Sophie Weston - The Prince's Proposal

Boy, I get perceptive when I haven’t got my glasses.

She cleared her throat and said more rationally, ‘And what are you doing here?’

She sensed that he made his mind up about something.

‘Oh, I’m one of the performing fleas,’ he drawled.

She did not think she had heard him aright. ‘What?’

‘I’m singing for my supper. Or I will be when I’m trotted out to meet the Press in a few minutes’ time.’

‘Oh, you’re a writer,’ she said, relieved.

‘That’s not how I’d put it,’ the tall man said ruefully. ‘I just got caught by a predatory photographer when I was too weak to say no.’

‘Really?’ Francesca was sceptical. She did not think this man was ever weak.

He laughed. ‘You must have seen the pictures when you came in. Ten-foot-high volcanic eruptions and a leaping wolf that makes everyone take two steps backwards.’

‘I missed the wolf,’ she admitted.

‘Just as well. Nightmare stuff.’

She couldn’t imagine him having nightmares either. She did not say so.

Instead she said curiously, ‘You sound as if you disapprove.’

‘Me? Hey, what have I got to disapprove of? I’ve written one of the things. I don’t have to endorse each and every one.’

She did not believe the disclaimer. ‘But…?’ she prompted.

‘You’re sharp, aren’t you?’ He sounded faintly put out. ‘OK, I admit it. I’m not that keen on coffee-table books. I never expected to find myself contributing to one.’

‘So why did you?’

‘Phew. Sharp and to the point.’ No doubt about it, this time he was seriously taken aback. Then he decided to be amused. She sensed it even before he said, ‘They offered me a lot of money. OK? Interrogation over?’

‘Interrogation over,’ she said. But she could not quite get rid of a feeling of disappointment. She would not have expected this man to be persuaded to do something he did not want to just because someone offered him a lot of money, somehow.

‘Now you’re the one who sounds disapproving,’ he said acutely.

Francesca shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. ‘It’s easy to be puritanical about money when you have enough, I know.’

He looked down at her and she could almost feel that undercurrent of a commentary she could not hear.

‘That’s very broad-minded of you.’ There was an edge to his voice.

She hurried to change the subject. ‘And I’m sure your book will be a success. People lap these picture books up for presents. Especially if they’re by a blonde in a wetsuit. Or a royal prince, I suppose.’

‘Prince?’

‘Yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to Conrad Domitio. I see from their handout that they’ve managed to get him to do some Boys’ Own adventure.’

There was a long, long pause.

‘Ah. So that’s why you wanted to find him.’ He sounded more than disapproving. He sounded downright hostile.

For a moment a faint suspicion occurred to her. But she dismissed it at once. This was no prince, this tall, rangy man with his backwoodsman’s prowl and his slow drawl. Besides, all the Montassurrans she knew were small and dark like her father.

‘Well, he’s an ex-prince, to be honest. But it seems to impress some people,’ she said, thinking of the normally cool Jazz’s reaction.

‘Some people but not you.’

Francesca gave a hiccup of laughter. ‘No, not me. But then, I’m a special case.’

‘Yeah? No princes need apply?’

She laughed aloud at that. ‘I’m not a rabid anti-monarchist, if that’s what you mean. I just happen to know a bit about this particular monarchy.’

‘Really?’ The drawl was even slower than before. And profoundly sceptical.

It flicked her on the raw. She straightened smartly.

‘The Crown Prince of Montassurro,’ announced Francesca, back in precision-detail mode, ‘is pretend royalty from an obscure bit of the Balkans. Couple of mountains, couple of trout streams which they call rivers. Not so much a kingdom, more a family estate.’

There was a faint pause. She certainly had all his attention now.

At last, ‘You’re very well-informed,’ said the backwoods-man lazily.

‘I certainly am. Main crops, wine and wheat. Main occupation, brigandage.’

‘You’ve done your research—’ He broke off sharply. ‘Brigandage?’

‘The Montassurrans in exile run a good story,’ said Francesca hardly. ‘But basically they have always been a bunch of mountain brigands. Who just happened to settle on the motorway-services station of the Middle Ages. Everyone passing through had to stop there. And pay tribute.’

‘That’s hardly brigandage.’

‘They developed that later. Harried the Turks. Raided the Crusaders. Made a good thing out of kidnap and extortion for about ten centuries. Then got some great PR at the Conference of Vienna and turned themselves into professional freedom fighters.’

There was stunned silence.

Then, ‘You sound like an expert,’ he said slowly. ‘Did you major in Balkan history?’

Francesca gave a snort of laughter. ‘In a way. My father came from Montassurro. I grew up on the stories.’

Another, longer silence. She could almost feel him thinking. It was still unsettling. And, even now, when they were clearly at odds, it was still sexy. Blast!

‘Not very flattering stories by the sound of it.’

‘Well, my father is an anti-monarchist.’

‘And you’ve inherited his prejudices,’ he said as if that explained everything.

Francesca stiffened. ‘Not at all. I don’t care about monarchy one way or the other. What I can’t bear is a lot of people living in the past. Ex-kings, huh! You can’t spend your life as an ex-anything. You have to draw a line and go on.’

‘You’re very—unforgiving.’

She stared, confused. ‘Why? Because I don’t like a lot of phoney nostalgia?’

He was looking at her in that way again. She couldn’t see him properly but the reservations were coming off him in waves. As if there were two conversations going on and she was only hearing one—and the less interesting one, at that.

Oh, God, here I go again. Listening to the facts. Not hearing the meaning. What the hell is wrong with me?

‘Because you think you can draw a line under a bit of yourself and leave it behind.’ He was drawling again. ‘How old are you?’

Francesca’s eyes snapped. ‘Twenty-three. How old are you?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Thirty-two. Going on a hundred, just at this minute.’

‘Why this minute?’

But there was no chance for him to answer. The glass door was pushed violently back. Music and revellers spilled out onto the balcony with equal disruptive force. He sidestepped them and took the opportunity to look at his watch.

‘I ought to be doing my duty in the Press room.’

‘Oh.’ She was horribly disappointed and furious about it. Rebound indeed! She curbed it and held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’

He took it. ‘Will I see you later?’

She shook her head vigorously. As much at her own unwanted fantasies as at him. ‘As soon as I’ve caught up with my prince I’m going home.’

He smiled faintly. She could hear it in his voice. ‘Exprince.’

And he held on to her hand. It was heady stuff.

‘Whatever,’ she said, distracted.

‘You like to be accurate.’

‘Yes.’ She was still oddly shaken. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

‘It’s obvious. Well, then, we’d better say goodbye.’

He tugged her hand, bringing her a critical step closer to him. Bent—he had a long way to bend—and brushed her cheek with his lips.

Francesca gulped. For a moment she was in a cloud of cold, pure air, surrounded by cedar and a sense of imminent danger, as if she were facing a climb that was beyond her. And then she was on a crowded balcony again on a wet London night. And the stars had gone in.