His Temporary Cinderella: Ordinary Girl in a Tiara / Kiss the Bridesmaid / A Bravo Homecoming

Caro will help, I know she will, she had said. This is my only chance, Philippe. Please say you’ll do it.

So he’d promised, and now he couldn’t go back on his word.

Dammit.

Well, he was here, and now he’d better make the best of it. Philippe forced warmth into his smile, the one that more than one woman had told him was irresistible. ‘I’m Lotty’s cousin, Ph—’ he began, but Caro waved him to silence, still patting her throat.

‘I know who you are,’ she said squeakily, apparently resisting the smile without any trouble at all. ‘What are you doing here?’

Philippe was momentarily nonplussed, which annoyed him. He wasn’t used to being taken aback, and he certainly wasn’t used to having his presence questioned quite so abruptly. ‘Didn’t Lotty tell you?’

‘She said you would ring.’

That was definitely an accusing note in her voice. Philippe looked down his chiselled nose. ‘I thought it would be easier to explain face to face,’ he said haughtily.

Easier for him, maybe, thought Caro. He hadn’t been caught unawares with no make-up on and a mouthful of biscuit.

There was something surreal about seeing him standing there, framed against the austere terrace of houses across the road. Ellerby was a quiet northern town on the edge of the moors, while Philippe in his immaculately tailored trousers and the dark blue shirt open at the neck appeared to have stepped straight out of the pages of Glitz. He was tall and tanned with that indefinable aura of wealth and glamour, the assurance that took red carpets as its due.

A pampered playboy prince … Caro longed to dismiss him as no more than that, but there was nothing soft about the line of his mouth, or the hard angles of cheek and jaw. Nothing self-indulgent about the lean, hard-muscled body, nothing yielding in those unnervingly light eyes.

Still, no reason for her to go all breathless and silly.

‘You should have rung,’ she said severely. ‘I might have been going out.’

‘Are you going out?’ asked Philippe, and his expression as his gaze swept over her spoke louder than words. Who in God’s name, it seemed to say, would even consider going out in a purple cheesecloth shirt?

Caro lifted her chin. ‘As it happens, no.’

‘Then perhaps I could come in and tell you what Lotty wants,’ he said smoothly. ‘Unless you’d like to discuss it on the doorstep?’

Please say you’ll help. Caro bit her lip. She had forgotten Lotty for a moment there. ‘No, of course not.’

Behind Philippe, a sleek black limousine with tinted windows waited at the kerb, its engine idling. Tinted windows! Curtains would be twitching up and down the street.

No, this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to be having in full view of the neighbours. Caro stood back and held the door open, tacitly conceding defeat. ‘You’d better come in.’

The hallway was very narrow, and she sucked in her breath to make herself slimmer as Philippe stepped past her. Perhaps that explained why she suddenly felt dizzy and out of breath. It was as if a panther had strolled past her, all sleek, coiled power and dangerous grace. Had Philippe always been that big? That solid? That overwhelmingly male?

She gestured him into the sitting room. It was a mess in there, but that was too bad. If he didn’t have the courtesy to ring and let her know he was coming, he couldn’t expect the red carpet to be rolled out.

Philippe’s lips tightened with distaste as he glanced around the room. He couldn’t remember ever being anywhere quite so messy before. Tights hung over radiators and there were clothes and shoes and books and God only knew what else in heaps all over the carpet. A laptop stood open on the coffee table, which was equally cluttered with cosmetics, nail polishes, battery chargers, magazines and cups of half drunk coffee.

He should have known as soon as the car drew up outside that Caro wasn’t going to be one of Lotty’s usual friends, who were all sophisticated and accomplished and perfectly groomed. They lived on family estates or in spacious apartments in the centre of London or Paris or New York, not in poky provincial terraces like this one.

What, in God’s name, had Lotty been thinking?

‘Would you like some tea?’ Caro asked.

Tea? It was eight o’clock in the evening! Who in their right mind drank tea at this hour? Philippe stifled a sigh. He’d need more than tea to get himself through this mess he’d somehow got himself into.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything stronger?’

‘If I’d known you were coming I would have stocked up on the Krug,’ she said sharply. ‘As it is, you’ll have to make do with herbal tea.’

