Читать книгу Crowned: An Ordinary Girl - Natasha Oakley - Страница 7

THE new dress wasn’t working.

Marianne stared at her reflection and at the soft folds of pink silk which draped around her curves to finish demurely in handkerchief points at her ankles. On the outside the transformation from serious academic to sophisticated lady-about-town was staggering, but on the inside, where it mattered, Marianne felt as if she was about to take a trip in a tumbrel.

What was she doing? There was no way she should have allowed Peter to talk her into this dinner. No way at all. Yet, even while every rational thought in her head had been prompting her to get herself back on the train home to Cambridge, she’d found herself in Harvey Nic’s, picking out a dress.

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.

‘That’ll be £16.70, love,’ the driver said, turning in his seat to look through the connecting glass.

Marianne jerked round and her fingers fumbled for the zip of her purse. ‘P-please keep the change,’ she said, pulling out a twenty-pound note.

It was only later, when she’d carefully tucked away the receipt in the side-pocket of her handbag and was standing on the pavement, that it occurred to her she should have let Peter settle the fare himself. She was so used to stepping in to do the tasks she knew he found difficult that it hadn’t occurred to her that she ought to let him fail this time. Perhaps that might have shown him how impossible a proposition this was?

‘This is something, isn’t it?’ the professor said gleefully, gesturing towards sleek BMWs that were so perfectly black they looked as if they’d been dipped in ink.

Marianne managed a smile as men in distinctive livery opened every door between the pavement and the imposing entrance hall. From there on it got worse. Enormous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings and gilt bronze garlands twisted their way along endless cream walls. It was the kind of awe-inspiring space that made you want to speak in hushed whispers.

‘Professor Blackwell and Dr Chambers to see His Serene Highness the Prince of Andovaria,’ the professor said, pulling out a simple white card on which Seb had written something. ‘In the Oakland Suite.’

Marianne half expected the slightly superior young man to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Her dress, which had seemed so expensive just an hour ago, now didn’t seem quite expensive enough. She lifted her chin in determination not to be cowed by her surroundings. She’d enough of an ordeal ahead of her without falling apart simply by stepping through the door.

‘Of course, sir. This way.’

More chandeliers. More bronze garlands twisting their way up and onwards. Marianne wasn’t sure which way to look first. The cream walls were punctuated with huge gilt mirrors and original oil paintings, while the fresh roses arranged on each of the antique tables looked so soft and so perfect they could have been made of velvet.

She felt…overwhelmed. By pretty much everything. Even the lift moved as though it were floating. The doors opened and they stepped out into a space no less opulent than the one below. Marianne could feel her stomach churning as though a billion angry ants had been let loose.

Seb. His name thumped inside her brain. She had to keep focusing on the fact that this man wasn’t Seb. Not her Seb. He was His Serene Highness the sovereign prince of Andovaria. He had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with her.

After the briefest of knocks the door to the Oakland Suite swung open and they were ushered, past the bodyguards, into what was rather like a mini-apartment. And it seemed that it had its own hotel staff member to take care of it because they were passed into the care of another uniformed man, who took her wrap.

Marianne felt disorientated and more cowed with every second that passed. Her chest felt tight and her breath seemed as though it were catching on cobwebs.

‘This way. His Serene Highness is expecting you.’

Double doors opened onto a tastefully furnished sitting room. Three sets of glass doors lined one wall, each framed by heavy curtains complete with swags and tails, while to the far end there was a baby grand piano.

‘Isn’t this incredible?’ the professor said as soon as they were alone. He walked over to the glass doors, which had been flung open to make the most of the warm weather, and peered out. ‘There’s even some kind of terrace out here. Just incredible. Come and have a look.’

But Marianne couldn’t move. She knew with absolute certainty that if she tried to walk anywhere her knees would buckle under her. Never, in her entire life, had she felt so…scared. But not just scared. She was also confused, angry and hurting.

There was the muffled sound of voices and the soft click that indicated a door had shut.

Seb? Her eyes stayed riveted on the connecting doorway.

Any moment…

Drawing on reserves she didn’t know she had, Marianne consciously relaxed her shoulders and lifted her chin. Seb mustn’t see how completely overwrought she was by this whole experience.

The door opened and it crossed her mind to wonder whether she was about to faint for the first time in her life.

‘Professor Blackwell,’ Seb said, walking forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m delighted you could join me this evening.’

