Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling Page 6

  But Laurent had sent the key and she didn’t know him at all. She would never have speculated about Bella and Clay Industries so freely if she’d realised who he was. And he hadn’t denied that he was considering proposing to Bella, which made him doubly out of bounds and doubly dangerous—he had no idea who she was and her relationship with the man he so wanted to impress. So visiting the garden would be pure insanity and Emilia had only lived a sensible, planned existence since she had left home. This was neither the time nor the place to change that.

  But as she neared the old wall set at the back of the castle, near the kitchen gardens which groaned under the weight of beds and beds of vegetables and herbs, Emilia was aware of a sense of an unusual and sweet anticipation and, before she knew what she was doing, she had unlocked the small door and slipped into the secret garden.

  Disappointment dropped through her as she realised she was the only person there. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself, speaking aloud so as to give the words more weight. ‘It’s better this way; you can enjoy the garden with no awkward encounters.’ Determined to do just that, Emilia explored every corner from the old orchard, buds turning to leaves, the promise of fruit heavy in the air, to the rambling roses which climbed the high walls and the beds filled with fragrant herbs and flowers. She discovered an old arbour housing an obviously much-used seat, the cushion dented with use, a blanket slung over the neck of the bench, and an archway leading into a shady courtyard filled with potted plants. No castle windows overlooked the courtyard; it was completely private, a small wooden door set into the castle the only clue it belonged to the castle at all and wasn’t some magical garden in an enchanted land.

  Despite the courtyard’s privacy she felt uncomfortable being so close to the castle, the key heavy in her pocket, and after a quick peek she slipped back through the archway and into the walled garden, returning to her favourite tree, its branches providing a shady respite from the evening sun which still burnt with Mediterranean intensity.

  Leaning against the trunk, she closed her eyes, aware the ache in her temple still hadn’t quite disappeared, and breathed in the sweet evening air. It wasn’t the work or the time pressure causing her sleepless nights and stress. It was knowing that she and her father would be occupying the same space for several days and that avoiding him for the whole time was unrealistic.

  What if this ball was a sign that it was time to move on? To try and make amends. She wasn’t foolish enough to imagine an ending where her father enfolded her in his arms and promised to make the last twenty years up to her, but she could walk away with her head held high, knowing she had done all she could. Maybe then she could finally move on. Find it within herself to be brave and search out the kind of happiness Harriet had embraced.

  Her one attempt at a romantic relationship had backfired so horribly she’d steered well clear of any semblance of one ever since. But that had been a long time ago and she was older and wiser now. She had fought for and found her self-worth. Was she willing to let her father destroy it again? Especially now...

  Her attraction to Laurent might be misjudged and mistimed but it showed she wasn’t made of ice after all. If she could let her guard down once then maybe she could again. Only next time she’d investigate any potential interest to make sure he was who he said he was and not the ruler of a small Mediterranean country.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  She jumped at the sound of a low masculine voice, opening her eyes to see Laurent leaning against the tree next to hers, his eyes crinkled in concern.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She was conscious of a bubble of happiness expanding her chest at the sight of him. ‘I’m fine, but thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? Is there anything I can help with?’

  The offer, from a man she barely knew, touched Emilia deeper than she wanted to admit. Was she really that starved for kindness? ‘No, honestly. I only came here to return the key.’ She slipped the heavy iron key out of her pocket and held it out to him. ‘Here.’

  Laurent made no move to take it. ‘It’s yours whether you use it or not.’

  Emilia replaced the key in her pocket, half relieved he hadn’t taken it, but not wanting to dwell on why. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘That was badly done of me.’

  ‘I said things I wouldn’t have said if I’d known. I’m sorry. I overstepped...’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I put you in that situation. The truth is I liked the way you spoke to me; I liked the things you said. I liked the connection we forged.’

  ‘Connection?’ She could hardly breathe as she said the word and his eyes darkened.

  ‘It seemed as if we already knew each other. Or maybe it was just me.’

  Honesty propelled her forward until she was standing next to him, close enough to touch. ‘I felt it too. But it wasn’t real; it couldn’t be real. You’re not who I thought you were. You have a life I can’t imagine, commitments I can’t comprehend. A duty I respect and all that goes with that.’ She didn’t—couldn’t—say Bella’s name but it hung there all the same and in that instant she realised she was just as culpable because wasn’t she too hiding who she was? If Laurent realised she was Mike Clayton’s daughter then what—would he want to court her instead?

  Maybe it was a big leap from connection to courting but, even if it was, Emilia knew she would never want to be wanted because of what she was instead of who she was. And maybe Laurent felt the same way. With that thought came a flash of understanding about why he might have withheld his identity from her, and with understanding came sympathy. She couldn’t look at him as she spoke. ‘But even if I do admit I felt a connection, the whole situation is too complicated.’

