Читать книгу Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018! - Janet Gover - Страница 10

Chapter Two

‘You didn’t really say that?’

‘Yes I did,’ Lauren almost wailed, and dropped her forehead onto the wooden tabletop with a distinct thud. ‘Ow!’ Just another small pain to add to the many she had endured since she walked through the palace gates yesterday.

To her surprise, Maria laughed gaily. Lauren lifted her head from the table and glared at her friend. ‘How can you laugh?’

‘How can I not laugh?’ Maria chuckled as she held out a cup of steaming coffee. ‘Here, drink this.’ She settled into the seat opposite Lauren. ‘It can’t possibly be as bad as you say. He did invite you back.’

‘Yes, that’s the worst part!’

‘Of course it is. Being offered a lot of money to paint a portrait that will make your career. Shocking. I don’t know how you can even consider it!’

Lauren looked up at her friend’s face. Maria’s brown eyes were alight with laughter. She felt a weight slowly lift from her shoulders, and grinned back. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Maria pushed a tub of fruit yoghurt and a spoon across the table. ‘Now tell me, what’s he really like? Is he as handsome as he looks on TV?’

‘Oh yes, and then some.’ Lauren dipped her spoon into the creamy yoghurt. ‘But …’

‘But what?’ Her friend prompted her.

‘He’s everything I thought he would be – rich and spoiled and arrogant and rude.’

‘I hope you didn’t start that,’ Maria said.

‘Start what?’

‘Don’t play innocent with me. You know what I mean. Tell me you didn’t get all socialist on his rather lovely arse.’

‘But he’s just proved that I’m right!’ Lauren was determined not to be distracted by thoughts of the royal rear end. ‘He sits up there is his fancy palace, paid for by our taxes. All he has to do in return is be nice to a few schoolchildren and get his photo taken. He can’t even be bothered to do that well. If he was that bad at a real job, he’d be fired in an instant. But we can’t fire him, because he was born into …’

‘Enough.’ Maria held her hands up in mock surrender. ‘There’s no need to storm the barricades. I get it.’

‘Sorry,’ Lauren said. ‘I do get carried away sometimes, I know. But it’s just not right for him to think he’s better than everyone else, just because of the family he was born into. A person should be judged by their own actions, not by the circumstances of their birth.’

Lauren believed that with all her heart. She had to, because it was the only way she could believe in herself.

‘You did say you needed the money.’

‘I know,’ Lauren said, her shoulders sagging. ‘And I do. He has a wonderful face that’ll be a real challenge to paint, but I might prefer his less pretty relatives if they were better behaved.’

‘Maybe he was having a bad day.’

‘Does someone in his position ever have a bad day? Even if he did, it doesn’t excuse him,’ Lauren declared. ‘He’s getting a free ride. He should at least have good manners.’

‘Careful. Start talking like that and he will have you executed.’ Maria took a mouthful of yoghurt. ‘At least give him a chance, Lauren. After all, you’ll be working pretty closely with him for the next few weeks.’

Lauren sighed. Maria was right. Again. It seemed that whenever she climbed the stairs to this tidy apartment one floor above her own, she found both friendship and common sense in equal measure.

‘I almost forgot.’ She smiled, her mood lifting. ‘The last thing he said was that he likes my hair. He said it highlights my eyes.’

‘I told you so,’ Maria exclaimed in triumph.

Maria was a hairdresser, and Lauren’s unusual cut was both her idea and her handiwork. Maria had lightened Lauren’s already fair hair to shining white, then dyed a broad slash of blue down each side to frame her face. The cut was asymmetrical, curving under her chin on her right side and falling almost to her shoulder on the left.

As they shared a laugh, Lauren thought for the thousandth time how lucky she was to have such a friend. They had both moved into this apartment building on the same day. Lauren was fresh from the Royal College of Art and felt an almost immediate affinity with the tall, dark-haired girl moving into the flat above. Maria had also just left college, and soon the two were firm friends.

For the past few years Maria and Lauren had shared the turmoil of being young, single and, most of the time, short of cash. His Royal Highness was not the first man discussed around this kitchen table, although it was usually Maria who raised the subject.

