anthony Baverstock. I’m the manager here, Your Serene Highness.’
‘Baverstock,’ Seb repeated, extending his hand. ‘I sincerely appreciate the thought.’ He watched the pleased way Anthony Baverstock puffed out his cheeks and resigned himself to what experience had taught him would follow.
‘N-not at all, Your Serene Highness. At the Cowper Hotel we pride ourselves on our service. Professor Blackwell,’ the hotel manager continued with every indication that he would bore his friends and neighbours with his account of meeting royalty for the next thirty years, ‘is in the Balcony Room. If, Your Serene Highness, would be so good as to follow me…’
Seb let his mind wander even while his mouth said everything that his late father would have wished. How many times had that amazing man cautioned him to remember that people who met him would remember the occasion as long as they lived?
It was true, too. The letters of condolence his mother had received had been testament to that. More than several hundred had begun with ‘I met Prince Franz-Josef and he shook me by the hand…’
Even eight years and as many months into his own tenure that responsibility still sat uncomfortably with him. But training was everything—and this had been his destiny since the hour of his birth. Inescapable. Even though there’d been times when he’d have gladly passed the responsibility to someone else.
Viktoria, for example. His elder sister had always found her role in this colourful pageant easier to play. She loved the pomp and the sense of tradition. It suited her—and she was as comfortable with it as it chafed him.
The Balcony Room on the first floor was clearly labelled. A black plaque with gold lettering hung on the door. Seb stood back and allowed the hotel manager to announce portentously, ‘His Serene Highness, the Prince of Andovaria.’
Inside, the man he’d come to see was on his feet immediately. ‘Your Serene Highness…’
Seb extended his hand as he walked into the room. ‘Professor Blackwell, I’m delighted you could spare me a moment of your time. I realise this is a busy time for you.’
The older man shook his head, a twinkle of pure enthusiasm lighting the eyes behind his glasses. ‘Completely enjoyable. This conference is one of the highlights of my year.’
‘May I introduce my private secretary, Alois von Dietrich? I believe you’ve spoken.’
The professor nodded. ‘Please, come and sit down,’ he said, indicating a group of four armchairs by the window, ‘but I meant what I said yesterday. I’m retiring at the end of the month.’
Seb smiled. ‘I’m here in person to tempt you away from that decision.’
‘Don’t believe I’m not tempted,’ the professor said with a shake of his head, and his tone was so wistful that Seb was confident of success. ‘The twelfth and thirteenth centuries are my particular passion. My wife would have it it’s an unhealthy obsession.’
‘Which is exactly why I want you to come to Andovaria.’

Marianne sat down in the nearest armchair and tucked her hair behind her ears in the nervous gesture she’d had since childhood.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Professor Blackwell shook his head. ‘I’ve scarcely had a chance,’ he said, sitting opposite her, teacup in hand. ‘I spoke to one of his aides late yesterday afternoon and Prince Sebastian in person this morning.
She frowned. ‘And you’re considering it? Going to Andovaria?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ The professor picked up the shortbread biscuit resting in his saucer. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Marianne, and you’re right. Of course you’re right. But it’s the chance of a lifetime. If the prince’s description is accurate, and there’s no reason to suppose it isn’t, there’s not been anything like it in decades.’
Marianne sat in silence, more than a little shell-shocked, while the professor drank the last of his tea.
‘Imagine for a moment what we might find there,’ he said, standing up and putting his cup and saucer back on the table.
‘You’re weeks from retiring,’ she said softly. ‘You did tell him that, didn’t you?’
‘Eliana will understand—’
‘She won’t, Peter. You and I both know that if your wife had had her way you’d be retired now.’
The professor sat down again and leant forward to take hold of her hands. ‘This is the “big” one, Marianne. I’ve waited my whole life for something like this.’
His earnest, lined face shone with the absolute certainty she’d understand, and the tragedy was, she did. Marianne understood absolutely how much he’d want this—and how completely impossible it was for him to take it.
‘Have you told him about your eyesight?’ she asked gently.
The professor let go of her hands and sat back in his seat.
She hated to do this to him, hated it particularly because he was the most wonderful, brilliant and caring man she’d ever met, but it was an impossible dream. He had to know that—deep down. ‘You can’t see well enough to do this justice and, if it’s as significant as you think it is, you ought to pass it on to another expert. I can think of upward of a dozen who are eminently qualified, half a dozen I’d be happy with.’
He shook his head. ‘We could do it together. I’ve told him I’d need to bring a colleague—’
‘I’m too junior,’ Marianne objected firmly. ‘I’ve got years of study ahead of me before I’d be ready to take on something like this.’
‘You could be my eyes. You’ve a sharp, analytical mind and we’re a great team.’ The professor stood up abruptly and brushed the crumbs off his tie. ‘Let’s not discuss it any more until after dinner tonight. There’s plenty of time before I have to give him my final decision.’
After what dinner? Her mind went into spasm and the question in her head didn’t make words as the professor adjusted his reactor light glasses and continued, ‘You and I can talk about it after we’ve seen the photographs. There is a stack of them apparently and I’ll need you there to take a look at them.’
‘Wh-what dinner?’
‘Didn’t I say?’ His assumed nonchalance would have been comical if the stakes weren’t so high. ‘Prince Sebastian has invited us to dinner at the Randall. At eight,’ he added as Marianne still hadn’t spoken.
Her mind was thinking in short bursts. Dinner with Sebastian. Tonight. At Eight.
‘Us?’