Philippe liked to think of himself as imperturbable, but he clearly wasn’t guarding his expression as well as he normally did, because amusement tugged at the corner of Caroline Cartwright’s generous mouth. ‘I can offer nettle, gingko, milk thistle…’

The dark blue eyes gleamed. She was making fun of him, Philippe realised.

‘Whatever you’re having,’ he said, irritated by the fact that he sounded stiff and pompous.

He was never pompous. He was never stiff either. He was famous for being relaxed, in fact. There was just something about this girl that rubbed him up the wrong way. Philippe felt as if he’d strayed into a different world, where the usual rules didn’t apply. He should be at some bar drinking cocktails with a gorgeous woman who knew just how the game should be played, not feeling disgruntled in this tip of a house being offered tea— and herbal tea at that!—by a girl who thought he was amusing.

‘A mug of dandelion and horny goat weed tea coming up,’ she said. ‘Sit down, I’ll just be a minute.’

Philippe couldn’t wait.

With a sigh, he pushed aside the clutter on the sofa and sat down. He’d let Lotty talk him into this, and now he was going to have to go through with it. And it suited him, Philippe remembered. If Caroline Cartwright was half what Lotty said she was, she would be ideal.

She’s not pretty, exactly, Lotty had said. She’s more interesting than that.

Caro certainly wasn’t pretty, but she had a mobile face, with a long upper lip and expressive eyes as dark and blue as the ocean. Philippe could see that she might have the potential to be striking if she tidied herself up and put on some decent clothes. Not his type, of course—he liked his women slender and sophisticated, and Caro was neither—but that was all to the good. The whole point was for her to be someone he wouldn’t want to get involved with.

And vice versa, of course.

So he was feeling a little more optimistic when Caro came in bearing two mugs of what looked like hot ditchwater.

Philippe eyed his mug dubiously, took a cautious sip and only just refrained from spitting it out.

Caro laughed out loud at his expression. ‘Revolting, isn’t it?’

‘God, how do you drink that stuff?’ Philippe grimaced and pushed the mug away. Perhaps he made more of a deal about it than he would normally have done, but he needed the excuse to hide his reaction to her smile. It had caught him unawares, like a step missed in the dark. Her face had lit up, and he’d felt the same dip of the stomach, the same lurch of the heart.

And her laugh … that laugh! Deep and husky and totally unexpected, it was a tangible thing, a seductive caress, the kind that drained all the blood from your head and sent it straight to your groin while it tangled your breathing into knots.

‘It’s supposed to be good for you,’ Caro was saying, examining her own tea without enthusiasm. ‘I’m on a diet. No alcohol, no caffeine, no carbohydrates, no dairy products … basically, no anything that I like,’ she said glumly.

‘It doesn’t sound much fun.’ Philippe had managed to get his lungs working again, which was a relief. Her laugh had surprised him, that was all, he decided. A momentary aberration. But listen to him now, his voice as steady as a rock. Sort of.

‘It isn’t.’ Caro sighed and blew on her tea.

She had been glad to escape to the kitchen. Philippe’s presence seemed to have sucked all the air out of the house. How was it that she had never noticed before how suffocatingly small it was? There was a strange, squeezed feeling inside her, and she fumbled with the mugs, as clumsy and self-conscious as she had been at fifteen.

Philippe’s supercilious expression as he looked around the cosy sitting room had stung, Caro admitted, and she had enjoyed his expression when she had offered the tea. Well, they couldn’t all spend their lives drinking champagne, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to have tea instead for once.

Caro thought about him waiting in the sitting room, looking faintly disgusted and totally out of place. In wealth and looks and glamour, he was so out of her league it was ridiculous. But that was a good thing, she decided, squeezing the teabags with a spoon. It meant there was no point in trying to impress him, even if she had been so inclined. She could just be herself.

‘I’m reinventing myself,’ she told him now. ‘My fiancé left me for someone who’s younger and thinner and more fun, and then I lost my job,’ she said. ‘I had a few months moping around but now I’ve pulled myself together. At least I’m trying to. No more misery eating. I’m going to get fit, lose weight, change my life, meet a nice man, live happily ever after … you know, realistic, achievable goals like that.’

Philippe raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a lot to expect from drinking tea.’

