Читать книгу A Royal Proposition - Marion Lennox - Страница 8

‘ALASTAIR, I know you and Belle are planning to marry, but you must marry Penny-Rose first.’

Silence. Marguerite de Castaliae looked as unruffled as if she’d just talked of the weather, but Alastair and Belle were staring at her as if she’d dropped a bomb.

‘What are you saying?’ It was Alastair who first found his voice. His Serene Highness, Alastair, Prince de Castaliae dug his hands deep into the pockets of his faded jeans. His dark eyes closed. What now? He didn’t need his mother making crazy propositions. Not when he had so much else to think of…

If this inheritance didn’t go through, the village faced ruin. After months of effort, he’d found no way to save it. His own fortune couldn’t save this place. Nothing could.

Today he’d reached a final, joyless decision. He’d been up since dawn inspecting the cattle with stock agents, working out how much they’d make at market. He’d come in to make a final bleak phone call to his accountants. They’d given him their verdict and it was all looking futile.

The banks would never finance such a venture. The estate would have to be sold.

So Alastair was exhausted, and he didn’t need this.

‘Marry someone else? That’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s not ridiculous.’ His mother was wearing her I’m-about-to-solve-all-your-problems smile. ‘My dear, you do want to be a prince?’ She was probing, fishing for a reaction.

She found it. ‘No!’ Alastair turned to stare out the window, over the castle’s lush gardens to the river beyond. ‘No,’ he said again. His voice was surer still, and there was revulsion in his tone. ‘It was Louis who was supposed to inherit all this. Not me.’

‘But Louis is dead, dear,’ Marguerite reminded him. ‘And I won’t even pretend I’m sorry, because he would have made a very bad prince. If he’d inherited…’

‘It was his right to inherit.’

‘He drank that right away,’ his mother retorted. ‘He was a wastrel and a fool, and now he’s dead. So now the title is yours. And the responsibilities.’

‘I never wanted it.’

‘But it’s yours for the taking.’ Marguerite’s gaze shifted from her son to her future daughter-in-law, and her probing eyes were thoughtful. ‘If you want it badly enough,’ she said gently. ‘And if Belle wants it.’ Her voice became questioning again. ‘I’d imagine Belle would rather like to own this castle and be your princess?’

‘Belle doesn’t care about titles,’ Alastair said shortly. ‘Just as I don’t.’

Marguerite wasn’t as sure of that as her son was, but she kept her face deliberately expressionless. This tiny Castaliae principality, tucked between France and the rest of Europe, might be a very small player on the world stage, but it was a lovely place to live—and maybe a wonderful place to rule?

Wealth and position might very well appeal to Belle, she thought, but she’d have to use other ways to persuade her son.

‘Alastair, the people here need you,’ she told him. ‘The country is depending on you.’

‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Yes, dear, but you’re not listening. If you don’t inherit, there’s no one else to take it on.’ These were hard facts to be faced, and the sooner her son faced them the better.

‘If you don’t accept it, the estate will be carved up and the title will disappear,’ she told him. ‘Most of the people who’ve lived here all their lives will face losing their own homes. Then the village houses will be bought by holidaymakers who’ll only live here for three or four weekends a year.’

‘No!’ said Alastair, outraged.

‘Of course not. None of us want that.’ She was getting through. All she could see of her son was his strongly muscled back, but it was expressive enough. Alastair had been brought up to accept responsibility. Marguerite had every hope that he’d accept it now.

Despite Belle.

Or even with Belle’s assistance…

Alastair was a good son, she thought fondly. A son to be proud of. Until his recent involvement with Belle, Alastair de Castaliae had been considered to be one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors.

Well, why not? Of royal blood and with an inherited fortune, he’d been attractive even as a child. Time had added to his good looks until, at thirty-two, his mother—and a fair percentage of the principality’s female population—considered him perfectly splendid.

The tragedy in his background did nothing to lessen his appeal. In fact, the distance he’d placed between himself and the rest of the world since Lissa’s death had seemed only to make him more desirable.

And he was desirable, his mother decided, trying to look at him without bias. Alastair was six feet two in his socks—and his muscled, taut and tanned frame made him seem even taller. He was smoulderingly dark. His jet black hair, his crinkling, brown eyes and his wide, white smile had made many a girl’s heart melt.