‘Of course, us.’ The professor sounded uncharacteristically tetchy. ‘I told him I’d need to discuss the offer with my colleague and he, very graciously, extended the invitation to you.’
Marianne swallowed as a new concern slid into her befuddled mind. ‘You’ve told him you’re bringing me? B-by name? He knows it’ll be me?’
The professor made a tutting sound as though he couldn’t understand why her conversation had become so unintelligible. ‘I can’t remember what I said exactly—but why should that matter? Prince Sebastian wants me, and whatever team I care to assemble. I chose you.’
At any other time his confidence in her ability would have warmed her, but…
The professor didn’t understand what he was asking—and, after ten years of keeping it a secret from him, she’d no intention of telling him now. But…
Dinner with Seb.
Who might not even know she was Professor Blackwell’s colleague?
‘We look at the photographs, we eat his food and then we take a taxi back here.’ The Professor smiled the smile of an impish child. ‘After that, we’ll talk about it.’

CHAPTER TWO
THE new dress wasn’t working.
Marianne stared at her reflection and at the soft folds of pink silk which draped around her curves to finish demurely in handkerchief points at her ankles. On the outside the transformation from serious academic to sophisticated lady-about-town was staggering, but on the inside, where it mattered, Marianne felt as if she was about to take a trip in a tumbrel.
What was she doing? There was no way she should have allowed Peter to talk her into this dinner. No way at all. Yet, even while every rational thought in her head had been prompting her to get herself back on the train home to Cambridge, she’d found herself in Harvey Nic’s, picking out a dress.
And why? She was too honest a person not to know that on some level or other it was because she wanted Seb to take one look at her and experience a profound sense of regret.
Stupid! So stupid! What part of her brain had decreed that a bright idea? She’d squandered a good chunk of her ‘kitchen fund’ on a daft dress to impress a man who only had to snap his fingers to induce model-type beauties to run from all directions.
It was far, far more likely he’d take one look at her and know she’d made all this effort to impress him. And how pitiful would that look?
Marianne turned away from the mirror and walked over to the utilitarian bedside table common to all the hotel’s rooms. She sat on the side of the bed and roughly pulled open the drawer, picking up the only thing inside it—a heart-shaped locket in white gold. Her hand closed round it and she took a steadying breath.
Heaven help her, she was going to go with Peter tonight. The decision had been made. She might as well accept that. And she was going to pretend she was fine.
More than that, she was going to pretend she’d forgotten almost everything about Seb Rodier. He’d been a minor blip in her life. Quickly recovered from…
‘Marianne?’
There was a discreet knock on the door and Marianne quickly replaced the locket, shutting the drawer and moving to pick up her co-ordinating handbag and fine wool wrap from the end of the bed.
The deep pink of the wrap picked out the darkest shade in the silk of her dress, while the bag exactly matched her wickedly expensive sandals. That they also pinched the little toe on her right foot would serve as an excellent reminder of her own stupidity.
‘You look very lovely,’ the professor said by way of greeting. ‘Not that you don’t always, but I spoke to Eliana just over half an hour ago and she was worried you wouldn’t have brought anything with you that would be suitable for dinner at the Randall. I said I was sure you’d manage something.’
Marianne gave a half-smile and wondered how it was possible that a fearsomely intelligent man like the professor, who’d been happily married for forty-one years, could believe she’d have a dress like this rolled up in her suitcase ‘just in case’.
‘I’m excited about this dinner,’ he said, completely oblivious to her mood. ‘Of course, what the prince is asking would mean I’d have to give up all of the projects I’m currently involved with.’
She reached out and pressed the lift button. ‘You’re retiring, Peter. You’re supposed to be taking the opportunity to spend more time with your grandchildren…’
The professor shot her a smile and pulled out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dinner jacket. ‘I spoke to one of Prince Sebastian’s aides this afternoon about what’s expected of us tonight with regard to royal protocol and the like. It all seems fairly straightforward,’ he said, passing across the sheet. ‘Apparently the prince is not one to stand on too much ceremony, thank God.’
A cold sensation washed over Marianne as she unfolded the paper. This was an aspect of the evening ahead of her she hadn’t considered. If Seb thought she was going to curtsey he could go take a running jump.
‘I think I’ve got it straight in my mind,’ the professor continued, reaching out to hold the bar as the lift juddered to a stop. ‘When we first meet him we address him as ‘Your Serene Highness’, but after that we can use a simple “sir”.’
Marianne’s eyes widened slightly. Sir? Call Seb ‘sir’? How exactly did you look a man you’d slept with in the eye and call him ‘sir’? Particularly when you wanted to call him a million other things that would probably have you arrested?
The doors swung open and the professor continued, ‘Jolly good thing, too. Can you imagine how ridiculous it would be to have to say “Your Serene Highness” all evening? Such a mouthful.’
Her eyes skimmed the first couple of points.
—Wait for the prince to extend his hand in greeting.
—Don’t initiate conversation, but wait for the prince to do so.
‘It must irritate the heck out of him to have people spouting his title at him every time he steps out of doors.’ The professor broke off to hail a passing black taxi. ‘Not to mention having everyone you meet bob up and down in front of you like some kind of manic toy.’
Marianne’s eyes searched for the word ‘curtsey’. ‘Sir’ she could just about cope with—particularly if she said it in a faintly mocking tone—but curtseying to him? He’d humiliated her in practically every way possible, but that would be too much to cope with. There had to be a way round it.