She’d never seen Seb in a dinner jacket. At least, not outside of a photograph. It was an inconsequential thought—and one she ought to be ashamed of—but nothing she’d seen in the various magazines had prepared her for the effect it was having on her.

Pure sex appeal.

Several years’ experience of various university dinners had left her wondering why men bothered, particularly if they went for ruffles and an over-tight cummerbund. But Seb just looked sexy.

Seeing him this morning had been dreadful, but this felt so much worse. This time shock wasn’t protecting her from anything. She felt…raw.

Vulnerable.

And after everything she’d experienced she should have been completely immune to a playboy prince who’d simply decided, long ago, he didn’t want her any more.

Her eyes took in every detail…because she couldn’t help it. The small indentation in the centre of his chin and the faint scar above his eyebrow she knew he’d got when he was seventeen and fallen off a scooter.

And he seemed so much broader. More powerful than she remembered. Beneath his beautifully cut black jacket was a body entirely more muscled than the one she’d known so intimately. But—if she traced a finger down his left side until she reached a point two centimetres above his hip bone she would find the small oval-shaped birthmark she’d kissed….

Marianne felt a tight pain in her chest and realised she needed to let go of the air she was holding in her lungs.

This was a mistake. She wasn’t strong enough to do this. She saw the professor’s slight nod of the head and heard the murmured, ‘Your Serene Highness, may I introduce my colleague—’

Any moment Seb would look at her. Please, God. Marianne clutched her handbag close to her body and prayed the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

‘—Dr Marianne Chambers?’

Then his dark brown eyes met hers. He had beautiful, sexy eyes. Brown with flecks of deepest orange fanning out from dark black pupils.

‘Your Serene Highness.’ She heard her voice. Just. It was more of a croak.

But she didn’t curtsey. Not so much a conscious act of defiance as the consequence of complete paralysis. She needed to tap into some of the hate she felt for him. Remember what he’d done to her. How much he’d hurt her.

‘Dr Chambers.’ He extended his hand and Marianne recovered enough composure to stretch out her own. ‘I understand from Professor Blackwell that you’re particularly knowledgeable about the Third Crusade.’

‘Y-yes.’ She felt his fingers close round her hand. Warm. Confident. A man in charge. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Thank you for giving up your evening at such short notice.’

Seb released her hand and turned back to the professor.

Strangers. They were meeting like strangers. Everything inside of her rebelled at that. They weren’t strangers. She wanted to scream that at him. Shout loudly. Make herself heard.

‘May I introduce Dr Max Liebnitz,’ Seb said smoothly, ‘the curator of the Princess Elizabeth Museum?’

Marianne had barely noticed the unassuming man standing quietly behind. He moved now and shook the professor’s hand. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘And you, Dr Chambers. I believe I may have read something of yours on the battle of Hattin?’

‘That’s possible,’ Marianne murmured, conscious that Seb was standing no more than two metres away from her and could hear everything she said and everything said to her.

It was such a surreal experience. And the temptation to look at him again was immense, but she resolutely kept her focus on the professor, who’d fallen into an easy German. Her own grasp of the spoken language was less well-developed, but she knew enough to contribute to their discussion and more than enough to know Professor Blackwell had discovered a kindred spirit in Dr Leibnitz.

Seb’s well-informed observations astounded her. Once, when he referred to the siege of Acre, she was surprised into looking up at him.

He’d changed. The Seb she’d known couldn’t have made a comment like that. He’d been…reckless. Irresponsible. Ready for adventure. Simply younger, she supposed with a wry smile.

She tended to forget how very young she’d been herself—and how foolishly idealistic. She’d honestly believed she’d discovered her soul mate, the man she’d spend the rest of her life with, grow old with, have children with.

How foolish was that at eighteen? Marianne lifted her chin and straightened her spine. She’d paid a heavy price for her naivety, whereas Seb had recognised their relationship for what it was and survived it unscathed.

That hurt. To know that she was the only one nursing any kind of regret.

‘Marianne’s recent research has been particularly focused on the role of women.’ The professor turned to smile at her. ‘Obviously the vast bulk of primary sources available to us have been written by men—’

‘And for men,’ Marianne interjected, bringing her mind back into sharp focus.

Dr Leibnitz nodded. ‘It must make your research particularly painstaking.’