‘Speaking of your hair,’ Maria continued, ‘you haven’t forgotten. Have you?’

‘Sorry. Forgotten what?’ Lauren was confused by the sudden change of subject.

‘The hairdressing championships. You’re modelling for me.’

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’ Lauren was instantly contrite. ‘I know how important this is to you. Not even the prince himself will keep me away.’

‘That’s great,’ Maria said. ‘You know, I’ve got some terrific ideas for you.’

‘I’ll bet you have.’ Lauren looked at her watch and yelped. ‘Oops. I’d better go.’

‘Are you going back to the palace?’ Maria asked.

‘Later.’

‘Well, say “hi” to His Highness for me!’

They both groaned at the awful pun as Lauren disappeared out the door with a wave of her hand.

* * *

Lauren loved the art supplies shop. It was filled almost to bursting with the paraphernalia of her calling. Bright colours and soft brushes. Paints and canvas. Charcoal and varnish. Each item was a reaffirmation of the life she had chosen, a tie to the great artists of the past and her hope for her own future.

She was also very fond of the shop’s elderly proprietors. Mr Haussmann was in his customary spot behind the counter when she walked in the door.

‘Lauren.’ He beamed. ‘It’s good to see you. I hear you’re about to become famous. You’ll soon be too important for my little shop.’

‘I’ll never stop coming to your fabulous shop,’ Lauren corrected him. ‘How did you find out? I haven’t told anyone yet.’

‘Everyone’s talking about it.’

Lauren realised that the gossip was inevitable. The art world was very small. Everyone knew everyone else, and a royal commission was worth talking about.

‘I didn’t think anyone knew yet.’

‘You know how it goes. Someone from up there …’ he nodded towards the doorway and the palace somewhere far beyond it ‘… rang around asking about you. One thing leads to another. It’ll probably be in the papers soon.’

‘No!’ The mere thought horrified Lauren. She didn’t need anyone asking about her. They’d probably start asking about her background. Her childhood. Her family … ‘It’s not important enough for that.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ Mr Haussmann assured her. ‘If any of those parra-pazi photographers come here looking for you, my lips are sealed.’

‘Thanks, Mr Haussmann.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘Now, I’m going to need some supplies for this job. And only the best. This portrait has got to last a few hundred years – assuming it’s any good.’

‘It will be wonderful.’ Mr Haussmann’s plump grey-haired wife emerged from the storeroom at the back of the shop. ‘With your talent and his looks – how could it be otherwise?’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs Haussmann.’

‘You deserve it. So tell me …’ The older woman stepped close and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Is he really so very handsome?’

‘He’s a playboy,’ Mr Haussmann interrupted. ‘You be careful, Lauren. A beautiful girl like you isn’t safe around someone like that.’

‘Don’t you listen to him.’ Mrs Haussmann affectionately dismissed her husband. ‘What does he know? Lauren, you play your cards right and you could be a princess.’

‘I don’t want to be a princess,’ Lauren replied seriously. ‘From what I saw yesterday, it doesn’t look like much fun. I’d rather be me – a struggling artist. But he does have a fabulous face. It won’t be easy to capture that face. And those eyes! Speaking of which, I think I’m going to need a lot of cadmium blue. And a very large canvas – for his ego.’

Lauren didn’t take very long to accumulate an impressive range of supplies. For the first time, she didn’t shop with one part of her brain focused on her tiny bank balance. If this portrait was going to hang in the palace, she would use only the best. However, the best didn’t come cheap. She blanched when Mr Haussmann handed her the tally of her purchases. She quickly pulled out a credit card, trying not to look concerned. She made a mental note to talk to the prince very soon about money. He should be willing to at least make a preliminary payment to cover her costs.

‘I will have these delivered later this morning,’ Mr Haussmann promised. ‘I suppose we should send them to the palace.’

‘No, no,’ Lauren laughed. ‘To my place, please.’

She took her leave, a couple of smaller parcels under her arm. Mr Haussmann’s question about the delivery had brought home to her for the first time the enormity of what she was doing. She was about to move her professional life into a whole new world, of which she knew nothing but what she read in newspapers and magazines. She might have dreamed about it as a child, but those dreams were never meant to come true for an underprivileged child living in a one-room flat with her struggling single mother. For the daughter of a criminal …

‘Get a grip!’ she admonished herself. ‘You’re always saying people should be judged by who they are, not their families. Well, this is your chance to prove that. You’ll be just fine.’