Hadn’t she read something somewhere about Americans not having to curtsey when they met British royalty? Something about it not being their monarch that made it an unnecessary mark of respect?
The taxi swung towards the kerb.
‘And an inclination of the head when I meet him is all that’s required. No need for a more formal bow,’ the professor continued. ‘Obviously removing any hat—’
Marianne watched as he struggled with the door before holding it open for her ‘—but, as I’m not wearing a hat, that’s not a problem.’
She gathered up the soft folds of her dress so that it wouldn’t brush along the edge of the car and climbed inside. Seb wasn’t her monarch. If he wasn’t her monarch, she didn’t need to curtsey…
Moments later the professor joined her. ‘Of course, as a woman, you give a slight curtsey. Nothing too flourishing. Keep it simple.’
Keep it simple. The words echoed in her head. There was nothing about this situation that was simple. She was in a taxi heading towards a former lover who may or may not know she was joining him for dinner tonight. A former lover, mark you, who hadn’t had the courtesy to formally end their relationship.
‘Blasted seat belts,’ the professor said, trying to fasten it across him. ‘They make the things so darn fiddly.’
Marianne blinked hard against the prickle of tears. She wasn’t sure whether they were for her and her own frustration, or for the professor and his.
The one thing she was certain of was that they shouldn’t be here. Why couldn’t Peter see how pointless it was? He shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of going to Andovaria. Even a simple task like fastening a seat belt was difficult for him now.
‘Done it,’ the professor said, sitting back in his seat more comfortably.
She turned away and looked out of the window. Age-related macular degeneration. It had come on so suddenly, beginning with a slight blurriness and ending with no central vision at all. Sooner or later people would notice Peter couldn’t proofread his own material.
And if he couldn’t cope with something in a clear typeface, how did he imagine he was going to do justice to something written in archaic German and eight hundred years old? He’d miss something vital—and the academic world he loved so much would swoop in for the kill.
It was all such a complete mess.
Familiar landmarks whizzed past as the driver unerringly took them down side-roads and round a complicated one-way system.
The taxi slowed and pulled to a stop. ‘Here we are. The Randall.’
Marianne looked up at one of London’s most prestigious hotels and felt…intimidated.
All she had to do was look at the photographs, eat and leave. She could do that.
Of course she could do that. This was a business meeting. There was nothing personal about it.
Marianne’s eyes followed the tier upon tier of windows, familiar from the countless postcards produced for tourists.
And this was where Seb, the real Seb, stayed when he was in London. In France they’d booked a room in whatever inexpensive chambre d’hôte they’d happened upon and sat on grass verges to eat warm baguettes they’d bought from the local boulangerie. So different.
‘That’ll be £16.70, love,’ the driver said, turning in his seat to look through the connecting glass.
Marianne jerked round and her fingers fumbled for the zip of her purse. ‘P-please keep the change,’ she said, pulling out a twenty-pound note.
It was only later, when she’d carefully tucked away the receipt in the side-pocket of her handbag and was standing on the pavement, that it occurred to her she should have let Peter settle the fare himself. She was so used to stepping in to do the tasks she knew he found difficult that it hadn’t occurred to her that she ought to let him fail this time. Perhaps that might have shown him how impossible a proposition this was?
‘This is something, isn’t it?’ the professor said gleefully, gesturing towards sleek BMWs that were so perfectly black they looked as if they’d been dipped in ink.
Marianne managed a smile as men in distinctive livery opened every door between the pavement and the imposing entrance hall. From there on it got worse. Enormous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings and gilt bronze garlands twisted their way along endless cream walls. It was the kind of awe-inspiring space that made you want to speak in hushed whispers.
‘Professor Blackwell and Dr Chambers to see His Serene Highness the Prince of Andovaria,’ the professor said, pulling out a simple white card on which Seb had written something. ‘In the Oakland Suite.’
Marianne half expected the slightly superior young man to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Her dress, which had seemed so expensive just an hour ago, now didn’t seem quite expensive enough. She lifted her chin in determination not to be cowed by her surroundings. She’d enough of an ordeal ahead of her without falling apart simply by stepping through the door.
‘Of course, sir. This way.’
More chandeliers. More bronze garlands twisting their way up and onwards. Marianne wasn’t sure which way to look first. The cream walls were punctuated with huge gilt mirrors and original oil paintings, while the fresh roses arranged on each of the antique tables looked so soft and so perfect they could have been made of velvet.
She felt…overwhelmed. By pretty much everything. Even the lift moved as though it were floating. The doors opened and they stepped out into a space no less opulent than the one below. Marianne could feel her stomach churning as though a billion angry ants had been let loose.
Seb. His name thumped inside her brain. She had to keep focusing on the fact that this man wasn’t Seb. Not her Seb. He was His Serene Highness the sovereign prince of Andovaria. He had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with her.
After the briefest of knocks the door to the Oakland Suite swung open and they were ushered, past the bodyguards, into what was rather like a mini-apartment. And it seemed that it had its own hotel staff member to take care of it because they were passed into the care of another uniformed man, who took her wrap.
Marianne felt disorientated and more cowed with every second that passed. Her chest felt tight and her breath seemed as though it were catching on cobwebs.
‘This way. His Serene Highness is expecting you.’
Double doors opened onto a tastefully furnished sitting room. Three sets of glass doors lined one wall, each framed by heavy curtains complete with swags and tails, while to the far end there was a baby grand piano.