  ‘Even in here? Where I am just Ren and you are Emilia and there are no titles and there is no duty or expectation? Can’t we be friends here?’

  ‘Well...’ She was more tempted to agree than she would have thought possible. She was Emilia Clayton, who always played by the rules and buried herself in work rather than think about all the ways she wasn’t living. But this garden felt like a place where those rules didn’t exist and where Emilia could throw off those shackles and just be. ‘I have to go,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll miss staff dinner if I’m much longer.’

  ‘In that case, why not stay here and have dinner with me?’

  ‘Here?’ She looked around as if food might spring magically up from the ground and a smile softened his rather harsh expression.

  ‘Here. I’ll be ten minutes. Promise you won’t leave?’

  ‘I...’ If she walked fast she’d make it to the staff dining room before the end of dinner. She could slip into her usual spot at the end of the table and, as usual, eat a hurried meal, not really talking to anyone, her position too temporary and too undefined for her to easily fit in with the hierarchical castle staff. How tempting to agree to stay in this walled garden with a man who looked at her as if he knew her and liked what he saw, and pretend that the world outside the walls didn’t exist. ‘Okay, on one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘Pomme joins us. I don’t want anyone saying I ate dinner with the Archduke unchaperoned.’

  His smile was as sweet as it was sudden. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. But inside these walls there is no Archduke, just Emilia and Ren. Deal?’

  She couldn’t help answering his smile with one of her own. ‘Deal.’ Staying was probably, definitely, a bad idea but she couldn’t walk away even if she wanted to. Emilia wasn’t one for crushes or sudden fancies; she wasn’t really one for romance at all, for putting her body or mind or heart in the hands of another, trusting someone else with her happiness. She knew all too well how dangerous that was. But there was a flutter of sweet tension down in her belly when she looked at Laurent, a thrilling in her veins at the burr of his voice. He was still a stranger but at some level something in her
recognised something in him. The unwanted, unasked for attraction should terrify her—and usually she would run from it—but here in this garden it felt natural. Safe. Even if she knew that safety was merely an illusion.

  * * *

  ‘Laurent?’

  Laurent turned as his mother called his name, masking his impatience at the delay. It was seven-thirty and that meant Emilia would be in the walled garden waiting for him. The castle kitchens would have sent up a basket of food and it would be placed by the small door that led into the palace courtyard. If any of the staff wondered why the Archduke had taken it into his head to dine outside and alone every night for the past week, they kept it to themselves.

  The evenings were an oasis during increasingly busy days. The Prime Minister was making his impatience felt and, although there was little he could do, he made sure Laurent knew just how little faith he had in the proposed deal and Laurent’s ability to pull it off. The Chancellor’s worry about the next year’s finances were infecting all of Parliament and Laurent knew that if Clay Industries decided against investing then he would have to capitulate on some of the Prime Minister’s demands. The ball and its outcome was increasingly important.

  But during the summer evenings, stretched out on a picnic blanket, none of these concerns felt so urgent. Emilia was an entertaining and intelligent companion whose stories of her life in events often kept him amused for hours. Every evening he felt more at ease with her; every evening felt more and more like coming home.

  Only real life kept intruding. Simone Clayton had suggested he and Bella wore matching costumes, a clear signal of intent from the Claytons and one he couldn’t ignore. And a signal Emilia was aware of; she was organising the costumes after all. That was why, despite the intimacy of the situation, they never touched, never strayed into personal territory. The more time Laurent spent with Emilia, the more he liked her. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her. And he was definitely attracted to her. But he respected her too much to cross a line that once crossed would spoil the first real friendship he had experienced for far too long. A line a man contemplating marriage to another had no right to cross.

  A line he wanted to cross more every night.

  ‘Hello, Maman.’ He kissed his mother’s cheek as she approached him, smiling down at her. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘So are you, mon fils. Is everything okay? I’ve hardly seen you all week.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, with the ball, Parliament, arranging a tour for Mike Clayton. These things all take time.’

  ‘Just a few days until they arrive and less than a week until the ball. Are you ready, Laurent?’

  The truth was, three weeks ago he had been ready. Three weeks ago he had seen his path clear in front of him and known that following it was the right thing to do. But now he couldn’t help but be enticed by other paths, winding, hidden paths with twisty corners and beguiling destinations. He set his jaw. ‘Don’t worry, Maman, I’m ready.’

  His mood was sombre as he collected the basket and carried it through to the walled garden, an eager Pomme at his heels. Emilia was in her usual place, curled up under her favourite tree, her tablet in hand, forehead furrowed as she tapped away. She smiled as Pomme bounded over, one hand automatically caressing the dog’s ears as she looked up at Laurent. ‘How much would you hate traditional Greek costume?’

  ‘A lot,’ he responded as he placed the picnic basket on the ground, pulling out the blanket and throwing it over to Emilia, who caught it with one hand.

  ‘Tudor dress?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Regency?’

