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

Caro could have driven on for ever that morning, her face flushed with wind and sun and Philippe beside her, with that long, lean, powerful body, his smile flashing, his hands rock-steady on the wheel, but all too soon he was slowing and reaching out to turn the music off.

‘Time to behave, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘This is it.’

Tucked away in the mountains, Montluce was one of Europe’s forgotten back waters, cut off from the great traffic routes where borders flashed past in the blink of an eye. Not only was there a real border with a barrier across the road, but there were two guards in braided uniforms. Caro began to dig around in her bag for her passport as Philippe slowed down.

‘You won’t need that,’ said Philippe. ‘This is my border, remember?’

The guards came sharply to attention when they recognised Philippe, who stopped long enough to exchange a few words in French with them. Caro watched the men relax. There was some laughter before they saluted smartly and, at a word from the officer, the junior guard leapt to open the barrier.

Philippe acknowledged his salute as he drove through. ‘What?’ he said, feeling Caro staring at him.

‘That’s the first time I’ve realised that you’re royal,’ she said. ‘I mean, I knew you were, of course, but I hadn’t seen it. Those men were saluting you!’

‘You’d better get used to it,’ Philippe said. ‘Montluce is big on formality. A lot of bowing and curtseying and saluting goes on.’

‘But you knew what to do.’ Caro didn’t know how to explain what a revelation it had been to see the assurance with which Philippe had received the salutes, how clearly he had been able to put the guards at their ease without losing his authority. Even casually dressed, there was no mistaking the prince. That was when it had struck her.

He was a prince.

CHAPTER FIVE

PHILIPPE might say Montluce didn’t mean much to him, but a subtle change came over him as they drove up into the hills. Caro puzzled over what it was, until she realised that he looked at home. Perhaps it had been hearing him speak French. His English was so flawless that it was easy to forget that he wasn’t British, but here he looked more Gallic than usual, his gestures more Continental.

It was a beautiful country, with wooded hills soaring into mountains whose bare tops glared in the sun. The smell of pines filled the drowsy air as they drove through picturesque villages, past rushing rivers and up winding roads dappled with the light through the trees. Caro felt as if she were driving into a magical kingdom, and she was sure of it when they came over the range and saw the valley spread out below them. A large lake gleamed silver between the mountains and the city of Montvivennes on the other. Caro could see the palace, a fairy tale confection with turrets and terraces made of pale elegant stone, and she couldn’t prevent a gasp.

From a distance, it could have been made of spun sugar, mirrored serenely in the lake. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see princesses leaning out of the towers, goblins guarding the gate and princes hacking their way through rose thickets. There would be wicked stepmothers and fairy godmothers, pumpkins that turned into coaches, wolves that climbed into bed and licked their lips when Little Red Riding Hood knocked at the door.

‘Please tell me there’s a tame dragon,’ she said.

‘Well, there’s my great-aunt,’ Philippe said, ‘but I wouldn’t call her tame.’

Montvivennes was an attractive city with the same timeless air as the palace. It seemed almost drowsy in the sunshine, the only jarring note being a group of protestors with placards clustered beside the main road that led up to the palace.

Caro tried to read the placards as they passed. ‘What are they protesting about?’

‘There’s a proposal to put a gas line through Montluce,’ said Philippe. ‘They’re worried about the environmental impact.’

A few moments later, they drove through the palace gates to more saluting and presenting of arms and came to a halt with a satisfying crunch of gravel in a huge courtyard.

‘Wow,’ said Caro.

Close to, the palace was less whimsical but much more impressive. The imposing front opened onto a square with plane trees. Behind, long windows opened onto terraces and formal gardens leading down to the lake, beyond which the hills piled up in the distance to the mountains.

Philippe switched off the engine and there was a moment of utter stillness. Caro saw two ornately dressed footmen standing rigidly at the top of the steps. It all felt unreal. Any minute now she was going to wake up. She wasn’t really here with a prince, about to walk into his palace.

And then the footmen were coming down the steps, opening the car doors, and somehow Caro found herself standing on the gravel looking up at the elaborate doorway.