‘Isn’t this incredible?’ the professor said as soon as they were alone. He walked over to the glass doors, which had been flung open to make the most of the warm weather, and peered out. ‘There’s even some kind of terrace out here. Just incredible. Come and have a look.’
But Marianne couldn’t move. She knew with absolute certainty that if she tried to walk anywhere her knees would buckle under her. Never, in her entire life, had she felt so…scared. But not just scared. She was also confused, angry and hurting.
There was the muffled sound of voices and the soft click that indicated a door had shut.
Seb? Her eyes stayed riveted on the connecting doorway.
Any moment…
Drawing on reserves she didn’t know she had, Marianne consciously relaxed her shoulders and lifted her chin. Seb mustn’t see how completely overwrought she was by this whole experience.
The door opened and it crossed her mind to wonder whether she was about to faint for the first time in her life.
‘Professor Blackwell,’ Seb said, walking forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m delighted you could join me this evening.’
She’d never seen Seb in a dinner jacket. At least, not outside of a photograph. It was an inconsequential thought—and one she ought to be ashamed of—but nothing she’d seen in the various magazines had prepared her for the effect it was having on her.
Pure sex appeal.
Several years’ experience of various university dinners had left her wondering why men bothered, particularly if they went for ruffles and an over-tight cummerbund. But Seb just looked sexy.
Seeing him this morning had been dreadful, but this felt so much worse. This time shock wasn’t protecting her from anything. She felt…raw.
Vulnerable.
And after everything she’d experienced she should have been completely immune to a playboy prince who’d simply decided, long ago, he didn’t want her any more.
Her eyes took in every detail…because she couldn’t help it. The small indentation in the centre of his chin and the faint scar above his eyebrow she knew he’d got when he was seventeen and fallen off a scooter.
And he seemed so much broader. More powerful than she remembered. Beneath his beautifully cut black jacket was a body entirely more muscled than the one she’d known so intimately. But—if she traced a finger down his left side until she reached a point two centimetres above his hip bone she would find the small oval-shaped birthmark she’d kissed….
Marianne felt a tight pain in her chest and realised she needed to let go of the air she was holding in her lungs.
This was a mistake. She wasn’t strong enough to do this. She saw the professor’s slight nod of the head and heard the murmured, ‘Your Serene Highness, may I introduce my colleague—’
Any moment Seb would look at her. Please, God. Marianne clutched her handbag close to her body and prayed the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
‘—Dr Marianne Chambers?’
Then his dark brown eyes met hers. He had beautiful, sexy eyes. Brown with flecks of deepest orange fanning out from dark black pupils.
‘Your Serene Highness.’ She heard her voice. Just. It was more of a croak.
But she didn’t curtsey. Not so much a conscious act of defiance as the consequence of complete paralysis. She needed to tap into some of the hate she felt for him. Remember what he’d done to her. How much he’d hurt her.
‘Dr Chambers.’ He extended his hand and Marianne recovered enough composure to stretch out her own. ‘I understand from Professor Blackwell that you’re particularly knowledgeable about the Third Crusade.’
‘Y-yes.’ She felt his fingers close round her hand. Warm. Confident. A man in charge. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Thank you for giving up your evening at such short notice.’
Seb released her hand and turned back to the professor.
Strangers. They were meeting like strangers. Everything inside of her rebelled at that. They weren’t strangers. She wanted to scream that at him. Shout loudly. Make herself heard.
‘May I introduce Dr Max Liebnitz,’ Seb said smoothly, ‘the curator of the Princess Elizabeth Museum?’
Marianne had barely noticed the unassuming man standing quietly behind. He moved now and shook the professor’s hand. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘And you, Dr Chambers. I believe I may have read something of yours on the battle of Hattin?’
‘That’s possible,’ Marianne murmured, conscious that Seb was standing no more than two metres away from her and could hear everything she said and everything said to her.
It was such a surreal experience. And the temptation to look at him again was immense, but she resolutely kept her focus on the professor, who’d fallen into an easy German. Her own grasp of the spoken language was less well-developed, but she knew enough to contribute to their discussion and more than enough to know Professor Blackwell had discovered a kindred spirit in Dr Leibnitz.
Seb’s well-informed observations astounded her. Once, when he referred to the siege of Acre, she was surprised into looking up at him.
He’d changed. The Seb she’d known couldn’t have made a comment like that. He’d been…reckless. Irresponsible. Ready for adventure. Simply younger, she supposed with a wry smile.
She tended to forget how very young she’d been herself—and how foolishly idealistic. She’d honestly believed she’d discovered her soul mate, the man she’d spend the rest of her life with, grow old with, have children with.
How foolish was that at eighteen? Marianne lifted her chin and straightened her spine. She’d paid a heavy price for her naivety, whereas Seb had recognised their relationship for what it was and survived it unscathed.
That hurt. To know that she was the only one nursing any kind of regret.
‘Marianne’s recent research has been particularly focused on the role of women.’ The professor turned to smile at her. ‘Obviously the vast bulk of primary sources available to us have been written by men—’
‘And for men,’ Marianne interjected, bringing her mind back into sharp focus.
Dr Leibnitz nodded. ‘It must make your research particularly painstaking.’
‘But fascinating,’ Marianne agreed. ‘Wars have always impacted on women and the Third Crusade was no different.’
Seb stood back and listened. He wasn’t sure what had surprised him most—that Marianne was fluent in German or that she was so clearly respected for her opinions. Ten years ago she’d intended to pursue an English degree. So, what had made her change direction?