Just as his father’s smile had melted her own heart all those years ago…

Sternly Marguerite blinked back unexpected tears and returned to the job at hand. Emotion wasn’t any use here. It wouldn’t convince Alastair—he’d held himself emotionally distant after Lissa died—and she was almost convinced that Belle didn’t have any emotion to play with.

‘It’s only for a year.’

‘What’s only for a year?’ Alastair turned back to face his mother, his brow drawn heavily over his deep-set eyes. ‘You sound as if you have this whole thing arranged.’

‘Well, I do,’ she said apologetically. ‘Someone has to think of the future. You’ve been so involved getting the estate back into working order—making sure all the workers are paid, organising the rebuilding of the stonework, doing all the work caused by two such sudden deaths—that you haven’t had time to look at the whole picture. So if you’ll only listen…’

‘I’m listening.’

It was the best she could hope for, but he was still glowering. And all she could do was explain.

‘Our problems are all caused by Louis’s father changing the inheritance,’ she told him. ‘Louis’s dissolute ways were giving him nightmares, so he put in the clause—’

‘I know this.’ Of course he knew. After all, Louis had bleated to him of it often enough, and the clause was the nub of his problems now. Alastair’s brow descended even further. ‘It decreed that Louis marry a woman of unimpeachable virtue or he couldn’t inherit.’

‘Yes.’ Marguerite tried very hard not to look at Belle. What she was about to say now wouldn’t be easy. Alastair already understood about the clause—but did Belle? ‘Your uncle couldn’t predict that Louis would end up in the grave three months after his own death. And now it’s left us in a mess, because the clause applies to anyone inheriting the title—which includes you.’

Silence. Then…

‘Contrary to what the lawyers are saying,’ Alastair said softly, in a voice that sounded almost dangerous, ‘Belle is a woman of unimpeachable virtue.’

‘No, dear, she’s not.’ Marguerite refused to be silenced. There was no easy way to say this but both Belle and Alastair had to face it. She’d been saving it for when Alastair saw how bleak his position was, and that time was now.

‘You know it, or you wouldn’t be spending all this time with the accountants,’ she went on. ‘The lawyers are all of the same opinion. Your cousins are prepared to take legal action to see that the estate’s sold and divided, and if you marry Belle that’s exactly what will happen.’

‘Just because Belle’s been married before—’

‘And also because she’s had affairs, ever since she was a teenager.’ Marguerite did look at Belle now, and her tone softened. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she told her, ‘but it’s time for plain speaking.’

‘Go right ahead,’ Belle told her. Alastair’s companion sat with her hands loosely clasped on her elegantly crossed knees. She was wearing a chic, black dress, her silk-stockinged legs looked as if they went on for ever and her expression, rather than seeming offended, seemed coolly calculating. She tilted her head, causing her sleek bob of auburn hair to glint in the sunlight. It made a striking impression, and she knew it. ‘So I’m not a woman of unimpeachable virtue. Fine. Don’t mind me.’

‘I do mind you, dear,’ Marguerite said apologetically. ‘But the cousins have been digging up dirt. I gather you had an affair with a married man when his wife was pregnant…’

Belle’s beautiful face shuttered down at that. ‘That was ten years ago. It’s hardly relevant.’

‘The lawyers say it is. And it means that if Alastair marries you, he can’t inherit.’

‘Which is damnable,’ Alastair snapped, and his mother nodded in agreement. But her face didn’t look hopeless.

‘Yes, dear, it is damnable, but it’s also avoidable.’

‘I’m marrying Belle!’

‘But if you waited for a little—’

‘No.’

‘Just a moment.’ Belle rose, stretched, cat-like, and crossed to where Alastair was standing. And as she did, his mother had to acknowledge why her son had been attracted to her.

Falling in love had never been an issue for Alastair. Not after Lissa. However, he’d rarely been without a beautiful companion, and Belle was certainly beautiful. She was magnificently groomed and chic and incredibly feminine. She spoke three languages, which, in this tiny border principality, was a huge advantage, and her social skills were polished to perfection. Even in Alastair’s present occupation as a Paris architect, she’d be a hostess to be proud of.

Belle was sleek and feline and clever, and she’d spent a lot of effort persuading Alastair that marriage could suit them both. For maybe the hundredth time, Marguerite wondered how she could get on with such a daughter-in-law.