‘The tea’s a start. I mean, if I can’t stick with this, how am I supposed to stick with all the other life-changing stuff?’ Caro took a sip to prove her point, but even she couldn’t prevent an instinctive wrinkling of the nose. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about my diet,’ she reminded him. ‘You’re here about Lotty.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘AH, YES,’ said Philippe. ‘Lotty.’

Caro put down her mug at his tone. ‘Is she OK? I had a very cryptic email from her. She said you would explain about some idea she’d had.’

‘She’s fine,’ he said, ‘and yes, I am supposed to be explaining, but it’s hard to know where to start. Presumably you know something of the situation in Montluce at the moment?’

‘Well, I know Lotty’s father died last year.’

The sudden death of Crown Prince Amaury had shocked everyone. He had been a gentle man, completely under the thumb of his formidable mother as far as Caro could tell, and Lotty was his only child. She had taken her dead mother’s place at his side as soon as she’d left finishing school, and had never put a foot wrong.

Lotty was the perfect princess, always smiling, always beautiful, endlessly shaking hands and sitting through interminable banquets and never, ever looking bored. There were no unguarded comments from Lotty for the press to seize upon, no photos posted on the internet. No wild parties, no unsuitable relationships, not so much as a whiff of scandal.

‘Since then,’ Philippe said carefully, ‘things have been. rather unsettled.’

‘Unsettled’ was a bit of an understatement, in Caro’s opinion. Montluce was one of the last absolute monarchies in Europe, and had been in the iron grip of the Montvivennes family since Charlemagne. Small as it was, the country was rigidly traditional, and the ruling family even more so. Lotty’s grandmother, known as the Dowager Blanche, was only the latest in line of those who made the British royal family’s attitude to protocol look slapdash.

Since Lotty’s father had died, though, the family had been plunged into a soap opera of one dramatic event after another. A car accident and a heart attack had carried off one heir after another, while one of Lotty’s cousins, who should have been in line for the crown, had been disinherited and was currently serving time for cocaine smuggling.

Now, what the tabloids loved to refer to as the ‘cursed inheritance’ had passed against all the odds to Philippe’s father, Honoré. In view of the tragic circumstances, his coronation had been a low-key affair, or so Lotty had told Caro. There had been much speculation in the tabloids about Philippe’s absence. None of them could have guessed that the current heir to the throne of Montluce would turn up in Ellerby and be sitting in Stella and Caro’s sitting room, pointedly not drinking his horny goat weed tea.

‘Amaury was always more interested in ancient Greek history than in running the country,’ Philippe went on. ‘He was happy to leave the day-to-day business of government in his mother’s hands. The Dowager Blanche is used to having things her own way, and now all her plans have gone awry. She’s not happy,’ he added dryly.

‘She doesn’t approve of your father?’ Caro was puzzled. She’d only ever seen photos of Philippe’s father, but he looked tailor-made for the part of Crown Prince. She couldn’t imagine why Lotty’s grandmother would object to him.

‘Oh, he’s perfect as far as she’s concerned. His sense of duty is quite as strong as hers.’ There was an edge to Philippe’s voice that Caro didn’t understand.

‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked. The truth was that she was having trouble focusing. Part of her was taken up with thinking: there’s a prince on the sofa! Part was trying not to notice that beneath the casual shirt and trousers, his body was taut and lean.

And another part was so hungry that she couldn’t concentrate on any of it properly. She could feel her stomach grumbling. Caro wrapped her arms around her waist and willed it to be quiet. How could she follow Philippe’s story when she was worried her stomach might let out an embarrassing growl at any minute?

‘Can’t you guess?’ Philippe smiled but the silver eyes were hard.

Caro forced her mind away from her stomach. ‘Oh,’ she said slowly. ‘You’re the problem?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Philippe. ‘The Dowager thinks I’m idle and feckless and irresponsible and has told me so in no uncertain terms.’

The sardonic smile flashed again. ‘She’s right, of course. Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of duty and commitment. The thought that the future of the Montvivennes dynasty rests with me is almost more than my great-aunt can bear,’ he added. ‘She’s decided that the only way to keep me in line and ensure that I’m not a total disaster for the country is to marry me to Lotty.’

‘Lotty said that her grandmother was matchmaking,’ said Caro, adding, not very tactfully, ‘I’m surprised she’d approve of you, though.’