And the German? It was impossible not to remember the times he’d tried to instruct her in his native tongue for no other reason than he’d loved to hear the strong English accent in her appalling pronunciation. There was no trace of that any more.
Very little trace of the girl at all. This morning he’d been struck by the similarities, but this evening her ash blonde hair was swept up in a sophisticated style and her body was much more curvaceous than the image of her he held in his memory.
Still beautiful. Undeniably. Maybe more so.
And nervous. Seb wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. There was nothing about the way Marianne was speaking that told him that. Outwardly she seemed to be a woman in control of her destiny, comfortable wherever she found herself, but…there was something. Perhaps the grip on her handbag was a little too tight? Or her back a little too straight?
She hadn’t wanted to talk to him this morning—and he’d lay money on the fact she didn’t want to be here tonight. He watched the soft swing of her long earrings against the fine column of her throat and he experienced a wave of…
He wasn’t sure of what. Regret that he’d hurt her? Maybe that was the ache inside of him? He’d never intended to hurt her. But then he hadn’t intended to do anything more than speak to her on that first day. Not much more than that on the second.
They had all four of them been travelling through France. What was more sensible than that he and Nick should join forces with Marianne and Beth? At least, that was what he’d told his friend.
He’d been such a fool. He’d had no idea of the possible consequences. But Nick had. Seb thought of his old school friend with a familiar appreciation. Nick had tried hard to persuade him to stay longer in Amiens. Had been a constant voice in his ear reminding him of what his parents would say…
Marianne’s accusation this morning that he’d lied to her had startled him—and yet the more he thought about it the more ashamed he felt.
He owed her an explanation. What he lacked was the opportunity to give it. Professor Blackwell and Dr Leibnitz might be deep in conversation, but it was pushing the bounds of possibility to imagine they wouldn’t be aware of what was being said in another part of the room.
Seb nodded towards the butler, who opened the double doors into the intimate dining room. The party moved through and with great skill, he thought, he encouraged the professor and Dr Leibnitz to continue their conversation uninterrupted—and that left him next to Marianne.
The butler positioned her chair behind her and she’d no choice but to accept the place. Instinct told him that she would not have if there’d been any alternative. He watched her, surreptitiously, noticing the small curl of baby-fine blonde hair that had escaped the elegant twist and had settled at the nape of her neck.
She was a very beautiful woman. And not married. She wore no rings on her left hand. In fact, she wore no jewellery—except the long, tapering earrings that swung against her neck when she spoke.
‘Your German is excellent, Dr Chambers,’ Seb said, forcing her to look at him.
Her eyes turned to him, startled, and the long earrings swung softly. ‘Th-thank you.’
‘Where did you learn it?’
The butler stepped forward and moved to fill her wine glass.
‘No. Thank you. I’d prefer water.’
Seb watched the nervous flutter of her hands. ‘Your German,’ he persisted, ‘where did you learn it? Your pronunciation is perfect.’
He saw the slight widening of her eyes and knew she was remembering the afternoon they’d spent at Monet’s garden at Giverny.
She turned her head away and her earrings swung. Marianne didn’t seem to notice the way they brushed her neck. ‘Eliana…’ She swallowed. ‘Eliana, Professor Blackwell’s wife, is Austrian. From Salzburg.’
Seb frowned his confusion. He didn’t immediately see the connection…
‘I lived with Professor Blackwell and his family when I…was younger.’
He could have sworn she’d been about to say something different. His mind played through the options. When I…finished university? When I…started work? When I…came back from Paris?
He wanted to know. Certainly Marianne hadn’t lived with the professor’s family before France. She’d lived with her parents in a village in…Suffolk.
‘Eliana and Peter are close family friends of my father’s sister.’
Ah. Seb’s eyes flicked across to the professor, still firmly engrossed in his conversation on the finer points of twelfth-century sword design. ‘And is that why you chose to study history?’
Again her soft brown eyes turned on him with a startled expression. She gave the slightest of smiles. ‘His enthusiasm is infectious.’
No doubt that was true, but Seb felt that her answer was only half the story. Ten years ago she’d had ambitions to write plays that would rival Shakespeare. She’d set herself the goal of reading her way through the entire works of Chekhov and Ibsen by the time she started university. So, what had changed?
‘I imagine it is. Professor Blackwell’s reputation is second to none.’ Seb paused while the butler placed the beautifully presented foie gras and wild-mushroom bourdin in front of him. ‘That’s why my sister is adamant I must persuade him to come to Andovaria.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Viktoria. My eldest sister. The Princess Elizabeth Museum is in my grandmother’s memory and Vik’s pet project.’
Marianne’s mind felt as if it was spluttering. ‘Vik’ would be Her Serene Highness, Princess Viktoria? Tall, elegant, married to some equally tall and well-connected title with two young sons?
She looked down at the heavily starched tablecloth, bedecked with more cutlery choices than she’d ever faced in her life, and tried to focus on what had brought her here. ‘But if much of what you have beneath the palace is connected with the Teutonic knights, then surely Professor Adler would be the obvious choice?’
Seb picked up his wine glass and took a sip. ‘That’s true, but we believe only a small part of what we have would be of particular interest to Professor Adler.’
The first course gave way to the second. And after the breast of guinea-fowl with asparagus and bacon came the third, an artistic arrangement of dark chocolate with a praline ice cream.
Marianne took a tiny spoonful of the ice cream. Somehow Seb managed to make it sound so reasonable that the professor should go to Andovaria and, if it weren’t for his eyesight, he was the perfect choice.