But Belle wasn’t thinking of marriage now—at least, not her own. Not yet. She laid one beautifully manicured finger on Alastair’s arm and turned to face Marguerite, her intelligence focussed. ‘Tell us your plan,’ she said softly, and with a stab of triumph Marguerite realised just how hungry for the title this woman was.

She’d thought that she would be. Married to Alastair while he worked as a Paris architect, Belle would have had wealth and position, but here was the chance of more. With the death of Louis—with the chance of inheriting this magnificent estate—came the title of Prince and Princess and money to keep them in unimaginable luxury for the rest of their lives. It was a windfall Belle would reach out and grasp with both hands.

If she could.

But the old man’s will stood between them. ‘A woman of unimpeachable virtue…’

‘Tell us your plan,’ Belle said again, and it was as much as Marguerite could do not to sigh with relief. She sat back and closed her eyes for one millisecond—to give her enough space to gather her thoughts. Then she started.

‘Penny-Rose,’ she said.

‘Who’s Penny-Rose?’ Alastair demanded.

‘The woman you need to marry. For a year.’ ***

Penny-Rose O’Shea settled the final stone into the dirt with a satisfied slap. Great. Finished! It had taken her all morning to choose the slabs that would be the foundation of her wall. It was immensely satisfying work, and Penny-Rose was satisfied.

She was also extremely hot.

Midday had arrived without her realising. She put up a hand to wipe sweat from her face, and felt ingrained dirt smudge thickly across her cheek. Urk! A beauty queen she wasn’t!

Never mind. It was good, honest dirt, she thought happily. She was doing what she wanted to do, and by evening she’d be even dirtier. Also, she’d have the next layer of stones complete. Building walls designed to last a thousand years might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it was hers and she loved it.

‘Penny-Rose!’ She looked up to find her boss waving to her from the other end of the wall.

Was he reminding her of lunch? That was strange. Bert didn’t usually remind his workers it was time to knock off, but she rose gratefully to her feet.

But he wasn’t reminding her of lunch.

‘You’re wanted,’ he told her, thumbing toward the castle. ‘By them indoors.’

‘What?’

‘You heard what I said.’ Bert’s weather-worn face creased even further with a puzzlement that matched hers. ‘Someone came out just now and said could we send you inside. Pronto. There’s no mistake.’

‘They want me to go inside?’ Penny-Rose stared at her boss in disbelief, and then stared down at herself. She was wearing begrimed overalls, her shoulder-length chestnut curls were twisted into a knot under her filthy cap and every inch of her was covered with dust. She grimaced. ‘Why?’

‘They sent a message saying they want to see you, and that’s all I know,’ her boss said patiently.

‘You’re kidding.’ She glanced up at the forbidding ancestral home, where those who’d issued the summons were hidden.

‘They can see me by looking out their windows,’ she told her boss, and she grinned. ‘That way I won’t besmirch their ancestral floors.’

‘Don’t be clever, lass.’ Bert, normally the kindest of bosses, was perturbed and it showed. ‘I don’t know what they want, and I can’t say I like it. Do you want me to come in with you?’

‘Yeah, take him with you, Penny-Rose,’ one of the lads called. The whole stone-walling team was fascinated at this unexpected twist of events, and the cheekiest of the men came to his own conclusion. ‘Maybe the new prince has decided to increase his harem.’

‘Or maybe that other one—what’s her name, Belle? Maybe she thinks our Penny-Rose is prettier and she’s decided to tear her eyes out,’ another added, and his comment was greeted by hoots of laughter.

The entire team was in on the conversation now. They were all male, mostly a lot older than Penny-Rose, and concern for their protégée was behind their good-natured banter.

‘How would they know our Penny-Rose is prettier? We only see her for five minutes every morning before the dust settles back,’ one demanded.

‘She is pretty, though,’ the first lad said stubbornly. ‘Real pretty. If the prince saw her without her dirt…’

‘Well, he hasn’t.’

‘His mother has.’

‘Not without her dirt, and, anyway, what’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’

‘No, lass…’ Bert cut across the banter and his eyes were still troubled. ‘Seriously, they’ve asked to see you. You spoke to the old lady, didn’t you? You didn’t say anything to upset her?’

‘No.’ Penny-Rose wiped filthy hands on her overalls, thinking fast. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

Penny-Rose had arrived at the castle with the team of Yorkshire stone-wallers six weeks ago, and she’d had her hands full ever since. There was so much to be done! After years of neglect, the west farmyard walls had almost entirely collapsed, and if they weren’t mended soon, the north and south walls would do the same.