She almost sounded as if she believed it.

* * *

The small white van pulled up outside Lauren’s apartment at precisely the appointed time. It had no obvious markings to proclaim its ownership. Nor did the two men who got out of it have any insignia about their clothes. However, their efficiency left little doubt of their origin.

Lauren stood by, feeling totally useless, as her paints and brushes, sketch pads and canvases vanished into the spotless interior of the van in the hands of quietly efficient men.

For one brief moment she was once again the small girl crying in her mother’s arms as her few possessions were taken from their home by equally silent and efficient men. Those things had ended up on the street, because Lauren and her mother had not had any place to go. That memory had never left her, and never would. But there were times she was thankful for the past that had pushed her to make something of her present.

The last thing to go was her large wooden easel, wrapped for safety in a bolt of grey felt. Her small flat suddenly seemed vast and empty. Half of her living space had been occupied by what she grandly called her ‘studio’. In reality, it was just the area protected by a large drop sheet, and holding her easel and a table covered with her artist’s tools. Now, all that had gone. Lauren went too, feeling not unlike one of the packages stowed so efficiently and effortlessly in the back of the vehicle.

An armed soldier waved them through the same ornate iron gates that Lauren had passed on her previous visit. The drive led to a series of courtyards in the maze that lay behind the palace facade, protected from the public gaze by high walls. On her first visit, the surroundings had barely registered on Lauren’s mind. This time, she took more notice of the extensions and outbuildings of various eras that had sprung up as the palace grew to accommodate the changing times and tastes of its royal occupants.

The van drew up in a large cobbled courtyard, bounded on one side by the palace itself, on the others by outbuildings, some of which had obviously once been stables. Still were, Lauren corrected herself as she got out of the van. The earthy smell emanating from the buildings on the eastern side of the courtyard was not exactly unpleasant, but it wasn’t the sweetest perfume.

A few seconds later, the clatter of hooves confirmed her suspicions. A dozen mounted guards emerged from the wide doorway of the stable block. They ranged themselves in a processional order and waited. A stable hand, in a uniform as spotless as those of the guards, led a rider-less horse from the stables. The animal was magnificent. His dark chestnut hide shone with as much polish as the silver swords of the guardsmen. His glossy black hooves shuffled restlessly on the cobbles as he too waited.

Prince Nicolas emerged from the palace wearing a red guard’s uniform liberally decorated with gold braid and medals of the same colour. A long sabre hung at his side. He strode down the stone steps, his eyes fixed on the troop waiting for him across the courtyard. The man holding the horse snapped to attention and saluted as his officer approached and took the reins. With the ease of much practice, Prince Nicolas swung himself into the saddle. The big chestnut horse pranced and sidled a few steps, tossing his head, before submitting to his rider’s will.

As the prince turned his restless mount, his glance touched Lauren where she stood by the open doors of the van. She instinctively raised an arm in greeting, but let it drop when he looked straight through her as if she wasn’t there. Prince Nicolas took his place at the head of the troop. At a shouted command from their leader, the guards moved forward in unison, even their mounts seeming to fall into military step. In a flash of red and gold, they turned a corner and were gone, leaving behind a rapidly fading clatter of hooves.

Lauren stood staring after them; the image of the prince and his mount burned into her mind’s eye as if some great equestrian portrait had come to life in front of her. More than man and horse, Prince Nicolas and the big chestnut he rode were the very definition of military bearing, and honour and bravery in battle. The glint of his sword and the prancing step of horse were the stuff of schoolboy dreams. The prince’s handsome face and overwhelming vitality would set girlish hearts aflutter. He was the hero of a thousand romantic tales – off to battle for a righteous cause.

Except, he wasn’t. He was probably just going to parade for visiting tourists. No great deeds awaited him, just the flash of cameras. Far from an honourable man, the prince didn’t even have the manners to acknowledge her with a wave or a nod of his head. Lauren shook her head in disgust and turned to supervise the unloading of her precious easel.