Her eyes flicked to the animated, kindly face of the professor opposite. Excitement was practically radiating from him. It was a tangible thing.
He wouldn’t be able to resist this opportunity. Marianne knew it with complete certainty. A lifetime devoted to uncovering the secrets of the past couldn’t be pushed to one side easily.
And she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave him to flounder alone. As much as she hated the thought of going to Andovaria, she loved Peter and Eliana more. She owed them something for what they’d done for her.
More than something. Marianne took a sip of water. They’d taken her in, pregnant and scared, when her own mother had not. She owed them everything. She took another mouthful of ice cream and let her eyes wander to Seb’s handsome profile. Supremely confident, charismatic and charming. He really had no idea of the fate he’d left her to.
What would Seb say if he knew he’d left her expecting their baby?
Had he ever thought to wonder what had happened to her? Or had he really returned to Andovaria and his royal responsibilities without sparing her a moment’s consideration?
What kind of conversation would they be having now if little Jessica had lived?
In many ways nature had known best. It hurt her to think it, but at eighteen she’d been hopelessly ill-prepared to take on the responsibility of a child. The logical part of her brain accepted that, even while her heart probably never would. Eliana had spent hours talking her through…everything. Patiently helping her manage emotions she’d not had the life skills to even begin to deal with.
First, there’d been the pregnancy itself and her mother’s inability to cope with her ‘perfect’ daughter’s fall from grace.
And then the stillbirth. The heartbreaking scan. The long hours of labour which had resulted in a perfectly formed baby girl—born asleep, as the euphemism went.
Marianne covertly studied His Serene Highness Prince Sebastian II. Their baby. She and Seb had created a little girl—and he didn’t even know.
She reached out for her water glass and took a sip, carefully placing it back down on the table. Eliana believed all men had the right to know if they were about to become a father…
Sometimes she wondered…if Jessica had lived long enough to be born safely, whether she’d ever have told him. At eighteen she’d been adamant he’d never know, but that had been her hurt talking. The first photographs of the about-to-be-enthroned Prince of Andovaria with his dark-haired fiancée had been cataclysmic. Like a switch flicking inside her—love to hate in a moment.
She sat back in her chair. But…eventually she might have told him. Perhaps. When Jessica had grown old enough to decide whether she wanted the poisoned chalice of being universally known as the illegitimate daughter of a European prince—with a mother he’d not considered worth marrying.
It was an academic question. There’d been no baby past the seventh month of her pregnancy. Marianne could feel the pain now, shooting through her—as it always did whenever she was reminded of Jessica. The sense of failure. And the emptiness that pervaded everything—and had done for practically her entire adult life.
She watched as Seb reached for his wine glass. He’d no idea. No understanding of how comprehensively he’d wrecked her life. And how she’d never forgive him.

CHAPTER THREE
THE photographs were fascinating. Far more so than Marianne had expected.
‘This is quite remarkable. Remarkable,’ the professor mumbled. ‘Everything completely shut away…’
‘Yes,’ Seb agreed, moving to stand behind him. ‘Until the renovation work began on that part of the castle, no one alive knew the rooms were even there.’
Marianne’s eyes instinctively followed Seb as he walked across the room, helplessly noticing the way his jacket skimmed the powerful shoulders of a man she knew had become an Olympic skier.
It was peculiar to think that she knew so much about him, whereas he knew nothing about her since he’d left her in Paris. She forced herself to look back down at the 10” x 8” photograph of a long, narrow room with row upon row of serviceable shelving filled to capacity.
‘Is nothing in here catalogued?’ the professor asked, pointing at the image he was holding.
‘No.’
Dr Leibnitz nodded his agreement. ‘So far, all we’ve done is make a very cursory inventory. There’s been no attempt at any sort of organisation.’
‘Marianne?’ The professor’s voice startled her. ‘What do you think?’
What did she think? Marianne looked up. ‘I think it’s a mammoth responsibility,’ she said carefully.
He nodded. ‘This needs a team.’
Seb sat down in an elegant Queen Anne armchair, his attention fixed on the professor. ‘What we’re hoping is you’ll feel able to head up that team. Handpick the people you want to work with you.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re highly respected in your field,’ Seb answered, his voice deep, sexy and tugging at all kinds of memories she didn’t want to remember. Certainly not now. Not with Seb sitting so close to her. Marianne swallowed the hard lump that appeared to be wedged in her throat and deliberately looked down at the photograph in her hand.
‘As are many others.’
Marianne’s eyes skittered away from it as Seb leant forward on his chair. She looked back down, silently cursing. Somehow she needed to bring herself under a tighter control. Every movement he made, every blasted thing he did, she seemed to notice.
‘Andovaria is a small principality. Bigger than Liechtenstein or Monaco, but nowhere near the size of Austria or Switzerland. The sheer quantity of what we’ve found has made us think much of it might not rightly belong in Andovaria.’
‘And you have a problem with that?’ the professor asked quickly.
‘Not at all.’
Marianne caught the edge of Seb’s smile in her peripheral vision and she felt her breath catch. For years she’d wondered why she’d talked Beth into letting the boys join them—and now she knew.
‘My sister’s adamant that everything is kept in the way that will best preserve it for future generations.’ Seb paused. ‘But my primary responsibility is to Andovaria and I intend to ensure that everything that rightfully belongs to my country stays within our boundaries.’
