Kitabı oku: «Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling»

CHAPTER ONE

The Royal House of Armaria invites you

to a Midsummer Ball

June 21

Time: 7 p.m. until late

Place: Armaria Castle

Dress code: Black tie

RSVP

LAURENT PICKED UP the sample cream and gold heavily embossed card and turned it over. The other side was blank, awaiting a name. Strange to think that in less than a week this card would be one of the hottest tickets in town. No, not just in town, in Europe.

After all, it had been over twenty years since Armaria had hosted one of their famous Midsummer Balls, enough time for the opulent occasions to become part of myth and legend; rumour whispered that anything might happen to those lucky enough to attend. Film stars fell in love with royalty, maids married dukes and unhappy countesses ran away with stable boys. Every Midsummer Ball was filled with wonder, with seduction, with magic.

At least, if you believed the stories they were. The reality was probably a lot more prosaic. After all, if Laurent’s plans came to fruition, one day stories might be told about this year’s ball, a tale of a midnight proposal and a fairy tale romance. His clasp tightened on the card. Luckily he was too old to believe in fairy tales and he had never dreamt of romance. All a man in his position could do was hope for compatibility and liking.

He turned as the library door opened and his mother entered the book-lined room, relief on her face as she spotted him. Replacing the card onto his desk, he covered it hastily with a blank piece of paper and walked out to meet her in the middle of the vast room.

She held out a regal hand towards him. ‘Laurent, I haven’t seen you since you returned from England. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.’

‘Hardly hiding, Maman,’ he protested as he bent to kiss her still unlined cheek. ‘My aide knew I was in here. As did the maid who brought me my coffee.’ He gestured to the small table set with a coffee service pulled up to one of the sofas dotted around the room. ‘It’s still hot. May I pour you a cup?’

‘Thank you, dear.’ The dowager Archduchess took a seat on the antique sofa with her usual unhurried elegance, her feet crossing at the ankle, back ramrod-straight and head tilted. Even when it was just the two of them she didn’t allow herself to relax. Her hair was always perfectly styled, her make-up fresh, her clothes smart. The message had been drilled into him since he was a small boy; as a member of the Armarian ruling family—the most prominent and important member—he was always on display, always representing his country, and even when alone he could not, must not, forget it.

Pouring his mother a cup of the fragrant coffee, Laurent handed it to her and she accepted it with a gracious nod of thanks. ‘Thank you, Laurent. But you must know, it’s no time to be hiding in the library. The Prime Minister has been looking for you. He’s hoping for an answer...’

‘No, he’s hoping for a different answer. And he won’t get one.’ With practised effort Laurent kept the anger out of his voice. ‘I will not allow him to turn Armaria into some kind of grubby little tax haven. My grandfather and father managed without taking that step; you managed without taking that step. I won’t be the one to sell the country out. Our people deserve better.’

‘Our people deserve new roads and houses, better hospitals, more schools...’

‘Which is why we need a long-term strategy.’ It was as if they were two actors rehearsing well known lines. Lines they had been repeating for the three years since Laurent had finished his MBA and his mother had formally ceded her regency of Armaria to him.

‘And you have one?’ Hope brightened her voice. ‘How was your trip to England? Did he say yes?’

She didn’t need to specify who he was; she knew full well that Laurent had been paying a second under-the-radar visit to Mike Clayton, the tech entrepreneur whose robotic gadgets could be found in households all over the globe. Mike Clayton who was looking for a more sustainable form of energy to manufacture said robots. Energy a small country with a long coastline, windswept hills and mountains and long hours of sunshine could provide...

Laurent walked over to the tall thin windows, staring out at the famous castle gardens full of tourists and sightseers. Tourism was a valuable resource for the small country, but it wasn’t enough to make it as prosperous as it needed to be. ‘Not exactly. But he didn’t say no either and he’s coming out to take a second look at the proposed site and to meet with the university.’

‘That’s promising. But is it enough? I know the Prime Minister is hoping to have a plan approved by Parliament before the summer break. You need something more concrete than a second visit to offer him.’