As she did, the prince’s equerry appeared at the top of the stone stairs.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Phelps.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Courtauld.’

‘If you’d come this way.’

Once more Lauren found herself following Courtauld’s ramrod back through palace corridors. These were smaller than the elegant galleries of her first visit. In the absence of grand windows, simple light fixtures lit the halls. Their dull glow did little to enhance the dark walls or the paintings that hung on them. The paintings were of lesser quality, and Lauren realised she was looking at the future of her own work, should it not live up to the exacting standards required of the royal collection.

She wondered if Courtauld had chosen this route on purpose. He obviously disapproved of everything about her, from her hair and clothes to her manners. This was no doubt his way of putting her in her place, but she wasn’t going to let it get her down.

Up one flight of marble stairs the corridors became wider, the furnishings more lavish and the paintings better.

‘I was told you would need as much natural light as possible,’ Courtauld said as they neared the end of the corridor. ‘I hope this will suit.’ He opened a door, and indicated that Lauren should precede him through it.

‘Wow!’

Lauren moved into the middle of the room and turned slowly, taking in every corner of her new studio. The richly embroidered pale blue curtains had been pulled back from the large windows that dominated two walls of the room. Light streamed in. Unlike some of the more ornate rooms Lauren had seen, this chamber was simply decorated. The embossed wallpaper was cream and the ceiling was likewise plain in colour, although moulded into graceful arcs at each corner of the room. The wide expanse of polished wood floor gleamed golden in the sunlight. On the wall to her left, the fireplace was grey marble. Lauren noted the stain on the wallpaper where the painting above it had been recently removed.

‘What a fabulous room,’ Lauren breathed. ‘It will make a wonderful studio.’

‘I took the liberty of removing the more valuable furnishings,’ Courtauld continued, seeming unmoved by Lauren’s delight.

Lauren glanced at what was left. A large wooden table sat to one side, the perfect place for her brushes and paints and the assorted paraphernalia of her art. Either side of the fireplace stood two large comfortable-looking armchairs with a small table between them. The lack of clutter made the room look even larger. In fact, she realised with a start, this one room was probably bigger than her whole flat!

‘It’s perfect,’ she said out loud, ‘but …’

‘Please ask for whatever you need.’

Lauren waved at the expanse of polished floor. ‘Painting can be a messy business,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that beautiful floor will suffer. It should be covered. I can bring a cover sheet from my own studio.’

‘No need.’ Courtauld pointed to a shape against the far wall. ‘Just indicate the preferred position. That carpet will protect the floor.’

‘But the carpet will be ruined!’

‘It is of no consequence.’

Before Lauren could open her mouth to argue, the first of her boxes arrived, carried by one of the two men from the van. He was soon put to work unrolling the vast square of carpet, which was positioned at Lauren’s direction in the centre of the room.

In a surprisingly short time the studio began to take shape. Lauren’s easel stood in the middle of the carpet, her stool next to it. Her boxes of paints and brushes sat on the wooden worktable ready for her personal attention. At her request, a kitchen chair had materialised, as had a large waste bin. She still felt uneasy about the inevitable spills of paint and oil, and mentally made a note to bring some protective coverings from home. Courtauld might think this furniture was of no consequence but it was far better than anything Lauren possessed, and she would not willingly or carelessly damage it.

‘I must take my leave,’ Courtauld said as the last boxes were placed on the carpeted floor. ‘Other duties await me.’

‘Thank you for everything.’ Lauren was genuinely grateful. ‘It’s a terrific studio. You couldn’t have chosen a better room.’

‘I didn’t choose the room. Prince Nicolas selected it. He felt you would want to be close to his own offices.’

‘How close?’

‘The door across the hallway leads to His Royal Highness’s offices.’ Courtauld bowed and left the room.

Lauren waited for a few moments, then cautiously opened the door just a few inches. There was indeed another doorway almost directly opposite hers. It wasn’t the door she’d used the day before, when she visited Prince Nicolas. Of course he would have a secretary and probably a whole suite of offices filled with people whose job it was to look after him. She ducked back inside her studio, telling herself that it made perfect sense for an artist to work near her subject. She shouldn’t read anything into it – nor should she feel nervous about it.