‘Ready?’ Philippe muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he came round to take her arm.

‘Oh, my God.’ Caro was frozen by a sudden surge of panic. ‘Do you think we can really do this?’

Philippe put a smile on his face and urged her towards the steps. ‘We’re about to find out,’ he said.

It wasn’t your usual homecoming, that was for sure. No family members hurried out to greet them with a hug. Instead, they passed through serried ranks of servants, all dressed in knee breeches and coats with vast quantities of gold braid. Caro was all for vintage clothes, but that was ridiculous.

Philippe greeted all of them easily, not at all daunted by the formality. Caro’s French wasn’t up to much, but she caught her name and it was obvious that he was introducing her, so she smiled brightly and tried to look as if she might conceivably be the kind of girl Philippe would fall madly in love with.

She trotted along behind Philippe as they were led ceremonially to his apartments, trying hard not to be intimidated by the palace. It was decorated with the extravagant splendour which, like the footmen’s livery, had been all the rage in the eighteenth century. There were sweeping staircases, vast glittering chandeliers, marble floors, massive oil paintings and lot of gilded and uncomfortable-looking Baroque furniture.

There were an awful lot of long corridors, too. ‘It’s like being in an airport,’ Caro whispered to Philippe, ‘and having to walk miles to the gate. You should think about having one of those moving walkways put in.’

Of course, airports didn’t have footmen placed outside every room, presumably so that no member of the royal family would have to go to the effort of opening a door for themselves. As Philippe appeared, they would get to their feet and stand to attention, only to sink back onto their chairs when he had passed with a nod of acknowledgement. It was like a very slow Mexican wave.

Philippe’s apartments were on the second floor of one of the palace wings. They were airy, gracious rooms, most with views out over the lake to the mountains beyond, but impersonally decorated.

‘Home, sweet temporary home,’ said Philippe, looking around him without enthusiasm.

‘It’s not exactly cosy, is it?’ Caro was wandering around the room, touching things and feeling ridiculously self-conscious. The rooms were huge, but knowing that there were all those servants outside the door made it feel as if she and Philippe had been shut away together.

Just you and me.

They certainly weren’t going to be cramped. There was a large sitting room, a dining room with a beautifully equipped but untouched kitchen behind a breakfast bar, a study and three bedrooms, each with a luxurious en suite bathroom.

‘And this is our love nest,’ said Philippe and opened the last door with a mock flourish.

‘Oh.’ Caro made an effort of unconcern but all she could see was the huge bed. The bed where she was going to sleep with Philippe tonight. The fluttering started again in the pit of her stomach.

‘Plenty of pillows, as you can see.’ Philippe’s voice was Martini dry. ‘And the bed is wide enough to put one down the middle if you’re feeling twitchy.’

She was, but no power on earth would have made her admit it.

I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself.

‘You said yourself that won’t be necessary,’ she managed. ‘I’m sure you have more experience than I do of these situations.’

‘I don’t know about that. The pillow question hasn’t come up very often before, I must admit.’

No, because the women Philippe took to bed would be sexy, sophisticated and size six at the most. They wouldn’t have to worry about holding in their tummies. Their legs would always be waxed, their nail polish unchipped, their skin perfect. Caro was prepared to bet they never, ever dribbled into their pillows or woke up with mascara rings under their eyes.

‘But then, you don’t usually sleep with someone like me, do you?’

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’

It was odd seeing her here, in her father’s old jacket. She was completely out of place in all the baroque splendour, but her eyes were a deep blue and the sun through the window cast a halo of gold around the cloud of hair that tumbled to her shoulders. The formal apartments were warmer and more welcoming with Caro in them.

Philippe remembered quite clearly dismissing the idea that he might want to sleep with Caro. But that was before he’d kissed her. It didn’t seem nearly so unlikely now.

She had wandered over to the window and stood there looking out, hugging the jacket around her so that he could see the flare of her hips. Her legs were strong and straight in the jeans. There was nothing special about her, not really. Other girls had blue eyes and creamy skin and hair that felt like silk when he slid his fingers through it. Caro was lusher than most, warmer than most, more vibrant than most, but she was still just an ordinary girl, Philippe reminded himself. Not the sort of girl he desired at all.