‘I need nothing. Parliament is merely advisory and the Prime Minister would do very well to remember that.’ Laurent inhaled slowly as he turned to face his mother. ‘You know that my father was determined not to go down the tax haven route, nor did he want to turn the country into a giant theme park of romanticism and cod medievalism. You worked hard to keep his vision alive and I won’t betray his legacy. If we can attract one thriving tech company like Clay Industries then others will be sure to follow. We can turn Armaria into the tech capital of Europe, a Silicon Valley of the north. Create jobs and prosperity without losing our integrity.’ He stopped abruptly, aware he sounded like he was giving a prepared speech to Parliament, and his mother smiled with understanding. After all, she had heard variations on the speech many times before.

‘It’s not me you have to convince, Laurent.’

‘No, just Parliament.’ Advisory they might be, but life was infinitely easier with them on side. ‘If Clay Industries bite then Parliament will capitulate on the tax haven bill, I know it. I just need that first investment...’

‘So you’ll find a way to make it happen.’ His mother was matter-of-fact. This was what they did. Through ten centuries the Archdukes of Armaria had done whatever they had to, to protect their people from invaders and plagues, wars and famine, bankruptcy and poverty. He would not be the first to fail.

‘Yes. I will. Which is why I have suggested that the Claytons are our guests of honour for the newly revived Midsummer Ball. Mike Clayton’s sixtieth birthday falls on the same day, and they have yet to decide on the best way to mark it. What better way than for him to celebrate here in Armaria on one of the most iconic nights of the year?’

‘Midsummer is always special, but it’s less than a month away. And it’s been years since we held a grand ball. Not since your father...’ Her voice faltered, as it still did whenever she spoke of her late husband. Twenty-one years of widowhood hadn’t lessened her grief. Things might have been different if she had been able to move on, but instead Laurent was all too aware that his mother’s life had stilled at the moment of her husband’s death and she had been trapped into a regency she had neither asked for nor wanted, preserving the small country to hand on to her son. ‘There is so much to do, to plan and arrange. The ballroom could do with a lick of paint and a polish, as could half that wing and some of our staterooms.’

‘It’s a good thing we have a castle full of staff, isn’t it? I know the timing is tight, Maman, but our Midsummer Balls were legendary; reviving them is the kind of gesture we need to show we have faith in Armaria, in our past and traditions as well as in our future. It’s the ideal opportunity to make the Claytons fall in love with Armaria, with everything we have to offer. Let Mike Clayton use his heart as well as his head when he chooses us. Speaking of which...’ He hesitated. Once he’d said the next words, there would be no going back. He steeled himself. ‘I think it’s time I got married.’

‘Married?’ His mother’s surprise was almost comical. After all, she had been hinting at this very thing for two years now, drawing up lists of eligible and connected young ladies on a regular basis.

‘I am twenty-eight, as you keep reminding me. And, as you know, Alex is next in line—how cross would he be if I died without an heir and he had to become Archduke?’

‘Dear Alex,’ his mother murmured. ‘He loves that hospital so much.’

‘Which is why I need to settle down and have an heir or two so he doesn’t have to worry about hanging up his stethoscope and putting on a crown.’

The dowager Archduchess’s eyes narrowed as she assessed her son. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.’ And, her tone implied, if she didn’t know about it, then how could it be happening? ‘And you know how it is. You are Armaria and you have to do what is right for the whole country, and that includes your marriage. You can’t just marry anyone.’

‘I wasn’t planning on marrying just anyone.’ He took a deep breath. Once the words were said there was no going back. ‘Mike Clayton has a daughter. Bella. I’m sure you’ll like her. I am considering asking her to be my Archduchess. To strengthen the ties between Armaria and Clay Industries on every level.’

‘I see.’ His mother blinked and for one moment the formidable regent disappeared, to be replaced with a tearful mother who only wanted her son’s happiness. Another blink and the regent returned as if she had never left. ‘Oh, Laurent. I do see. And of course it makes sense. The days when we needed to ally ourselves with one of our neighbours through marriage may have gone, but there’s always a new generation of buccaneers in town.’