For a few minutes, Lauren stood looking around the studio. She paced about and rearranged some of her brushes and paints on the worktop. She walked to the window, which looked out over a courtyard not unlike the one where she had seen the prince at the head of his mounted troop. She closed her eyes for a moment, and found the picture still in her head. The bright red of the uniforms against the grey stone of the stable block. The glint of sunlight on polished silver. The sense of barely restrained energy in the prince and his mount.

Lauren opened her eyes. An equestrian portrait? Why not?

She reached for a sketch pad.

* * *

Nicolas paused as he reached to open the door. He wasn’t used to knocking. Certainly not here in his own private quarters. But manners caught up with him in time, and he tapped gently on the wood. There was no answer, so he opened the door.

Lauren was sitting on a high stool, leaning over the large wooden refectory table he had selected for her workbench. She was as inappropriately dressed for the palace as she had been yesterday. Her black jeans were tattered at the hems. Her tight top, also black, sported a number of ragged holes. He wondered if that was a deliberate fashion statement. Perhaps Lauren had simply not noticed the holes – or not cared. Whichever, her unaffected behaviour and spontaneity were a delight in a place ruled by protocol. Her remarkable blue hair fell forward, partly obscuring her face.

For the first time, he noticed she had a slight bump in the middle of her nose. Far from detracting from her looks, it simply added to them. Her face would never grace the pages of a fashion magazine, but he found her enormously attractive. Her passion for life was writ clearly on her face. As was her devotion to the work that now engrossed her.

On the floor around her, a selection of crumpled and discarded sheets of paper suggested several false starts to the work that now held her so focused she hadn’t heard his knock. Her attention was glued to the sketch pad on the tabletop, while the thick pencil in her hand flew across its surface. She exuded an aura of intense concentration that seemed to build an invisible wall around her, cutting her off from him.

The younger son of a royal house understood barriers. His life of wealth and privilege came well supplied with rules and boundaries not of his own making. Nicolas had always known he was the ‘spare heir’, the guarantee of succession, should anything happen to his older brother. In fact, duty had dictated his very birth. His mother had married where she was told. His father had been distant from his sons for most of their childhood, leaving them with nannies and tutors. His death when Nicolas was just nine had barely impacted their lives at all and even now, his feelings for his father remained more sadness at a relationship he’d never had, rather than grief at the loss of a loved one.

Tradition had dictated the school he went to and his military service. There, at least, he’d found his own place. No – not found … he’d earned his place in the military. He’d felt like he’d belonged … right up until the terrible day that had changed everything.

Nick felt the darkness hovering at his shoulder, and he put up his own carefully constructed barrier. He would not allow his memories to darken this place that Lauren filled with light. Very few people knew the real story behind his exit from the military. Most thought he’d just moved to a ceremonial role. He would not disrespect the memories of his fallen comrades or the uniform they had all worn so proudly by having those events bandied about in public. Let them think what they wished. His family and those close to him knew the truth; he didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion.

Looking at Lauren, he wondered briefly if that was still true.

Most unusually for him, Nicolas was uncertain of what to do next. Normally there were rules for him to obey – or to deliberately break. But this time he was disadvantaged by his desire not to disturb Lauren. Instead, he contented himself with watching as her hand moved over the sketch pad with assurance and passion. Was she drawing him? Unable to contain his curiosity, the prince moved towards her.

‘Oh!’ Lauren jumped to her feet, brushing her hair away with one charcoal-stained hand. ‘You startled me. You should have …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Knocked? In my own apartments?’ Remarkable, Nicolas thought, how easily she blushed, and how lovely she looked as she did. ‘Actually, I did knock. You didn’t hear me.’ He smiled to take any sting out of his words. ‘I see you’ve already started working.’

He walked to the wooden table, eager to see her drawing. Courtauld’s face stared up at him from the sketch pad.

For the second time in just a few minutes, Nicolas found himself taken aback. All that devotion and passion hadn’t been for him! Slowly he bent to retrieve one of the crumpled pieces of paper from the floor. He smoothed it across the tabletop. This page showed a mounted figure in a uniform, which was instantly recognisable as the one he’d worn on parade earlier in the day. The horse was even recognisable as his. The face of the rider, however, was blank.