He stood up and Marianne noticed the powerful clench of his thigh muscle. ‘And the easiest way, by far, is to put someone in charge of the project who has a neutral interest in what’s found.’
‘My interest is far from neutral.’
Seb smiled again and the pain in her chest intensified.
‘But you’re not actively seeking government funding or trying to raise the profile of any one particular museum….’ Seb’s words hung in the air.
The odds had always been weighted in favour of going to Andovaria, Marianne knew, but now it felt like a foregone conclusion. Peter would most definitely accept. How could he not? And how could she argue against it when it was clear his eyes wouldn’t be the ones evaluating every single piece, or writing every report?
Damn it!
Marianne put the photograph back down on the table. A sharp pain burst in her temple and shot down the left side of her neck. She raised a shaky hand and rubbed gently across her forehead.
Could she honestly go to Andovaria with Peter?
Maybe this was fate’s way of giving her that much talked-of ‘closure’? Maybe spending time in Seb’s country was exactly what she needed? And all it required was courage?
Her fingers moved in concentric circles against the pain in her temple. She was aware of Dr Leibnitz speculating about what might be found beneath Poltenbrunn Castle and the professor’s comments about the Habsburg dynasty and Rudolf von der Hapichtsburg in particular.
‘Marianne, are you feeling all right?’ the professor asked, breaking off his conversation.
Her hand stilled and she forced a smile. ‘I’ve a slight headache. It’s nothing.’
‘Perhaps some air?’ Dr Liebnitz suggested. ‘Shall I sit with you on the terrace for a moment, Dr Chambers?’
‘N-no, thank you. I’m fine. It’ll pass in a moment.’
Seb stood up and the abrupt movement startled her. ‘I’ll keep Dr Chambers company on the terrace while you continue your conversation, Max. It’s a little stuffy in here and I’d appreciate some fresh air myself.’
Panic ripped through her. ‘N-no. I—’
‘The terrace is very pretty,’ Seb interrupted smoothly, ‘with a stunning view over Green Park. Whenever I’m in London I particularly ask for this suite for that reason.’
His arm gestured towards the open glass doors and Marianne knew she had very little choice but to acquiesce with as much dignity as she could manage. ‘Thank you.’
By the time she was on her feet Seb was already standing by the doors, waiting. She didn’t dare look up at him as she walked out onto the terrace. A light breeze tugged at the silk of her dress, but the evening was warm enough. Almost. She gave a slight shiver, although that might have had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked quickly. ‘Do you have a wrap Warner could fetch for you?’
Marianne turned. ‘Warner?’
‘He’s the butler this evening.’
‘Ah.’ Warner was the butler. She’d forgotten—the staff had names. Although Warner, it seemed, didn’t warrant the use of his Christian name. So much for the equality of mankind. Marianne shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’ It was nice to feel the breeze brushing against her skin. Nice to feel something other than the tight, constrained sensation in her chest.
She looked round the terrace. It was tiny, but beautifully formed—and the view was spectacular even at night. Seb was right about that. Marianne turned round and caught him watching her. His expression made her nervous and she looked away, stumbling into speech. ‘Th-this is all rather…incredible,’ she said, gesturing at the display of lights below them.
Seb moved closer. She could smell the light musky scent of his aftershave. Feel him breathing next to her.
‘The terrace?’ he asked quietly. ‘The view? Or us being together again?’
Marianne felt her throat constrict. Her eyes turned to look at him as though she was compelled to do so. ‘All of it,’ she said after a moment, her voice breathy.
Silence. Then Seb smiled and it still had the ability to seduce her. Why was that? Other men had smiled at her with just that look in their eyes, but they’d never made her feel so light-headed.
Marianne wrapped her arms around her waist in a movement she recognised as defensive, but she didn’t move away. There was a part of her that was very proud of that. ‘I didn’t curtsey.’
‘Pardon?’
‘When I arrived. I didn’t curtsey to you.’ For some reason it suddenly seemed so important he knew that.
A spark of laughter lit his dark eyes and he glinted down at her. ‘I think we’re a little past that. Certainly in private.’
‘I’m not doing it in public either,’ she shot back, irritated by the suspicion he was laughing at her. Marianne nervously fingered the back hook of one of her earrings. ‘Did you know I was coming with the professor tonight?’
‘Yes.’
She desperately wanted to ask what he’d thought about her coming. Did he find this situation as awkward as she did? But of course, that was impossible. He’d spoken to her as though they were strangers—and that was what they were. Strangers.
‘Peter couldn’t remember exactly what he’d told you. Whether I’d been a nameless colleague…’
‘No.’
No. Her eyes flicked up and away again. There was some comfort in hearing that he’d invited her to join them this evening knowing it was her. The hum of the traffic far below filled the awkward pause. ‘Oh.’ And then, ‘Were you surprised when he mentioned my name?’
‘Very.’
She could hear something like a smile in his voice and risked another look at him. It was a mistake. His eyes hadn’t changed. There might be fine lines fanning out at the edges now, but they were achingly familiar.
‘I knew there was a slight possibility I might see you at the conference, but that Professor Blackwell would refuse to come to Andovaria without you…’ His mouth twisted and he shook his head. ‘No, that part surprised me. You’ve done exceptionally well.’
She had, but she didn’t need him to tell her that. She felt as if she’d suffered the verbal equivalent of a regal pat on the head.
‘He made it very clear this morning his decision on whether he’d accept or not would be made in consultation with you. It’s impressive to have achieved that level of professional respect by the age of twenty-eight.’