‘But fascinating,’ Marianne agreed. ‘Wars have always impacted on women and the Third Crusade was no different.’

Seb stood back and listened. He wasn’t sure what had surprised him most—that Marianne was fluent in German or that she was so clearly respected for her opinions. Ten years ago she’d intended to pursue an English degree. So, what had made her change direction?

And the German? It was impossible not to remember the times he’d tried to instruct her in his native tongue for no other reason than he’d loved to hear the strong English accent in her appalling pronunciation. There was no trace of that any more.

Very little trace of the girl at all. This morning he’d been struck by the similarities, but this evening her ash blonde hair was swept up in a sophisticated style and her body was much more curvaceous than the image of her he held in his memory.

Still beautiful. Undeniably. Maybe more so.

And nervous. Seb wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. There was nothing about the way Marianne was speaking that told him that. Outwardly she seemed to be a woman in control of her destiny, comfortable wherever she found herself, but…there was something. Perhaps the grip on her handbag was a little too tight? Or her back a little too straight?

She hadn’t wanted to talk to him this morning—and he’d lay money on the fact she didn’t want to be here tonight. He watched the soft swing of her long earrings against the fine column of her throat and he experienced a wave of…

He wasn’t sure of what. Regret that he’d hurt her? Maybe that was the ache inside of him? He’d never intended to hurt her. But then he hadn’t intended to do anything more than speak to her on that first day. Not much more than that on the second.

They had all four of them been travelling through France. What was more sensible than that he and Nick should join forces with Marianne and Beth? At least, that was what he’d told his friend.

He’d been such a fool. He’d had no idea of the possible consequences. But Nick had. Seb thought of his old school friend with a familiar appreciation. Nick had tried hard to persuade him to stay longer in Amiens. Had been a constant voice in his ear reminding him of what his parents would say…

Marianne’s accusation this morning that he’d lied to her had startled him—and yet the more he thought about it the more ashamed he felt.

He owed her an explanation. What he lacked was the opportunity to give it. Professor Blackwell and Dr Leibnitz might be deep in conversation, but it was pushing the bounds of possibility to imagine they wouldn’t be aware of what was being said in another part of the room.

Seb nodded towards the butler, who opened the double doors into the intimate dining room. The party moved through and with great skill, he thought, he encouraged the professor and Dr Leibnitz to continue their conversation uninterrupted—and that left him next to Marianne.

The butler positioned her chair behind her and she’d no choice but to accept the place. Instinct told him that she would not have if there’d been any alternative. He watched her, surreptitiously, noticing the small curl of baby-fine blonde hair that had escaped the elegant twist and had settled at the nape of her neck.

She was a very beautiful woman. And not married. She wore no rings on her left hand. In fact, she wore no jewellery—except the long, tapering earrings that swung against her neck when she spoke.

‘Your German is excellent, Dr Chambers,’ Seb said, forcing her to look at him.

Her eyes turned to him, startled, and the long earrings swung softly. ‘Th-thank you.’

‘Where did you learn it?’

The butler stepped forward and moved to fill her wine glass.

‘No. Thank you. I’d prefer water.’

Seb watched the nervous flutter of her hands. ‘Your German,’ he persisted, ‘where did you learn it? Your pronunciation is perfect.’

He saw the slight widening of her eyes and knew she was remembering the afternoon they’d spent at Monet’s garden at Giverny.

She turned her head away and her earrings swung. Marianne didn’t seem to notice the way they brushed her neck. ‘Eliana…’ She swallowed. ‘Eliana, Professor Blackwell’s wife, is Austrian. From Salzburg.’

Seb frowned his confusion. He didn’t immediately see the connection…

‘I lived with Professor Blackwell and his family when I…was younger.’

He could have sworn she’d been about to say something different. His mind played through the options. When I…finished university? When I…started work? When I…came back from Paris?

He wanted to know. Certainly Marianne hadn’t lived with the professor’s family before France. She’d lived with her parents in a village in…Suffolk.

‘Eliana and Peter are close family friends of my father’s sister.’

Ah. Seb’s eyes flicked across to the professor, still firmly engrossed in his conversation on the finer points of twelfth-century sword design. ‘And is that why you chose to study history?’

Again her soft brown eyes turned on him with a startled expression. She gave the slightest of smiles. ‘His enthusiasm is infectious.’