Philippe acknowledged that with a grim smile. ‘She doesn’t but, from her point of view, it’s the only solution,’ he said. ‘Once shackled to Lotty, I’ll settle down, they think. Lotty’s bound to be a good influence on me. She’s the perfect princess, after all, and there’s no doubt it would be popular in the country. Compared to what the people think, what does it matter what Lotty and I feel?’ Bitterness crept into his voice. ‘We’re royal, and we’re expected to do our duty and not complain about it.’

‘Poor Lotty! It’s so unfair the way she never gets to do what she wants to do.’

‘Quite,’ said Philippe. He was leaning forward, absently turning his unwanted mug of tea on the coffee table. ‘With a new Crown Prince in place, she thought that she would have a chance to get away and make a life of her own at last, but of course my father doesn’t have a wife, having been careless enough to let his wife run off with another man, and now Lotty’s being manoeuvred into being a consort all over again. I’m fond of Lotty, but I don’t want to marry her any more than she wants to marry me.’

‘But there must be something you can do about it,’ Caro protested. ‘I know Lotty finds it hard to resist her grandmother, but surely you can just say no?’

‘I have.’ As if irritated by his own fiddling, Philippe pushed the mug away once more and sat back. ‘But the Dowager doesn’t give up that easily. She’s always pushing Lotty and I together and leaking stories to the press.’

‘It said in Glitz that you were inseparable,’ remembered Caro and he nodded grimly.

‘That’s the Dowager’s handiwork. She adores that magazine because they’re so pro-royalty. And you’ve got to admit, it’s not a bad strategy. Start a rumour, let everyone in the country whip themselves up into wedding fever and wait for Lotty to cave under the pressure. Montlucians love Lotty, and she’ll hate feeling that she’s disappointing everyone by being selfish, as the Dowager puts it.’

Caro’s mouth turned down as she thought about it. It did seem unfair. ‘Why don’t you go back to South America?’ she suggested. ‘Surely the Dowager Blanche would give up on the idea of you and Lotty eventually.’

‘That’s the trouble. I can’t.’ Restlessly, Philippe got to his feet. He looked as if he wanted to pace, but the room wasn’t big enough for that, so he picked his way through the clutter to the bay window and stood staring unseeingly out to where the limousine waited at the kerb.

‘It hasn’t been announced yet, but my father is ill,’ he said, his back to Caro. ‘It’s cancer.’

‘Oh, no.’ Caro remembered how desperate she had felt when her own father had been dying, and wished that she had the courage to get up and lay a sympathetic hand on Philippe’s shoulder, but there was a rigid quality to his back that warned her against it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said instead.

Philippe turned back to face her. ‘His prognosis isn’t too bad, in fact, but the press are going to have a field day with the curse of the House of Montvivennes when it comes out.’ His face was carefully expressionless.

‘Montluce doesn’t have specialised facilities, so he’s going to Paris for treatment, and he’s been told to rest completely for at least six months. So I’ve been summoned back to stand in for him. Only nominally, as he and the Dowager keep saying, but they’re big on keeping up appearances. I’m taking over his commitments from the start of the month.

‘I thought about refusing at first. My father and I don’t have what you’d call a close relationship,’ he went on with an ironic look, ‘and I don’t see why they need me to shake a few hands or pin on the occasional medal. If I could have some influence on decisions that are made, it would be different, but my father has never forgiven me for not being a perfect son like my older brother. When I suggested that I have some authority, he was so angry that he actually collapsed.’

Philippe sighed. ‘I could insist, but he’s ill, and he’s my father … I don’t want to make him even sicker than he is already. In the end, I said I would do as they asked for six months, but on the understanding that I can go back to South America as soon as he’s well again. There’s no point in me hanging around with nothing to do but disappoint him that I’m not Etienne.’

So even royal families weren’t averse to laying on the emotional blackmail, thought Caro.

‘Meanwhile, you’re being thrown together with Lotty at every opportunity?’ she said.

‘Exactly.’ He rolled his shoulders as if to relieve the tension there. ‘Then, the other day, Lotty and I were on one of our carefully staged “dates” and we came up with a plan.’

‘I wondered when we were going to get to the plan,’ said Caro. She made herself take another sip of tea. Philippe was right. It was disgusting. ‘What is this great idea of Lotty’s?’