‘I haven’t said anything to Bella or her parents,’ Laurent warned his mother. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you first. Obviously, she might have plans for her life that don’t include a draughty old castle and living in a strange country.’

‘Tell me about her. What makes her laugh? What are her dreams?’

Laurent shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with the whimsical question. He was an Archduke. He didn’t deal with dreams and laughter; he dealt with facts and figures and if he decided to propose to Bella Clayton and if she accepted then it would be the oldest trade in the book. He had a country in need of investment and her family had that investment to make. A title and a throne for money or influence or protection, just as his forebears had done time and time again.

‘As you know, I’ve stayed with her family twice now and she seems nice enough.’ He didn’t need to see his mother wince to realise how far short those words fell. ‘She’s pretty, possibly even beautiful,’ he tried again. ‘She loves dogs and horses; we spent most of our time together discussing them.’ A mutual love of animals was surely as good a place to start a marriage as any. Many royal couples had less.

‘Where was she educated?’

‘Nothing to worry about there; she went to an exclusive boarding school and then spent a couple of years at a Swiss finishing school. Since then she has worked for Clay Industries, helping run their charity trust.’ Not that she seemed over-burdened with a nine-to-five; her role there seemed more titular, but the charity angle would go down well with the press and was good preparation for many of the duties necessary for an Archduchess.

His mother raised an eyebrow. ‘No university? That’s a shame. I do think in these uncertain times a girl needs a good education beyond correct knives and the right curtsey—she never knows when she might end up Regent in an absolute monarchy. A good grasp of mathematics and economics can be essential.’

A wave of sympathy swept over Laurent for the young Archduchess his mother had once been, barely thirty, widowed and thrust into a position of responsibility on behalf of her young son. ‘Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I’m not planning on leaving her to manage alone.’

She glanced up, startled, betrayed into an answering smile when she realised he was teasing her. ‘Of course not. But an Archduchess does need a lot of common sense and a thick skin as well as brains. It’s not an easy job.’

‘No. It’s not. But she does seem fully aware of the burdens of her privilege as well as the blessings. And her mother made sure I knew that Bella is descended from the Normans on both sides of her family tree—Mike Clayton informally adopted her when he married her mother, but her natural father was a baron, so her background is good enough for those people who care about such things.’

‘Yes, it does sound as if her birth and education will do. Laurent, is this idea yours, or have her parents hinted that the two of you might make a suitable union?’

‘All my idea. There has been no pressure from Mike Clayton, no hints that his investment is conditional on such a move. But he is extremely fond of his stepdaughter and very family-orientated. I believe he would welcome our marriage and would want to do his best for the place she eventually calls home.’ Bella’s mother, Simone, was a different story; she had made several comments linking Laurent and her daughter during his two visits to the family estate and taken every opportunity to throw them together. Laurent had no doubt that she was hoping for exactly this outcome—and that with a proposal would come her complete backing for Clay Industries’ investment in Armaria.

‘And the young lady herself. Does she seem to like you, Laurent? Will she welcome a proposal after so short an acquaintance? Can you be happy with her?’

They were three very different questions.

‘I will be happy watching Armaria prosper,’ he said at last. ‘As for Bella Clayton... I do not believe a proposal will be either a surprise, or unwelcome. She’s twenty-seven and has been raised with an expectation of a place in society. Life here would not be the kind of shock it might be for someone from a different kind of background.’

‘Well, then,’ his mother said after a pause. ‘In that case I look forward to meeting her—and her family. When are you hoping that they will arrive?’

‘A few days before the ball.’ Walking over to the desk, he unearthed the invitation he had been looking at earlier and handed it to his mother. ‘I had this mocked up earlier. Once we’re happy with the design we’ll get them sent out, so get your secretary to send mine the list of everyone you would like to invite by the end of the week. I know the timing is tight, but this is the first royal ball held at the castle for two decades. I don’t think any guests will worry too much about prior plans, do you? And, hopefully, by the end of the summer Armaria will have both new investment and a new Archduchess.’

His mother looked around the library, lips pursed. ‘I’ll also make a list of all the work that needs doing between now and then. It will have to be all hands on deck if we are going to open the castle up to hundreds of guests.’