  ‘For A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’

  ‘Breeches are timeless and it has to be better than a tunic. We’re running out of time to get costumes made so you really need to pick one. Bella isn’t keen on Tudor either but she is happy with either of the other two.’

  ‘You pick.’

  She looked up, startled. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, your event, you know what will work.’ He knew he sounded autocratic, every bit the spoiled young aristocrat some thought him, and Emilia’s expression was troubled.

  ‘If you’re sure. No complaining—if I put you in a pink frockcoat and a white wig you’ll accept it?’

  ‘If you put me in a pink frockcoat I’ll have you arrested for treason.’

  ‘Go with Regency,’ she said, getting to her feet and shaking out the picnic rug. ‘It’s a classic for a reason and you and Bella can be Theseus and Hippolyta just as much as if you were in tunics. The flower wreath will still work with a regency hairstyle.’ She bent down to pick up her tablet and began tapping away again and Laurent watched her.

  He knew every bit of her now, the way she moved, the way her eyes turned from green to gold to brown to match her moods, the way the light caught her hair, bringing out honey highlights, the shadows that darkened her expression when she lapsed into thought, the dimples that peeped out when she was amused. He knew how she never stopped, her tablet always by her side as she made notes, answered emails and researched ideas even as she ate. How she rose early and worked late, how she already knew every inch of the castle and had ideas to showcase every one of those inches.

  But he knew nothing about her background or her family. Had no idea if she had ever been in love. Her secrets were locked up tight and he had no right to go prying. Not while he was planning to go to his ball with another woman on his arm. Not while he was still planning to propose to another woman.

  Not while his country’s prosperity could depend on that proposal.

  Maybe these evening picnics were a bad idea. He saw them as his salvation but he had been content with his path before Emilia had turned up.

  But in just a few days Bella Clayton would be his guest and, regardless of what that meant, he would have to give her the courtesy of his time and attention. Their picnics had an end date. The thought pulled at him. This friendship couldn’t just fizzle out. They should do something special first.

  ‘We should do something different tomorrow evening,’ he said and Emilia put her tablet down and regarded him in some surprise.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We could leave the castle while we can, before the ball guests arrive and your time becomes even more hectic. Let’s hit the city. Where is your favourite place in San Tomare? The Italian quarter? The docks? The old town?’

  Emilia’s gaze shifted. ‘I...well, I haven’t had much of a chance to explore Armaria, not even the city. I’ve been so busy here, I haven’t actually left the castle.’

  ‘Not at all? You’re not working twenty-four hours a day, surely?’

  ‘No, but I am working all waking hours. Three weeks is not very long to put on a ball, especially one where most of the guests need travel and accommodation sorting as well.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I will show you my city.’

  Every instinct screamed at him that this was a bad idea. These illicit picnics were one thing; a night out, beyond the safety of the castle walls, was quite another. But Laurent needed one night before his life changed for ever, a night when he wasn’t Laurent; he was Ren showing the city he loved to a pretty girl.

  ‘You want to show me the city?’

  ‘People pay good money for guided tours, and I am offering you one for free. It’s a one-time offer though...’

  ‘Then how can I resist? Thank you.’ She smiled then, that sudden full smile which transformed her thin, solemn face into something else entirely, into an enchanting beauty of curves and dimples, of hints of fire and a sweetness which took his breath clean away. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He managed to somehow keep speaking although he wanted to stop time and drink her in. ‘You’re the kind one to take pity on me and grant me the pleasure of your company.’

  She laughed at that, the usually hidden dimples deepening. Her laugh
was husky, a little uncertain, as if she didn’t unleash it often. ‘I’ll do my best to live up to that. Shall we meet here? Same time as usual?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for the soldiers who guarded all the entrances in and out of the palace to see them together, linking Emilia’s name to his, exposing her to any resulting gossip. ‘I’ll pick you up at the crossroads, about quarter of a mile from the castle, if you go right when you leave the gates. Wear trousers, jeans if you have them, and a jacket,’ he added and she stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Sensible shoes are probably a good idea too.’

  ‘Intriguing.’ With that she opened the picnic basket and passed Laurent a perfectly chilled bottle of beer, taking one for herself as she did so. She raised hers to his. ‘To new adventures.’

  ‘To new adventures,’ he echoed. But he knew that tomorrow wasn’t about the new. It was about saying goodbye. To the old Laurent, to his old life and to the brief, sweet friendship that had so unexpectedly come his way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMILIA SWIVELLED IN front of the narrow mirror. If she contorted and squinted she could just about see two-thirds of herself and that would have to do. Not, she reminded herself, that it mattered what she looked like. Going out with Laurent was a monumentally stupid thing to do. She’d allowed all those friendly evenings in the orchard to lull her into a false sense of security, but just because they’d fallen into an easy companionship didn’t mean she could or should go out with him on the kind of evening that could be construed as a date.