Crowned: An Ordinary Girl

Crowned: An Ordinary Girl

Natasha Oakley

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.