A second rejected sketch proved to be a rough outline of the palace courtyard, with a soldier holding a horse – his horse. This soldier had a face, carefully and cleverly drawn. Nicolas wasn’t willing to look any further.

‘So, you can draw my servant, and my horse. But you can’t draw me?’

* * *

Lauren wished the floor would open and swallow her. How could she answer an accusation that was essentially true? She had started out meaning to sketch the prince. She had even managed to outline his body. But each time she tried to draw his face, her hand faltered. Her talent, which had served her so well in the past, had failed for the first time, as the woman behind the artist exerted herself. Each time she tried to focus on light and shade or form and composition, a pair of deep blue eyes had returned to haunt her. The same eyes that were now staring at her demanding an answer.

Unable to defend herself, Lauren chose the only other option. Attack.

‘That’s a terrible word to use.’

‘What … draw?’

‘No.’ Lauren shook her head in disgust. ‘Servant. That belongs in a past century. He’s not a servant, he’s an employee and a human being, and deserves to be treated like one – with respect.’

‘You are right,’ he replied with a calm voice, ‘in all except one thing. If you ask Courtauld, I’m sure he would say that he is proud to serve –’ the word serve was slightly emphasised ‘– the House of Verbier d’Arennes.’

Lauren almost winced as her argument crashed down around her. Prince Nicolas had chosen the exact words Courtauld himself had used just yesterday.

‘He may serve, but that doesn’t make him a lesser human being. Those who are served –’ Lauren made certain he heard the emphasis ‘– have a responsibility to remember that, and to treat those who serve with due respect.’

Feeling that she had somehow lost an argument, Lauren turned away from Prince Nicolas and his unsettling gaze. She carefully removed the sketch of the prince’s equerry from her pad. Having nowhere else to put it, she laid it with great care on a clear corner of the worktable.

‘I’m going to need some sort of board, to display the sketches,’ she said abruptly, hoping a change of subject might break the tension that filled the room. ‘I do a lot of sketching when I’m preparing a portrait, and I like to have them where I can see them.’

‘Of course. I’ll ask Courtauld to arrange it today.’

‘Thank you.’ Lauren felt stronger now the topic was her undisputed area. Eager to maintain her sense of control, she turned back to the prince. ‘We also should discuss the portrait. We need to arrange sittings, and talk about the type of portrait you might want.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He nodded in acquiescence. ‘As my official duties allow, I am at your command.’

Lauren caught the lift in his voice and the glint in his blue eyes. He was laughing at her!

‘But first,’ Prince Nicolas continued, before she could think of a suitable retort, ‘I was going to suggest lunch. That is, if artists and their subjects are permitted to eat.’

She was hungry. Lauren realized it the moment the word lunch fell from those slightly mocking lips. An early morning tub of yoghurt wasn’t enough sustenance for the sort of day she was having. Lauren suddenly became aware of another rather pressing need. She would have to ask … Her face felt flushed at the mere thought.

‘Lunch is a good idea …’ She wasn’t really thinking about food. How could she broach that subject? Especially with a prince.

‘Excellent.’ Prince Nicolas seemed not to notice her growing discomfort. ‘I was going to send for something, but as you dislike being served, perhaps you would prefer the staff mess?’

‘Yes, yes. That would be fine …’ She was too concerned with other needs to take umbrage at his jibe.

‘If you would like to refresh yourself first,’ the prince continued smoothly, ‘through the door. The second on the left.’

‘Oh.’ Lauren blushed. Had she been that obvious?

‘One of the disadvantages of living in a palace –’ he grinned as he spoke ‘– is that most of them were built before indoor plumbing. The facilities can be hard to find, and even the Verbier d’Arennes occasionally need to use the bathroom.’

The words echoed in Lauren’s head as she almost fled the room. The bathroom was exactly where he had indicated, and with relief she shut and locked the door behind her. The bathroom might have been a later innovation in an old building, but it certainly was luxurious. In fact, so luxurious that Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t the prince’s personal facility. At least the toilet paper wasn’t monogrammed. Lauren didn’t think she could have coped with that.