‘It’s a simple one. The problem has been that we’re both there, and both single. Of course Lotty’s grandmother is going to get ideas. But if I go back to Montluce with a girlfriend and am clearly madly in love with her, even the Dowager Blanche would have to stop pushing Lotty and I together for a while.’

Caro could see where this was going. ‘And then Lotty can pretend that it’s too awkward for her to see you with another woman and tells her grandmother she needs to go away for a while?’

‘Exactly,’ said Philippe again.

‘I suppose it could work.’ She turned the idea over in her mind. ‘Where do I come into this? Does Lotty want to come and stay here?’

‘No,’ said Philippe. ‘She wants you to be my girlfriend.’

Caro’s heart skidded to a stop, did a funny little flip and then lurched into gear again at the realisation that he was joking. ‘Right.’ She laughed.

Philippe said nothing.

Her smile faltered. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because … you must have a girlfriend.’

‘If I had a serious girlfriend, I wouldn’t be in this mess,’ he said crisply. ‘I’m allergic to relationships. When I meet a woman, I’m clear about that, right from the start. No emotions, no expectations. It just gets messy otherwise.’

Caro sighed. ‘Commitment issues … I might have guessed! What is it with guys and relationships?’

‘What is it with women and relationships?’ Philippe countered. ‘Why do you always have to spoil things by talking about whether we have a relationship or not and, if we do, where it’s going? Why can’t we just have a good time?’

Balked of the prowling he so clearly wanted to do, Philippe stepped over to the mantelpiece, put his hands in his pockets and glowered down at his shoes as if it was their fault. ‘Six months is about as long as I can stand being in Montluce,’ he said. ‘It’s a suffocating place. Formal, stuffy, and so small there’s never any chance to get away.’

He lifted his eyes to Caro’s. They ought to be dark brown, she thought inconsequentially, not that clear, light grey that was so startling against his dark skin that it sent a tiny shock through her every time she looked into them.

‘I’ll be leaving the moment my father is better, and I don’t want to complicate matters by getting involved with a woman if there’s the slightest risk that she’ll start taking things seriously. On the other hand, if she gets so much as a whiff that I’m not in fact serious, the Dowager Blanche will have Lotty back in a flash. For me, that would be a pain, as I’d have to go back to fighting off all the matchmaking attempts, but it would be far, far worse for Lotty. She’d lose the first chance she’s ever had to do something for herself. And that’s why you’d be perfect,’ he said to Caro.

‘You’re Lotty’s friend,’ he said. ‘I could pretend to be in love with you without worrying that you’d get the wrong idea, because you’d know the score from the start. I’m not going to fall in love with you and you don’t want to get involved with me.’

‘Well, that’s certainly true,’ said Caro, ruffled nonetheless by the brutal truth. I’m not going to fall in love with you.

‘But you could pretend to love me, couldn’t you?’

‘I’m not sure I’m that good an actress,’ said Caro tartly.

‘Not even for Lotty?’

Caro chewed her lip, thinking of her friend. Lotty was so sweet-natured, so stoical, so good at pleasing everyone but herself. Trapped in a gilded cage of duty and responsibility. From the outside, it was a life of luxury and privilege, but Caro knew how desperately her friend longed to be like everyone else, to be ordinary. Lotty couldn’t pop down to the shops for a pint of milk. She couldn’t go out and get giggly over a bottle of wine. She could never look less than perfect, never be grumpy, never act on impulse, never relax.

She could never have fun without wondering if someone was going to take her picture and splash it all over the tabloids.

I’m getting desperate, Lotty had said in her email.

‘No one would ever believe you would go out with someone like me!’ Caro said eventually.

Philippe studied her with dispassionate eyes. ‘Not at the moment, perhaps, but with a haircut, some make-up, some decent clothes … you might brush up all right.’

Caro tilted her head on one side as she pretended to consider his reply. ‘OK, that’s one answer,’ she allowed. ‘Another might be: why wouldn’t anyone believe that I could be in love with you? Don’t change a thing; you’re beautiful as you are.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Just a suggestion, of course!’

‘See?’ said Philippe. ‘That’s what makes you perfect. I can be honest with you if you’re not a real girlfriend.’

‘Stop, you’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside!’