‘I won’t lay a finger on you unless you ask me to,’ he said. ‘So you can relax.’

‘Oh, sure,’ said Caro, turning from the window. ‘Great idea. Relax. After all, I’m in a strange country, living in a palace and I’ll be going to bed with a prince tonight. What on earth have I got to be nervous about?’

Philippe rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re friends, remember?’

He could see her remembering that had been her idea. ‘Yes,’ she conceded reluctantly at last.

‘And friends trust each other, don’t they?’ ‘Ye … es.’

‘So you’re going to have to trust me when I say you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

Caro stood there, chewing her lip. ‘You’re right,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, now we’ve got that sorted, we can get on,’ said Philippe briskly. ‘We’ve been summoned to an audience with the Dowager Blanche at four o’clock. Sadly, saying we’re busy is not an option. At some time I need to see my father’s equerry, too, but what would you like to do until then?’

Caro looked hopeful. ‘Have lunch?’ she said.

To: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

Subject: I’m here … where are you?

Dear Lotty

I was going to ask where you are, but then it might be better if you didn’t tell me, as I might not be able to withstand your grandmother’s interrogation. She’s pretty scary, isn’t she?

Philippe took me to meet her today—oh, no, that’s right, I didn’t meet her, I was presented. And I had to learn how to curtsey! Philippe gave me a whole lesson on etiquette before we went. I suppose you take it all for granted, but I was completely bamboozled by everything I had to remember. I was really nervous, and I think Philippe was too. He had that aloof look on his face, the one that doesn’t give anything away, but I noticed that on the way there (a five mile trek along the palace corridors, or that’s what it felt like) he kept shooting his cuffs and running his finger around his collar as if it was too tight. He’d changed into a suit for the Dowager Blanche, and I must say he looked pretty good, although I didn’t give him the satisfaction of saying that, of course. Philippe knows perfectly well how attractive he is, without me puffing him up any more.

Caro lifted her fingers from the keyboard and flexed them as she reread what she had written. Was there too much about Philippe in there? She didn’t want Lotty getting the wrong idea. But how could she not mention him? She’d better make it clear that they had a strictly platonic relationship.

We’ve decided to be friends, which is great because it means we don’t have to be polite to each other. He’s certainly not polite about me. I put on my best dress in honour of the occasion (you know, the apple-green tea dress I bought last year) and he was beastly about it. I won’t repeat what he said, but it was very rude. And I won’t repeat what I said to him in return, because that was even ruder!

There, that sounded suitably casual and friendly, didn’t it? Caro started typing again.

Anyway, back to the Dowager. She doesn’t exactly operate an open door policy, does she? When we finally made it to her apartments, we had to go through endless antechambers, each one bigger than the last, and naturally we never had to do anything demeaning like opening a door ourselves. Instead, there was a whole army of footmen whose sole job seems to be to fling open doors. Weird. (Or maybe it seems perfectly natural to you???)

We eventually found ourselves facing your grandmother across acres of polished parquet. Philippe didn’t tell me about that, and I’d worn my pink shoes, the ones with the kitten heels. BIG mistake! The floor was so slippy the best I could manage was a teeter and we’d just about made it when my foot skidded out beneath me. I would have fallen splat on my face if Philippe hadn’t grabbed my arm. He’s pretty quick when he wants to be, isn’t he? I was mortified, but then I looked at Philippe and I saw that he was trying not to laugh, and of course that set me off, and I got the giggles.

Caro felt her lips tugging at the memory, although it hadn’t been that funny at the time. There was nothing worse than trying not to laugh when you knew that you absolutely, definitely mustn’t. With the Dowager Blanche’s glacial eyes on her, she had had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheeks, and at one point she had been convinced that her eyeballs had been about to pop with the pressure of keeping the giggles in.

Still, I managed a curtsey, which I thought was pretty good under the circumstances but Philippe told me afterwards I looked as if I was laying an egg.