She washed her hands under taps that looked disturbingly like gold. Running her hands through her hair, Lauren looked at herself in the mirror.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

The face in the mirror stared back impassively.

‘You have got to get a grip on yourself. Just because he’s a prince, doesn’t mean you should be intimidated by him. Remember – he asked for you. He wouldn’t have done that if he knew about your father and jail and everything.’

Her reflection still looked unconvinced. Quickly she ran her fingers through her blue and white hair, remembering his words. The unusual colour really did highlight her eyes. If he noticed her eyes, that sort of put them on an even footing, because she certainly noticed his. When he looked at her, she felt a tiny disconcerting frisson.

‘Stop it,’ she told the face in the mirror. ‘You’ve got a lot riding on this. Stop thinking like some silly schoolgirl, and start thinking like an artist.’

That helped. As long as she didn’t think about the look on her subject’s face when he saw her sketch of someone else. She would soon rectify that. This very afternoon she would do a sketch of him, just to smooth things over. Once that was displayed on her notice board, their relationship could settle into a steady professional pattern.

‘I’ll paint that face,’ she told the girl in the mirror, ‘not daydream about it!’

Her resolve thus strengthened, she unlocked the door.

* * *

Their entry into the room caused a moment’s surprised silence, followed immediately by a scraping of chairs as people leaped to their feet. Prince Nicolas raised one hand and shook his head, indicating the people should resume both their seats and their meals. They did, but it was obvious even to Lauren that the atmosphere in the room had changed.

‘You don’t normally eat here, do you?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

‘Not as a habit, no.’

‘Have you ever eaten here?’

‘No.’

That explained the whispered conversations, and the covert glances being thrown their way. The mess hall was just that – a hall. Tables filled the bulk of it, while at one end a collection of refrigerators and benches and serve-yourself hot plates made it clear that table service was not an option. The diners were a mixed crowd. Palace secretaries shared their meals with soldiers. Books and papers on some tables showed that working lunches were underway. At one end, a couple of gardeners were eating home-made sandwiches from plastic lunch boxes. All shared the same expression of utter surprise as they resumed their meals.

A woman hastened towards them. Looking flustered, she dropped a quick and inexpert curtsey.

‘You Royal Highness. We didn’t expect …’

‘That’s fine. Neither did I,’ Prince Nicolas assured her. ‘No formality, please. We’re simply looking for a table, and something to eat.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ The woman cast a curious glance at Lauren, then looked around. ‘If you would wait just a moment, sir, I’ll have the staff prepare a table.’

‘No. That’s not necessary,’ Lauren cut in. ‘Any table will be fine. How about that one?’ She indicated an unoccupied table in a quiet corner. It was identical to the metal tables used by the other diners.

‘Ah … yes. Of course.’ The woman looked at Prince Nicolas for approval. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

‘And,’ Lauren continued firmly, ‘there is no need to concern yourself with a tablecloth or any of the trimmings. We are not looking for anything more than anyone else gets.’

The woman looked shocked. She acquiesced to Lauren’s request, but only after another glance at the prince.

In a few short moments they were sitting at the table, the woman hovering anxiously nearby. Ignoring the royal personage at her side, Lauren proceeded to order a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, a slice of carrot cake and a chocolate milkshake. The woman made no notes, she simply nodded and turned to Prince Nicolas.

‘Your Royal Highness?’

‘I’ll have the same.’

‘Certainly.’ The woman backed away from the table, leaving the impression of a curtsey, even though she hadn’t actually bent her knees.

Lauren looked at the prince in surprise.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t take you for a ham and cheese sandwich kind of person.’

‘Really? What did you think I ate for lunch? Truffles? Roasted swan? Jellied larks’ tongues?’

Lauren opened her mouth to reply but said nothing at all. Because he was right. Well, not about the larks’ tongues, but certainly she had imagined a far more extravagant meal. But then, she had never imagined sharing lunch with the notorious ‘playboy prince’ on a bare table and metal chairs in a staff mess.

‘Why call this a mess?’ Lauren groped for a safe question.

‘Because it’s run by the army’s catering corps.’

‘I see.’ She was tempted to ask why, but decided she needed to maintain some sense of control over both the conversation, and her situation. Keep it professional, she told herself.

