Her Royal Baby (9 page)

She was stunning!

‘Where the hell did you get the clothes?' he demanded, and her eyes creased in amusement.

‘Now, here I was, wondering whether
my
manners were up to scratch.'

‘I beg your pardon,' he said stiffly, catching himself. She was right. As a greeting it was hardly appropriate. ‘I…Tammy, this is Ingrid. My…'

‘Partner,' Ingrid finished for him, her dark eyes giving him a strange sideways glance. ‘I'm very pleased to meet you…Tammy.' She came forward and took Tammy's hand in her cool grasp, gave it a lightly welcoming squeeze. ‘How are you, my dear? We were just saying you must be feeling very strange. I wouldn't have wondered if you'd wanted dinner in your room tonight.' Her eyes perused Tammy and
her look of light amusement deepened. ‘You've been raiding your sister's clothes, I see. Well done, you. I was going to wrap them up and send them to charity, but if you can use them…'

The implication was obvious, and Tammy flushed. But she held her cool. This woman reminded her of her mother, and Tammy had learned early that anger wasn't a useful tool. Other methods were more effective.

‘I'm pleased that you did no such thing,' she said coolly. ‘I've yet to see the terms of my sister's will, but I doubt her private property would be yours to dispose of. Legal writs are so tiresome, don't you think?' She took the flute of champagne Marc had poured for her and smiled. ‘Thank you. That's just what I needed. And Dom Pérignon…my favourite.'

Fifteen minutes ago she'd been saying that what she needed was a Vegemite sandwich. Marc blinked—but then maybe he would have blinked anyway.

Wow!

Until now he'd suspected Tammy had chosen her isolated profession because of an inferiority complex. Lara and her mother, Isobelle, were magnificent. They were creatures whose every feature screamed perfection, from the tip of their beautifully pedicured toes to their gleaming tresses. If Tammy had grown up comparing herself to such perfection—well, maybe anyone would have headed to the bush.

But Tammy was just as beautiful as her sister or her mother, he thought. Maybe even more so. She wore very little make-up and no jewellery, but in her sister's simple black dress she made Ingrid appear overdressed and over-made-up.

And Ingrid knew. And Ingrid didn't like it one bit.

‘Well, of course if they fit you…' She was smiling, moving to the head of the table and gesturing to Tammy to sit.
Hostess to guest. The gesture wasn't lost on Marc who grimaced. Hell, he had things to sort out here.

But Tammy still seemed unfazed. ‘It'd be a waste not to use them,' Tammy agreed cheerfully. ‘By the look of the wardrobes I shan't need to buy anything more until Henry inherits.'

‘You intend to stay that long?'

‘Henry needs a mother,' Tammy said softly, sitting down as though she'd sat at such tables all her life. The butler was behind her—he assisted her into the chair and placed a napkin on her knees and she gave him a friendly, happy smile. ‘I guess I'm it.'

‘But if Marc and I—'

‘Will you have wine?' Marc interrupted with a harried look, and Tammy gave him her very nicest smile.

‘Yes, please.'

 

Hell.

Marc couldn't sleep. Finally, at about two in the morning, he rose and took himself out for a walk in the gardens. It was a full moon. The moonlight was reflecting off the lake and the night was gorgeous. He walked the full perimeter of the lake. His strides lengthened as he walked and so did his sense of unease.

What was he doing?

Until Jean-Paul had died his life had been uncomplicated. Or…less complicated. He'd been able to keep himself right apart from this family, and that was the way he'd liked it.

He'd been brought up close to here, but miles apart in terms of lifestyle. His father had been the Crown Prince's brother. The brothers had got on—once—but the children hadn't. Jean-Paul's mother had been a snob of the first order, who'd preened herself on her success in marrying Marc's uncle, whereas Marc's mother had been a warm, fun-loving woman who'd had little to do with royalty.

For good reason. At the thought of his mother, Marc twisted his mouth into a grim line. What they'd done to her… This family…

It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. It was past. He'd learned that the only way to cope with these people—with anyone who had any connections to the crown—was to be businesslike and brusque.

Because he loved this little country he'd do what he had to do over the next few years. He'd wear the crown and hold the monarchy in good stead for his little cousin, but that was as far as it went. If Tammy—Tamsin, he told himself harshly; he'd keep this formal—if she could be persuaded to take a royal role then he could step back into the background. Which was what he wanted. He wanted to go back to his lovely little estate and get right away from these people.

From Tammy?

Yes. From Tammy, he told himself savagely. She stirred him as he hadn't believed a woman could.

And he didn't understand why. His sort of woman wasn't like that. Not like Tamsin. His sort of woman was one such as Ingrid.

Ingrid…

The thought of her behaviour at dinner made his teeth clench. She'd been a bitch. He needed to get rid of her. After dinner, as she'd clung and expected to be taken back to his bed, he'd rebuffed her with more bluntness than tact.

‘I'm jet-lagged, Ingrid. I need my own bed tonight.'

‘I can just stay a while, sweetheart.'

Sweetheart… The term sounded almost obscene coming from her. She was beautiful, and she'd been an elegant hostess for him in the past, but their relationship hadn't lasted any more than a few short months. None of his relationships did.

That was the way he liked it. The women in his circle
were all tarred with the same brush as his aunt and Isobelle and Lara. He knew damned well what drove them. To bring a woman in from outside—to expose her to the goldfish bowl of royalty—would be to expose her to the same sort of pain his mother had experienced. He couldn't do it.

And Tammy…

Why did his thoughts swing back to Tammy? Tammy, gazing at him from that huge tree she'd been working on. Tammy, asleep on his shoulder in the plane. Tammy, hugging her nephew, making him smile, swinging her bare feet while she sat on that huge, crazy bed.