I wouldn’t say your grandmother gave me the warmest welcome I’ve ever had. In fact, a midwinter swim in the Antarctic would probably have seemed balmy in comparison, but it was obvious she blamed me for you leaving. Don’t worry, I played along and Philippe was brilliant! He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles and told your grandmother that he was in love with me and that he would only stay if he had my support, so he expected me to be treated with respect!!!! He almost had me fooled.

She had better not tell Lotty that her hand had tingled all evening from the impression of his fingers, or that she could still feel the graze of his lips against her knuckles.

I could tell your grandmother didn’t like it, but at least she didn’t seem to realise it was just an act, so that’s something. I had to sit through an icy interrogation about my family, friends, utter lack of connections (or job, come to that), but don’t worry, I only gave her my name, rank and serial number. Actually, Lotty, I felt a bit sorry for her. I think that beneath all the guff about duty and responsibility and behaving like a princess, she’s really worried about you. Can you get a message to her to say that you’re all right at least? Don’t say where you are, though, as she’s ready to send in the entire Montlucian army to bring you back if necessary! But I think she needs to know you’re safe—and I do too!

I suspect the grilling Philippe got was even worse, but it was in French so I didn’t understand it. But when our audience was finally at an end we were both very relieved to get out of there. I had to hang on to Philippe as we walked backwards (!!!!!!) across that floor, and he kept hold of me when we were allowed to turn our backs at last and escape. We started off walking sedately through the anterooms, but the further down the corridor we got, the faster we walked, and by the time we reached the staircase we were running and laughing. It was such a relief to be able to let all the giggles out, and somehow it didn’t seem so bad knowing that Philippe had had to grit his teeth to get through it too.

Caro paused, remembering how the two of them had run down the grand staircase, laughing. The steps were shallow and carpeted in red, and they swept round and down to the magnificent marble hall where an array of footmen watched impassively.

Philippe had let go of her hand by then, but his eyes had been warm and alight with laughter and that dark, sardonic look had disappeared altogether. Caro’s heart had stumbled for a moment when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs and she’d looked into his face. It had been like looking at an entirely different man, one whose brother hadn’t died, one whose father didn’t blame him.

Shaking the memory away, she went back to her email.

So, I’ve survived my first encounter with the Dowager Blanche. It wasn’t a complete disaster. For some reason her little pug—Apollo?—took a shine to me. He sure is one ugly dog! Difficult to know which end of him is less attractive. I was worried he was about to have a heart attack with all that wheezing, but he came to sit on my foot while your grandmother was lecturing Philippe in French about something, and I made the mistake of patting him. After that, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I said I’d take him for a walk sometimes, which Philippe thought was heroic of me, but he was quite cute really, I suppose, and besides, what else am I going to do with myself? Philippe seems to be lined up for royal duties, but there isn’t a lot for me to do except sit on the balcony and look at that beautiful lake (which isn’t such a bad plan, now I come to think of it.)

It’s beautiful here, Lotty. I don’t think I’ll ever find my way round the palace or get to grips with all the formality, but the setting is magical. Like being in a fairy tale kingdom, where nothing feels quite real.

I’d better stop. Philippe had to go to some reception for financiers, so I’ve had the evening to myself, and I thought it would be a good chance to drop you a line—or quite a few lines, as it’s turned out. It’s all so new to me, and there’s so much I’d love to talk to you about. Can’t wait to catch up properly when all this is over and compare notes!

Hope you’re having a fab time out there in reality, Lotty. Let me know, OK?

Lots +++++++++ of love

Caro

When Philippe came back later that night, Caro was already in bed. She was sitting up against the pillows, a book in her hands and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her face was scrubbed, the cloud of chestnut hair tucked behind her ears, and she was buttoned up to the throat in a pair of old-fashioned pyjamas, patterned with sprigged rosebuds so faded they were almost invisible.

No sheer negligees for Caro, Philippe realised. No wispy lace or dainty straps designed to slide seductively over a shoulder. He ought to be glad that she had so little interest in attracting him, so why did the sight of her make him feel so grouchy?