So she hadn’t had time for socialising. The only contact she’d had with the titled landholders had been a conversation with the castle’s elderly mistress.

Marguerite had been out walking, and had come across a stooped figure sorting stones. ‘Good heavens, it’s a girl,’ the woman had said, startled, and Penny-Rose had chuckled. She’d deferentially hauled off her cap, letting her curls tumble to her shoulders.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You’re part of the stone-walling team?’ the woman had demanded, her amazement deepening, and Rose had smiled and once more agreed.

‘That’s right.’

‘But the team’s from Yorkshire.’

‘And I’m not from Yorkshire.’

‘Now, how did I guess that? Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

‘Australia!’ The woman’s eyes had still been creased in astonishment. ‘Why on earth are you here?’

‘I’m working with the best stone-wallers in the world,’ Penny-Rose had told her, not without pride. ‘I’m gaining my master-waller’s certificate, and when I’m finished training, I can go home and demand my price.’

Then Penny-Rose had looked up at the castle where the soft gold sandstone turrets and battlements shone in all their glory, as they’d shone for almost a thousand years. Her green eyes had twinkled in appreciation of the beauty around her.

‘It’s great work,’ she’d said softly. ‘It almost makes up for having to work in the shadow of rickety old shanties like this.’

The woman laughed, seeming genuinely amused. She stayed for some time, seemingly intrigued by Penny-Rose’s work. Her questions were gently probing, but maybe it was her right to probe the background of workers on her son’s estate. Penny-Rose thought no more of it, and when the woman left, she felt as if she’d made a new friend.

But now…

Had she taken her joking seriously? Was she about to send a message through Penny-Rose that the team was no longer required?

Help…

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Bert asked again, her worry mirrored in his eyes. This was an important job, and both of them knew there was a lot at stake. ‘Not that I think you have any need to worry, but I can’t think of any reason they’d want you.’

‘They’re hardly likely to toss me into the oubliette for insubordination.’

‘Have you been insubordinate?’

‘Only a little bit,’ she confessed with a rueful smile. ‘Not very much.’

He groaned. ‘Well, don’t be now. Get in there and grovel, and only say nice things about your boss. That’s me. Remember?’ Penny-Rose had never been reluctant to give a bit of cheek, and Bert shook his head at her. ‘Know your place, girl, and, short of letting the prince have his wicked way with you, agree to anything. I can always back out later.’

He meant he could always dismiss her, she thought, her laughter fading. If it was a choice of Penny-Rose or the team, it had to be the team.

Maybe she had been too cheeky. Was the aristocracy so sensitive? Heavens, why didn’t she learn to keep her mouth shut? Still, if damage had been done, it was she who’d have to undo it.

‘If I’m not back in a week, demand entry to the dungeons,’ she said, more lightly than she felt. She looked down at her grimy self and thought of what she was facing. ‘You really mean go right now?’

‘I mean go right now,’ Bert said heavily. ‘That’s what the aristocracy wants, so that’s what the aristocracy gets.’

They were waiting.

Penny-Rose walked up through the terraced gardens toward the main castle entrance and found the head gardener waiting. They walked into the courtyard where a butler was waiting in turn. He gave her a wintry smile, turned and led her into the house.

And what a house!

The castle had been built in the twelfth century and maintained by fastidious owners ever since. Castaliae was one of the few countries in the world where the royal family had never deviated from direct succession. It had led to a certain simplicity—the family were the de Castaliaes, the estate was Castaliae and so was the country.

It was confusing maybe, but it certainly must make ordering letterheads easier, Penny-Rose had decided when she’d first learned about the place. And now, looking around the ancestral home of the country’s rulers, she saw other advantages of continuous succession. The halls were filled with exquisite furniture, gathered over a thousand years, the walls were hung with fabulous tapestries and the whole place was filled with light and colour from a building designed far in advance of its time.

Every south face had been used to effect—no one here had worried about window taxes—and sunlight streamed in everywhere.

The Castaliae family had been known to sit on the fence for all the castle’s history, Penny-Rose knew. The independence of this tiny principality was a tribute to the political savvy of its royal family.

Penny-Rose glanced about her with awe as she was led from room to room. For a twenty-six-year-old Australian, this was new and wonderful indeed. She almost forgot to be nervous.

Almost. She remembered again the moment she entered the great hall.

They were waiting for her.

