Natasha Oakley - Crowned - An Ordinary Girl

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.

More than that, she was going to pretend she’d forgotten almost everything about Seb Rodier. He’d been a minor blip in her life. Quickly recovered from…

‘Marianne?’

There was a discreet knock on the door and Marianne quickly replaced the locket, shutting the drawer and moving to pick up her co-ordinating handbag and fine wool wrap from the end of the bed.

The deep pink of the wrap picked out the darkest shade in the silk of her dress, while the bag exactly matched her wickedly expensive sandals. That they also pinched the little toe on her right foot would serve as an excellent reminder of her own stupidity.

‘You look very lovely,’ the professor said by way of greeting. ‘Not that you don’t always, but I spoke to Eliana just over half an hour ago and she was worried you wouldn’t have brought anything with you that would be suitable for dinner at the Randall. I said I was sure you’d manage something.’

Marianne gave a half-smile and wondered how it was possible that a fearsomely intelligent man like the professor, who’d been happily married for forty-one years, could believe she’d have a dress like this rolled up in her suitcase ‘just in case’.

‘I’m excited about this dinner,’ he said, completely oblivious to her mood. ‘Of course, what the prince is asking would mean I’d have to give up all of the projects I’m currently involved with.’

She reached out and pressed the lift button. ‘You’re retiring, Peter. You’re supposed to be taking the opportunity to spend more time with your grandchildren…’

The professor shot her a smile and pulled out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dinner jacket. ‘I spoke to one of Prince Sebastian’s aides this afternoon about what’s expected of us tonight with regard to royal protocol and the like. It all seems fairly straightforward,’ he said, passing across the sheet. ‘Apparently the prince is not one to stand on too much ceremony, thank God.’

A cold sensation washed over Marianne as she unfolded the paper. This was an aspect of the evening ahead of her she hadn’t considered. If Seb thought she was going to curtsey he could go take a running jump.

‘I think I’ve got it straight in my mind,’ the professor continued, reaching out to hold the bar as the lift juddered to a stop. ‘When we first meet him we address him as ‘Your Serene Highness’, but after that we can use a simple “sir”.’

Marianne’s eyes widened slightly. Sir? Call Seb ‘sir’? How exactly did you look a man you’d slept with in the eye and call him ‘sir’? Particularly when you wanted to call him a million other things that would probably have you arrested?

The doors swung open and the professor continued, ‘Jolly good thing, too. Can you imagine how ridiculous it would be to have to say “Your Serene Highness” all evening? Such a mouthful.’

Her eyes skimmed the first couple of points.

—Wait for the prince to extend his hand in greeting.

—Don’t initiate conversation, but wait for the prince to do so.

‘It must irritate the heck out of him to have people spouting his title at him every time he steps out of doors.’ The professor broke off to hail a passing black taxi. ‘Not to mention having everyone you meet bob up and down in front of you like some kind of manic toy.’

Marianne’s eyes searched for the word ‘curtsey’. ‘Sir’ she could just about cope with—particularly if she said it in a faintly mocking tone—but curtseying to him? He’d humiliated her in practically every way possible, but that would be too much to cope with. There had to be a way round it.

Hadn’t she read something somewhere about Americans not having to curtsey when they met British royalty? Something about it not being their monarch that made it an unnecessary mark of respect?

The taxi swung towards the kerb.

‘And an inclination of the head when I meet him is all that’s required. No need for a more formal bow,’ the professor continued. ‘Obviously removing any hat—’

Marianne watched as he struggled with the door before holding it open for her ‘—but, as I’m not wearing a hat, that’s not a problem.’

She gathered up the soft folds of her dress so that it wouldn’t brush along the edge of the car and climbed inside. Seb wasn’t her monarch. If he wasn’t her monarch, she didn’t need to curtsey…

Moments later the professor joined her. ‘Of course, as a woman, you give a slight curtsey. Nothing too flourishing. Keep it simple.’

Keep it simple. The words echoed in her head. There was nothing about this situation that was simple. She was in a taxi heading towards a former lover who may or may not know she was joining him for dinner tonight. A former lover, mark you, who hadn’t had the courtesy to formally end their relationship.

‘Blasted seat belts,’ the professor said, trying to fasten it across him. ‘They make the things so darn fiddly.’

Marianne blinked hard against the prickle of tears. She wasn’t sure whether they were for her and her own frustration, or for the professor and his.

The one thing she was certain of was that they shouldn’t be here. Why couldn’t Peter see how pointless it was? He shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of going to Andovaria. Even a simple task like fastening a seat belt was difficult for him now.

‘Done it,’ the professor said, sitting back in his seat more comfortably.

She turned away and looked out of the window. Age-related macular degeneration. It had come on so suddenly, beginning with a slight blurriness and ending with no central vision at all. Sooner or later people would notice Peter couldn’t proofread his own material.

And if he couldn’t cope with something in a clear typeface, how did he imagine he was going to do justice to something written in archaic German and eight hundred years old? He’d miss something vital—and the academic world he loved so much would swoop in for the kill.

It was all such a complete mess.

Familiar landmarks whizzed past as the driver unerringly took them down side-roads and round a complicated one-way system.

The taxi slowed and pulled to a stop. ‘Here we are. The Randall.’

Marianne looked up at one of London’s most prestigious hotels and felt…intimidated.

All she had to do was look at the photographs, eat and leave. She could do that.

Of course she could do that. This was a business meeting. There was nothing personal about it.

Marianne’s eyes followed the tier upon tier of windows, familiar from the countless postcards produced for tourists.

And this was where Seb, the real Seb, stayed when he was in London. In France they’d booked a room in whatever inexpensive chambre d’hôte they’d happened upon and sat on grass verges to eat warm baguettes they’d bought from the local boulangerie. So different.