Valerie Parv - The Princess's Proposal

The hawker held out a silver balloon emblazoned with a bloodred rose. “I’d guess you’re a rose kind of girl.”

“It’s pretty, but I’m more of a horse person,” she said, indicating one painted with the head of a stallion. Wild of eye and mane, the picture reminded her of the native horses that roamed the hills of Nuee. The roughriders caught and tamed them for use in their daredevil performances.

“I’ll make you a present of it,” the hawker said on impulse. “Then you can say a man gave it to you.”

She saw only sincerity in his expression. “It’s kind of you, but I can’t do you out of your livelihood,” she insisted, fumbling in her purse for a coin. She so rarely paid for anything in cash that she knew she handled the gesture with little grace and felt annoyed with herself.

His callused hand closed around hers. “Save your money for the rest of the show. This is my treat.”

“Well…thank you.” She felt herself flush as she accepted the balloon, wondering why such a small gesture should touch her so deeply. If he had known who she was, she would have suspected him of trying to curry favor, but he was simply a kindly old man, spreading a bit of happiness around.

It made her even more sure that she was justified in slipping away from the palace to attend the show as an ordinary person. As a princess she rarely experienced the simple human interactions other people took for granted. When she attended events like this in her official capacity, she was escorted to the head of every line and the way was cleared for her through the crowd. She would have missed meeting the hawker altogether. Looking satisfied with his good deed, he moved away, his bouquet of balloons bobbing above his head.

“Careful, you’re about to lose that.”

Lost in thought, she started as another man’s hand closed around hers, this time stopping her helium-filled balloon from heading skyward. The man’s touch was so firm, warm and undeniably masculine that she felt herself jerk away as if strung.

“Easy, easy,” he said as if he was talking to a shying horse. He let his hand drop to his side. “You seemed to be about a million miles away.”

She looked at him more closely. A dark-brown jacket skimmed wide shoulders and a fit-looking body, an open-necked shirt the man’s main concession to the heat. He was as tall as Adrienne’s brothers, an irritant in itself, since she had always resented having to look up to meet their eyes. When she did so with the stranger, she encountered a gaze of startling blue flecked with gold and fringed by luxuriant dark lashes.

Although he was dressed as a businessman, his tanned face and hands suggested he spent a lot of time out of doors. Rugged was the best word to describe him, she thought, adding to herself, ruggedly handsome. His accent identified him as an American, and she wondered what brought him to the Nuee Fair as she said, “Thanks for saving my balloon.”

“Why don’t you try this?” Without waiting for a response, he tied the string of the balloon around her wrist. For an instant his strong fingers with their trim oval nails closed around the slender bones as if he was measuring her for a bracelet, and she felt an unaccustomed warmth surge through her. It lasted only until he released her, but she found the intensity of it oddly disquieting.

He looked up at the toy waving in the air over her head, noting the distinctive design. “You like horses, or balloons?”

“Both,” she conceded, wondering why the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted at the sound of his voice. It reminded her of dark chocolate and the stroke of velvet against her skin. Foolish, she chided herself. It must be because she was so seldom touched by anyone other than her staff that she was having such fanciful thoughts.

Above their heads a loudspeaker crackled to life with the news that the roughrider demonstration was about to start. “Are you going to watch the show?” she asked, somehow sure that he would say yes. It came to her that he looked as if he belonged in the show, rather than in the audience.

He nodded, then hesitated, as if considering an option that he wasn’t sure was a good idea. “I have a pass to the members’ pavilion. Would you like to see the show from there?” he asked in a rush. For some reason she felt sure that had he given himself time to think he wouldn’t have issued the invitation.

As the show’s royal patron she had access to any part of the fairgrounds including the members’ pavilion. At least Princess Adrienne did, she reminded herself. Her alter ego, plain ordinary Dee, had no such privileges.

She was strongly tempted to accept, perhaps for the same reason that prompted him to suggest it. The sparks of awareness arcing between them were intriguing enough to warrant investigation. But it was too risky. In the members’ pavilion she might run into someone she knew and her disguise was far from foolproof.

“I can’t,” she said, unable to conceal her reluctance. “I’m…meeting someone.”

The hesitation in her voice betrayed the hastily invented excuse for what it was, and she saw his eyes take on a shuttered look. “In that case I hope you enjoy the show.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in a sketchy salute and melted into the crowd.

When he had gone, she was stricken with a sudden, inexplicable sense of regret. He was only being polite in offering her the hospitality of the pavilion, she thought, and was probably thankful not to be taken up on it. All the same, she suspected she would have found the experience interesting. She sighed as she turned toward the public part of the arena.

He must be crazy, Hugh told himself as he followed the signs to the members’ stand. Didn’t he have enough to worry about, working with Prince Michel to establish a counterpart of his American ranch on Nuee? Hugh knew that his plans were rock solid and good for Carramer’s economy, but until the ranch was a reality, he had no business letting anything sidetrack him, even a woman as intriguing as the one he’d just left.

He glanced over his shoulder. The silver balloon bobbing in the air marked her passage through the crowd surging toward the arena. She wasn’t the only woman wearing a hat and dark glasses, but she was the only one who looked as if she wore them to hide behind, he thought.

Against his better judgment, he felt his curiosity stir. From her cultivated voice, she was an aristocrat, speaking English with the same refined accent as Prince Michel, as if she was a product of the best education that money could buy.

Instinct told him that her excuse about meeting someone was a brush-off. He probably wasn’t to her taste, but she was too well-bred to say so. The term soured his thoughts, reminding him uncomfortably of his ex-wife. He grinned wryly to himself. If anyone had taught him the futility of chasing the unattainable, it should have been Jemima Huntly-Jordan.

He’d known when they met that Jemima Huntly was as far outside his class as diamonds were to cut glass. He should have heeded the warning signs when she lectured him on proper behavior on their first dates. But he had been a few years younger, although not enough to excuse his foolishness, and madly in love with her. He had to admit he had also been flattered that a woman like her—daughter of an ambassador, and “old money” from head to toe—could love a rancher with no family background and money so new it crackled.

What a fool he’d been, he thought. Later she’d admitted to being bored with her own social set and attracted by his no-frills attitude to life. The novelty had started to wear off almost as soon as they were married, particularly when he tried to rein in her reckless spending habits.

He hadn’t expected her to live like a pauper, only to moderate her spending once in a while. Asking her to limit herself to one clothes-shopping trip to Europe a season had seemed reasonable to Hugh, but evidently not to Jemima, who acted as if he had asked her to wear rags.