She knew them by sight. Marguerite, of course. The new prince’s elderly mother. She was the woman who’d spoken to her in the garden, and her smile was warm and welcoming.

Then there was Belle. Although it wasn’t official, rumour had it that she was engaged to be married to the prince. She was a cold fish, the boys had decided, but it didn’t stop them admiring her good points. She might be a cold fish, but she was a very beautiful cold fish. Belle didn’t move from her seat now, and she certainly didn’t smile.

And, of course, there was Alastair. Alastair de Castaliae… His Serene Highness, they said, if he could figure out the inheritance hiccups.

And why shouldn’t he be the prince? she thought. He certainly had the look of it. He might be dressed for farmwork now, in an ancient pair of moleskins and a shirt that was grubby and frayed at the cuffs, but he was still drop-dead gorgeous, with a smile to die for.

Mmm! He was smiling now—sort of—as he rose to greet her. It was a smile that stilled her nerves and caught her attention as nothing else could. What a smile. And what a…

Well, what a man!

Penny-Rose had never had time to play round with the opposite sex but a lack of time had never stopped her appreciating what was in front of her. And this one was worth appreciating! He was tall, lean and hard-muscled, with long, long legs, and…

And she wasn’t a schoolgirl, she reminded herself sharply. She was twenty-six years old, and she had too many responsibilities to be distracted by any man, much less royalty!

So, with an effort, she pulled her attention away from thoughts which were totally out of place. What on earth did they want?

The prince, gorgeous as he was, was looking at her like he wasn’t seeing her. Belle was watching her with a calculating expression Penny-Rose didn’t like. It was only Marguerite who was smiling as if she meant it.

‘Penny-Rose. How lovely. Will you sit down?’

Sit? Good grief! She looked at the plush cream settee and fought a desire to giggle.

‘Um…I’m afraid I’d leave a signature,’ she said, and received a swift appraising look from Alastair for her pains. ‘If it’s all right with you, ma’am, I’m just as happy standing. If you’d just tell me what you want, I’ll be off before I spread dirt everywhere.’

‘But we need to get to know you,’ Alastair said, in a voice that sounded as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

Penny-Rose shook her head. She’d hauled off her cap before she’d come inside so her curls bounced around her shoulders and dust floated free. ‘You don’t need to get to know me, and I’m not dressed for socialising.’ OK, she was being blunt but she was at a disadvantage and she didn’t like it. Belle was looking at her like she was some sort of interesting insect, and kowtowing to those higher up the aristocratic ladder had never come naturally to Penny-Rose.

‘Just for a minute.’ Alastair’s voice was strained to breaking point, and she cast him an unsure glance. What was wrong with the man?

‘My boss can tell you about me,’ she said discouragingly. ‘Or are you intending to get to know the whole team better?’ That made an interesting plan, but it didn’t make her smile. She felt more and more like an insect brought in as part of a collection, and she didn’t like the feeling one bit.

‘No, but—’ Marguerite started.

‘Let’s just tell her what we want,’ Alastair said heavily. ‘Don’t confuse her any further.’ His eyes hadn’t left Penny-Rose’s face, and they didn’t leave it now.

He seemed nice, Penny-Rose thought inconsequentially. He also seemed exhausted, strained to the limit, but still very, very nice. His voice was deep and grave and soft, and he sounded as if he was concerned for her.

His English was excellent—well, it would be, as his mother was English. It was only his words that were troubled.

‘I’ll come to the point,’ he told her, speaking slowly as if measuring each word.

‘What my mother wishes to know—what we all wish to know—is whether or not you can be persuaded to marry me.’

For a long, long moment nothing stirred. She stared at them in turn, taking in each of their faces. All of them looked…for heaven’s sake, they looked as if they were serious!

‘You have to be joking,’ she said at last, and it was as much as she could do to find her voice. Her words came out a sort of high-pitched squeak. She coughed and tried again. ‘I mean…you are joking, right?’

‘I’m not joking.’ The look of strain on his face intensified. ‘Would I joke about something so serious?’

‘Yeah, right.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say marry?’

‘I said marry.’

‘Then you’re either having a laugh at my expense or you’re all about in the head,’ she said bluntly. ‘Either way, I don’t think I should stay.’ She gave them a last wild look. ‘I…I’ll see myself out, shall I?’

She didn’t wait for an answer. She took herself out of the door and out of the castle, without a backward glance.