No doubt that was true, but Seb felt that her answer was only half the story. Ten years ago she’d had ambitions to write plays that would rival Shakespeare. She’d set herself the goal of reading her way through the entire works of Chekhov and Ibsen by the time she started university. So, what had changed?

‘I imagine it is. Professor Blackwell’s reputation is second to none.’ Seb paused while the butler placed the beautifully presented foie gras and wild-mushroom bourdin in front of him. ‘That’s why my sister is adamant I must persuade him to come to Andovaria.’

‘Your sister?’

‘Viktoria. My eldest sister. The Princess Elizabeth Museum is in my grandmother’s memory and Vik’s pet project.’

Marianne’s mind felt as if it was spluttering. ‘Vik’ would be Her Serene Highness, Princess Viktoria? Tall, elegant, married to some equally tall and well-connected title with two young sons?

She looked down at the heavily starched tablecloth, bedecked with more cutlery choices than she’d ever faced in her life, and tried to focus on what had brought her here. ‘But if much of what you have beneath the palace is connected with the Teutonic knights, then surely Professor Adler would be the obvious choice?’

Seb picked up his wine glass and took a sip. ‘That’s true, but we believe only a small part of what we have would be of particular interest to Professor Adler.’

The first course gave way to the second. And after the breast of guinea-fowl with asparagus and bacon came the third, an artistic arrangement of dark chocolate with a praline ice cream.

Marianne took a tiny spoonful of the ice cream. Somehow Seb managed to make it sound so reasonable that the professor should go to Andovaria and, if it weren’t for his eyesight, he was the perfect choice.

Her eyes flicked to the animated, kindly face of the professor opposite. Excitement was practically radiating from him. It was a tangible thing.

He wouldn’t be able to resist this opportunity. Marianne knew it with complete certainty. A lifetime devoted to uncovering the secrets of the past couldn’t be pushed to one side easily.

And she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave him to flounder alone. As much as she hated the thought of going to Andovaria, she loved Peter and Eliana more. She owed them something for what they’d done for her.

More than something. Marianne took a sip of water. They’d taken her in, pregnant and scared, when her own mother had not. She owed them everything. She took another mouthful of ice cream and let her eyes wander to Seb’s handsome profile. Supremely confident, charismatic and charming. He really had no idea of the fate he’d left her to.

What would Seb say if he knew he’d left her expecting their baby?

Had he ever thought to wonder what had happened to her? Or had he really returned to Andovaria and his royal responsibilities without sparing her a moment’s consideration?

What kind of conversation would they be having now if little Jessica had lived?

In many ways nature had known best. It hurt her to think it, but at eighteen she’d been hopelessly ill-prepared to take on the responsibility of a child. The logical part of her brain accepted that, even while her heart probably never would. Eliana had spent hours talking her through…everything. Patiently helping her manage emotions she’d not had the life skills to even begin to deal with.

First, there’d been the pregnancy itself and her mother’s inability to cope with her ‘perfect’ daughter’s fall from grace.

And then the stillbirth. The heartbreaking scan. The long hours of labour which had resulted in a perfectly formed baby girl—born asleep, as the euphemism went.

Marianne covertly studied His Serene Highness Prince Sebastian II. Their baby. She and Seb had created a little girl—and he didn’t even know.

She reached out for her water glass and took a sip, carefully placing it back down on the table. Eliana believed all men had the right to know if they were about to become a father…

Sometimes she wondered…if Jessica had lived long enough to be born safely, whether she’d ever have told him. At eighteen she’d been adamant he’d never know, but that had been her hurt talking. The first photographs of the about-to-be-enthroned Prince of Andovaria with his dark-haired fiancée had been cataclysmic. Like a switch flicking inside her—love to hate in a moment.

She sat back in her chair. But…eventually she might have told him. Perhaps. When Jessica had grown old enough to decide whether she wanted the poisoned chalice of being universally known as the illegitimate daughter of a European prince—with a mother he’d not considered worth marrying.

It was an academic question. There’d been no baby past the seventh month of her pregnancy. Marianne could feel the pain now, shooting through her—as it always did whenever she was reminded of Jessica. The sense of failure. And the emptiness that pervaded everything—and had done for practically her entire adult life.

She watched as Seb reached for his wine glass. He’d no idea. No understanding of how comprehensively he’d wrecked her life. And how she’d never forgive him.