Seb knew how old she was. He’d remembered the fifteen-month age difference between them. Marianne swallowed—and it felt a monumentally difficult thing to do. It was as though every normal function was now something that required conscious effort.
But then, Seb was standing so close. If she stretched out her hand she could touch him…If she leant in close he could hold her…It was bound to be difficult.
‘So, what do you think?’
Marianne blinked hard at the tears scratching at her eyes. ‘About?’
‘Coming to Andovaria? Do you have a husband to keep you in England? Family?’ he added when she’d yet to answer.
‘No husband.’
‘Boyfriend?’
Now, that was none of his business. Marianne swivelled round and schooled her features into the expression she habitually used to quash anyone who thought to question a young blonde female’s ability to have opinions that ran counter to their own. ‘Andovaria is only a short flight away,’ she said brusquely. ‘If the professor decides to accept, I’ll come with him. It’s a good career opportunity for me.’
‘And that’s important to you?’
‘Of course. It’s the driving force of my life.’
There was a small beat before he asked, ‘What do you think the professor’s thinking?’
Marianne shook her head. ‘He’ll let you know when he’s ready.’
‘And you don’t have a preference?’
His question was multi-faceted—and they both knew it. She looked down, apparently fascinated by the shades of pink that swirled together on the skirt of her dress. ‘I—I didn’t say that.’
‘Marianne—’
Her control snapped. ‘Don’t!’ She turned away as though to go back into the sitting room.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Not here,’ she said in almost a whisper. ‘This isn’t the place.’
‘It’s the best we have.’ And then when she didn’t move away any further, ‘I get the impression that Max and Professor Blackwell will hardly miss us however long we’re out here.’
He saw the faint nod of her head, her earrings swinging back and forth.
‘And there’s no one to hear us out here.’
Marianne stood motionless for a moment as though she was deciding what to do. The breeze caught at the light fabric of her dress. And he waited, completely uncertain whether she’d turn or walk back inside.
‘I suppose that’s important,’ she said at last, turning back to face him.
Marianne shivered again and wrapped her arms tightly around her. It hurt him to see her looking so…strained. That wasn’t the way he remembered her looking at him.
‘What do you want to tell me?’ She rubbed at her arms.
Another shiver. ‘You’re cold. If we were really on our own I’d give you my jacket.’
She seemed to uncoil and a spark of anger lit her eyes. ‘Well, that’s just a lovely offer, Your Serene Highness.’
It took a moment for him to remember what she was remembering. The walk in the park. The rain. The kiss. She’d looked so incredibly sexy in his sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled over three times…
The situation had been different then. For those brief weeks he’d been free—as he hadn’t been since. That summer the embargo on reporting his private life had miraculously held. There’d been no bodyguards, no responsibilities and, amazingly, no paparazzi. He’d been free to act exactly as he wished without reference to anyone or anything.
And what he’d wanted had been Marianne.
Seb broke eye contact and crossed back to the sitting room, beckoning to the butler. ‘Could you find Dr Chambers something to keep her warm?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And bring us a bottle of the dry white and a couple of glasses.’
His answer was a slight nod.
‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Marianne, fascinated by the pulse beating in her neck. ‘Shall we sit down?’
There was a moment’s hesitation before she decided to do just that. She sat herself facing out over the terrace, her eyes fixed at some point out in the distance, back straight and hands gripped in her lap.
Seb positioned himself opposite. Bizarrely, now she was sitting there, he was in no hurry to begin. What could he say that would begin to explain?
At nineteen he’d been so overwhelmed…by everything. All he’d been able to do was react to whatever was happening in that precise moment. There’d been so much to adjust to.
And somehow he’d managed to block the image of Marianne waiting for him in Paris. Convinced himself she wasn’t his most urgent priority. For someone who lived his entire life trying to do the right thing by everyone, it was ironic he’d done something so spectacularly wrong.
What was it she had said? That she’d spent years of her life thinking him a ‘waster’ and a ‘liar’?
And yet she’d never taken her story to the Press. Never sold the photographs she must have of their time together. There wasn’t an editor alive who’d have failed to snap them up. Her story would have made her thousands.
But she had more dignity than that. A cool, classy lady.
‘How’s Nick these days?’
Her question startled him, broke into his thoughts. Seb met her eyes and saw the steely determination. She didn’t want this, didn’t want any part of this conversation, but she was damned if she was going to let him see it. And she’d had enough of waiting.
‘Are you still in contact with him?’ she prompted when he was slow to answer. ‘Or was he some kind of bodyguard and you lied about that as well? He tried hard enough to keep you away from me. Was that his job?’
Seb cleared his throat, still searching for the right words. ‘We’re friends. Good friends. And, for what it’s worth, he thought I should have told you exactly who I was—’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
From the expression on her face it certainly wasn’t. Seb ran a hand across his neck, easing out the tension there. ‘We’re still in close contact, although I see him less often since his father’s death.’
‘And what was his real name? Archduke Nikolaus?’
‘Marianne…’
Her eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, am I making this difficult for you?’ she asked, her rich voice distorted by sarcasm.
‘As of last April Nick’s the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury.’
Marianne looked down at her fingers and concentrated on the opal colour of her nail varnish. Nick was a duke. Why was she surprised? Had she honestly expected anything different? Nick Barrington was the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury and Seb Rodier was His Serene Highness Prince Sebastian of Andovaria. Inadvertently she must have strayed into La-La Land and nothing was as it seemed any more.

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