‘I’m happy to wield a paintbrush if it gets the job done. Thank you. Don’t worry about the ball itself, Maman. Simone Clayton has recommended an events planner and, all being well, she should be starting at the weekend.’ He hesitated. ‘Obviously, I expect to cover all costs, as the host, but the Claytons do have some additions they’d like to make to the traditional plans—and of course they have their own list of guests to invite. As a result, they are insisting on paying for the event planner, their guests and for the cost of any of their extra requirements. I did my best to dissuade them, as you can imagine, but they were adamant.’ Laurent’s mouth thinned. His country, his castle, his responsibility. But he was supposed to be wooing Mike Clayton—and his daughter—not arguing with them, and in the end gracious capitulation was the only option.

‘I see. Are you sure, Laurent? Sure that this girl will make you happy?’

Laurent merely bowed in answer. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, both for myself and for Armaria.’

For Laurent knew there was no real difference. He was the Archduke and with the title came responsibility for every man, woman and child, every meadow and mountain. He had never wasted any time wishing things were different; what was the point? His focus had to be on the future—and now his plans were finally coming to fruition. What was the point of might-have-beens and if-onlys? Bella Clayton was attractive, pleasant, well brought up and well connected—and the heir to a company with the capacity to change Armaria’s fortunes. If she was prepared to grant him those assets in return for a title then he was a fortunate man indeed.

* * *

Emilia Clayton leaned back in her chair and managed to summon up a professional almost-smile as she regarded her stepmother across the vintage desk.

‘You didn’t have to make an appointment to see me, Simone.’ Only both women knew that was a lie. Emilia did everything she could to avoid her father’s family. She was sure they were as relieved as she was when she excused herself from dinners and birthdays. Which was why Simone’s presence in her office was such a surprise, and not one of the pleasant variety. Just the sight of her stepmother made it hard for Emilia to be the quiet, controlled professional woman she had grown into, the memory of the rebellious teen with more anger than she could control shuddering through every nerve and vein. She shoved the memories back and maintained her smile.

Simone’s almost-smile was as faux genuine as Emilia’s own. ‘You didn’t reply to your father’s last texts. An official appointment seemed like the only way to actually guarantee getting hold of you.’

‘If I’d known it was so urgent I would have made the time. But I’ve been busy. As you can see.’ Emilia kept her tone light but something in her chest twisted as she spoke. Was her father ill? His texts had been so non-committal, the usual wishy-washy hopes that she was well and that he would see her at some unspecified point soon. The same messages he’d been sending her for the last decade—when he remembered. Nondescript, impersonal, a salve to his conscience.

Probably exactly what she deserved.

‘I’d heard you started your own business. This is all very quaint.’ Her stepmother looked around the spacious office space, with its soothing tones of white and grey and vibrant pictures and soft furnishings, with an air that strongly hinted that quaint was the most neutral word she could come up with. ‘I have to say, Emilia, I was very surprised to hear that you were living in Chelsea.’ The slight emphasis on ‘you’ conveyed myriad meanings, each one suggesting that Emilia was not the kind of person who belonged in the once bohemian, now rarefied borough.

‘No one was more surprised than me, but this is where our agency is based.’ The truth was, Chelsea was the last place Emilia would have chosen if she had had a choice. She hadn’t ventured to this part of West London since finally leaving home for good at just sixteen; it was far too close to her father’s Kensington apartment and there were unwelcome memories around every corner. But when her colleague and friend, Alexandra, had inherited an old townhouse in a beautiful tree-lined street in the heart of the old Chelsea village, it had been the catalyst for the two of them, along with their friends Amber and Harriet, to quit their day jobs and leave their rented rooms in far flung parts of London for the heart of West London.

‘Yes, the Happy Ever After Agency. How whimsical.’

‘We guarantee happy clients. Speaking of which, is this a business appointment, Simone, or did you just want to catch up? Only we are rather busy.’