‘You wanted to talk about the portrait,’ Prince Nicolas said, leaning slightly forward, his eyes fixed intently on Lauren’s face. ‘So, what do you want of me?’

What did she want of him? Well, mostly she wanted him not to be quite so close or quite so handsome, and most definitely she wanted him to stop making her heart beat in such a strange way.

‘I need to spend some time observing you in your daily routine,’ she said. ‘If it’s possible, I’d like to attend some of your official engagements.’

‘You are most welcome to do that.’

‘And …’ Lauren paused, aware that her next request might be much less welcome. ‘I need to see you outside your official role. I need to understand my subjects’ personalities and how they think. What makes them tick. If I’m to do a good portrait, I need to get close to … you.’

‘How close?’ His voice was low, almost flirtatious.

Lauren found herself leaning towards him, responding in a purely female way to the animal magnetism. She suddenly understood why so many supermodels and society girls fell so easily into his arms and his bed. To be the object of this man’s attention was to be the most desirable and beautiful woman in the world.

‘Excuse me,’ an embarrassed voice came between them. ‘Your lunch, sir.’

Prince Nicolas didn’t so much as flinch. He leaned back. ‘Thank you,’ he said without looking at whoever served the meal.

Lauren was pleased at the excuse to look away. She nodded her thanks at the waiter who placed her sandwich in front of her. His face remained carefully blank as he unloaded cake and chocolate milkshakes from a small trolley.

‘Will there be anything else?’ The question was directed at the prince, but it was Lauren who replied.

‘No. Thank you.’

With a half bow, the waiter backed away. Lauren looked down at her plate, and giggled. ‘That has to be the fanciest ham and cheese sandwich I’ve ever seen.’

Prince Nicolas looked down at the plate, with its blinding-white embossed napkin cradling a toasted sandwich that looked as if every crumb had been individually toasted and positioned for maximum effect. An artistic garnish edged the plate, and the silverware was ornate.

‘Do you think it will taste as good as it looks?’ Lauren giggled a second time, hating both the sound and the nervousness that prompted it. Quickly she raised her glass and took a deep draught of the rich chocolate milk. If she giggled again she would just die! She had to find a safe subject. Something that didn’t involve disturbing thoughts of getting close to the man sitting opposite her regarding her with almost predatory eyes.

‘Can you tell me some of the official events you’ve got scheduled for the next few days?’

‘Let me see …’ The prince picked up his sandwich, seeming to see nothing unusual in it. He took a bite, and chewed while he considered his reply. ‘This afternoon, I’m meeting with a delegation from the Society of Genealogists. Afterwards, I shall attend Her Majesty as she receives a visit from a newly appointed ambassador …’

The rest of the meal passed in a whirl of discussions about official engagements and which of these Lauren could attend on short notice. She was certain none of the information would remain in her curiously addled brain, but that didn’t matter. Some efficient palace functionary would no doubt steer her in the right direction. At least a conversation about a meeting of the Royal Hospital Board seemed safe.

Lauren was running out of chocolate milk and carrot cake when she happened to glance at the doorway. Courtauld was standing there, staring at Lauren and her companion. He looked shocked and began to stride in a determined fashion across the room.

Lauren realised that she had only a few more moments alone with Nicolas, and there was one more thing she had to ask.

‘Why me?’

‘Sorry?’ The prince seemed unaware of his approaching servant.

‘Why did you pick me to paint this portrait?’

The prince hesitated.

‘And don’t tell me you’ve seen my paintings and like them.’ Lauren wanted to stop him before he could speak the lie. ‘I know you haven’t.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Prince Nicolas looked slightly abashed, then thoughtful. ‘If you study the royal collection you’ll find British artists, and French and Dutch and Italian. But none of our own artists have ever painted a royal portrait. I thought it was time one did. I made some phone calls, and your name was mentioned.’

‘So you didn’t do it just to annoy the curator?’

‘No.’ A slow grin spread across the handsome face. ‘Well, perhaps a little. Now that we’ve met, I feel confident in my choice.’

Lauren was afraid to ask whether his confidence was in her ability to paint, or her ability to annoy the curator.