‘Don’t tell me, they’re vintage pyjamas?’ he said, loosening his tie and trying to roll the irritation from his shoulders.

‘As a matter of fact, I bought them when they were new.’

‘What, when you were twelve?’

‘I’ve had them a long time,’ she admitted with a defiant look over her glasses. ‘They’re comfortable.’

‘There couldn’t be any other reason for wearing them,’ said Philippe sardonically. She certainly hadn’t bought them with seduction in mind!

So it was annoying to realise how appealing she looked, there in bed. The modest pyjamas only drew attention to her lush curves, and the glow from the bedside lamp picked out golden lights in her hair. Seduction was clearly the last thing on Caro’s mind, but she looked warm and soft and inexplicably inviting all the same.

Philippe jerked his tie free from his collar with unnecessary force.

‘How was your evening?’ Caro asked.

‘Tedious. I shook hands, smiled, pretended to listen intelligently to someone droning on about financial forecasts. Welcome to the exciting world of royalty.’

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tugged off first one shoe, then the other and tossed them aside. ‘And that was just one evening! I’m not sure I can stand the thought of another six months of this. I’m going to expire of boredom by the end of the week!’

‘Lots of people have to put up with boring jobs,’ Caro pointed out as his socks followed the shoes.

‘Very true. But give me a night flight through a thunderstorm any day!’ Philippe swung his legs up onto the bed and made himself comfortable against the pillows, linking his arms behind his head.

Coming home to someone felt strange. Not as uncomfortable as he’d thought it would be. In fact, he’d even found his steps quickening as he said goodnight to Yan and approached the apartments, and he’d been glad to see the light on in the bedroom and to know that Caro was still awake.

He’d been surprised at how pleased he was to have her with him that afternoon too. Grimly enduring his great aunt’s tongue-lashing, he’d watched her tussling with that stupid dog and felt a smile quivering at the corners of his mouth. Once or twice she had met his eyes with a speaking look, or the tiniest roll of her eyes.

Funny how the Dowager’s lecture hadn’t seemed nearly so bad when there was someone there to sympathise, to be an ally. To escape with and run laughing down the great palace staircases.

Philippe rolled onto his side to face Caro and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘What about you? What have you been doing?’

‘I emailed Lotty.’ Abandoning the pretence of reading, she put her book on the bedside table and took off her glasses. ‘I’d feel better if I knew she was OK. Wherever she is, it’s going to be very different from here.’

‘She’ll be all right. Lotty’s tougher than she looks.’

Philippe stretched, yawned and rubbed the back of his head. It felt surprisingly comfortable to be lying here, chatting to Caro at the end of a long day. He’d never done this with a woman before. They’d been lovers, or he’d been leaving. They’d never been friends.

‘Did you have anything to eat?’ he asked her.

Caro laughed, that husky, faintly suggestive laugh that crisped every nerve and sinew in Philippe’s body. ‘Have you ever heard that expression involving bears and woods?’ she said. ‘Of course I did! I felt really lazy ringing the kitchen and asking them to send something up the way you told me. I can’t get used to not doing everything myself.

‘It’s weird with all these servants around,’ she said, pulling up her knees and shifting a little so that she could look at Philippe. ‘You must have half the population of Montluce working here!’

‘Hardly that.’ Aware of the swing of her breasts, her scent, Philippe was horrified to hear that his voice sounded hoarse.

‘They asked me what I wanted to eat, so I said could they let me try some Montlucian specialities? They sent up these amazing quenelles of trout from the lake, and the most wonderful tart made with apricots.’

Caro chattered on about food, and Philippe kept his gaze firmly fixed on her face so that he wouldn’t think about how close she was, or how it might feel to undo the buttons on her pyjama top very, very slowly, to slide his hands beneath the soft material, to roll her beneath him and press his lips to her throat and let them drift lower and lower until she stopped talking about food and what the head chef said and—

‘What?’ He sat up, tuning in belatedly. ‘You went to the kitchens?’