Simone raised one eyebrow ever so slightly, her only comment on Emilia’s manners. Emilia had never been able to rile her stepmother, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. Truth was, Simone had never cared enough about her for her behaviour to really matter, each act of bad behaviour and rudeness an inconvenience rather than a shock. ‘Lady Jane Winspear was highly complimentary about the party you organised for her.’

Emilia kept the half-smile in place to hide her confusion. The party in question had been for a pair of particularly spoiled twins. In her opinion, Bella, her stepsister, was equally spoiled but somewhat past the age of unicorn rides and carousels. ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘So when I needed an event planner with immediate effect, I of course thought of you. My way of helping out your little enterprise. I know you’re too proud to accept help but I hope you wouldn’t be silly enough to turn down paying work.’

Emilia curled her hands into fists under the desk. She had made it clear years ago that she neither wanted or needed anything from her father or his new family. But, although the Happy Ever After Agency was doing well, turning down work would be a foolish move, especially from people as well connected as her father and stepmother. ‘You want to hire me?’

‘That’s why I am here. I would like you to organise your father’s sixtieth birthday ball.’

‘My father’s...’ Emilia swallowed. Of course she was aware that her father’s sixtieth was less than a month away. How could she not be when his fiftieth had been the occasion when she had packed her bags and walked out of his family and his life, vowing that this time it was for ever? She had planned to spend his sixtieth as she had every one of his birthdays since then: in denial.

‘As I said, we’re very busy and it’s very short notice. And I can’t afford any freebies; this is a new business.’ She stopped, slightly appalled by herself as the excuses spilled from her mouth. How did Simone always have this effect on her? It was as if she expected the worst from Emilia and Emilia simply had to oblige her. And the only loser was Emilia herself.

‘I’m aware of the short notice. The truth is your father was planning a quiet family birthday.’ A family birthday which obviously didn’t include Emilia. And that might be partly her choice but it still stung. ‘However, he’s been invited to be guest of honour at the first Armarian Midsummer Ball to be held in over twenty years.’

This was obviously very impressive news indeed and Emilia did her best to look awed whilst trying to work out where Armaria was. Was it the small country between France and Italy or the small country between Switzerland and Italy? Or was it in the Balkans? ‘Congratulations to Dad,’ she said and Simone threw her a hard glance.

‘Finally your father is getting the recognition he deserves. Of course he will want his friends, family and business partners to attend the ball, and so I offered to supply an event planner to make sure every detail is just how he likes it.’ Simone steepled her hands and looked at Emilia, her grey-eyed gaze as hard and piercing as it usually was where her stepdaughter was involved. ‘Will you be able to find the time to organise the event of the year or will I need to find another planner? One who isn’t too busy to accommodate me?’

Emilia’s mind whirled as thoughts of palaces and royalty and all the delicious publicity such a job would generate passed swiftly through her mind. How could she turn an opportunity like this down? ‘Why me?’ she asked bluntly.

Simone’s mouth thinned. ‘Believe me, Emilia, I thought long and hard about coming here today. I want this ball to be perfect and I haven’t forgotten your behaviour at your father’s fiftieth—and nor has he. But your reputation as an event planner is very good and I can’t believe you’d endanger it because of some long-held teen angst. And, whether you like it or not, you know your father better than any stranger ever could. If you put your mind to it then you can make sure this ball is as special as he is.’

Emilia’s fists tightened. ‘I see.’

‘There’s a lot riding on the evening. Not only is it your father’s birthday but he is considering moving his European headquarters and new factory to Armaria. We have got to know the Archduke very well over the last few months and he and Bella... Well, I don’t want to say too much but I have hopes of a much, much closer tie with the royal family. Nothing can go wrong. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘So, you’ll do it?’

No. Both Emilia’s head and heart spoke in unison. Emilia might be twenty-six now, all grown up with her own business and a family of friends she’d assembled herself, but where her father was concerned she was still a hurt, lonely child. And when it came to Simone she was a hurt, angry child. She kept an emotional and a physical distance from them for a reason; she didn’t like who she had been when she lived with them, the way she had acted, her desperate bids for attention, each one more extreme than the one before, how out of control she had been. Better to stay far away. It was self-preservation and it had worked over the last few years.