Tammy in the tiny black dress, beating Ingrid at her own game.

Yeah, right. Get involved with Tammy and he'd be involved with this family for ever. He hated it. Hated it! And Tammy was just such a one as his mother. There was no way he'd subject her to—

Subject her? What was he thinking of? Marrying the girl?

Where had that thought come from? Ridiculous! He was so out of his comfort zone in all this that he didn't know where he was.

‘Damn you, Jean-Paul,' he told his dead cousin. ‘I'm not playing your games. I'm not playing
any
games. I do what I have to do and then I get out of here.'

Tammy…

Don't be a fool, he told himself as he rounded the last bend and trod up the steps back into the castle. I should never have kissed her. God knows why I did. One thing's for certain: it's never going to happen again. She doesn't want me just as much as I don't want her.

But…how much was that?

M
ARC
woke to laughter. He groaned and opened one eye to discover it was eight a.m. That'd teach him to wander round the lake in the small hours. His head was still in a time zone a thousand miles away.

Maybe he'd imagined the laughter, he thought, still hazy from sleep. One thing this palace never encouraged was laughter.

But there it was again, drifting up from under his windows. Definitely laughter. Tammy's?

A knock and Dominic was entering. The butler set his tray on the bedside table and started to pull the curtains. He smiled in sympathy as Marc grimaced.

‘I'm sorry, sir, but you did organise a meeting with M'sieur Lavac at nine.'

‘At nine?' Marc groaned again. ‘M'sieur Lavac?'

‘The accountant, sir,' Dominic told him in the reproving manner of a senior person to a child who has to be occasionally indulged.

‘Yes. Right.' The palace accountant. M'sieur Lavac. Of course. Dominic was pulling aside vast brocade drapes and the light hurt his eyes ‘Who the hell is laughing? Surely it can't be T… Miss Dexter?'

‘Did they wake you, sir? Shall I tell them to stop?'

Them?
‘Tell who to stop?'

‘Miss Tammy and Master Henry.' Dominic paused by the windows and gazed down at the south lawn, a smile playing over his normally taciturn face. ‘I'll admit I'd be reluctant to stop them. It does my heart good to see them here. We
never thought we'd see a child back at the palace. And this aunt of the little Prince…'

‘She meets with your approval?' The temptation was too great. Jet-lag or no jet-lag, Marc rose to see for himself.

They were right beneath his windows. A steep and grassy bank led down to the lake, and Tammy had climbed to the top, with Henry in her arms. While Marc watched she lay down on the grass, set the little boy down before her so they were almost nose to nose, held his hands tight—and they rolled down the grassy verge together.

Clearly they'd done it time and time again. They ended up on the bank of the lake, both bubbling with laughter, the baby holding his hands out for more. A cluster of ducklings and their mother watched from the water's edge, seemingly almost as bemused as Marc.

And for Marc it was a strange feeling. Incredible! He watched Tammy's laughing face and felt a surge of such desire it threatened to overwhelm him.

But this wasn't a desire he knew. It was crazily mixed up, he thought. His feelings for Tammy were merging with what she represented. Because in there, too, was a desire to do what she was doing—to play with the baby he'd already started to love.

Love? He didn't do love, he told himself, startled. He was there in the background to safeguard Henry's inheritance. That was all.

He didn't do love!

The butler was watching him with a strange expression on his face and Marc tried to catch himself. To appear nonchalant. He let the drapes drop back into place.

‘Have the staff taken to Miss Tamsin?' he asked, as casually as he could. Which wasn't as casual as he'd have liked.

Dominic didn't notice, or at least he didn't appear to notice. ‘Oh, yes, sir.'

With those three short words there was no doubting that Tammy had Dominic's entire approval. And that of the staff. ‘Miss Tamsin was up at six this morning and she ate breakfast in the kitchen. We were shocked, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She brought the little one down with her and…well, by the end of breakfast Mrs Burchett says we couldn't have found anyone more different than…'

He faltered at that, and came to an embarrassed halt, but Marc knew what he'd been about to say.

‘Than her sister?'

‘I…' Dominic coughed and then met his eyes with honesty. ‘Well, yes. Princess Lara wasn't universally liked. You know that. Prince Jean-Paul and Princess Lara never took it upon themselves to pay any attention to the staff. When they took the baby away Mrs Burchett and nearly every other woman on the staff practically broke their hearts. They'd been wanting a child in the palace for so long.'

‘Yes.' Half of Marc was listening, but he was distracted. His hand had involuntarily pulled the drape aside again. It was as if he couldn't drag his eyes away.

They looked wonderful. Their laughter was infectious and he found himself smiling just to see their pleasure. Tammy was lying on her back now, holding the little boy above her at arm's length, crowing up at him as if they were both children. She was barefoot again—it seemed to be her normal state—and dressed once more in her standard shabby jeans and T-shirt.

In one sense she looked a pauper, but in another she looked a million dollars!

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but will you be taking them back to Renouys?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Back to your own property. Will you be taking Miss Tamsin and Master Henry back to Renouys to live?'

‘Oh.' Marc was still distracted, but he made himself think that one through. ‘Why would you think I'd do that?'

‘The inheritance clause you've told me about says the child needs only to stay in the country. Not here in the palace.'

‘Mmm.'

‘So we thought…the staff have been saying that maybe you'd be taking them back to Renouys to live with you there.'

‘No.'

‘No?'

‘No.'

Dominic was still probing. That was the trouble with aged retainers, Marc thought grimly. Not enough respect. Dominic had known him when he was in short pants, and the demarcation between master and servant was growing more blurred by the minute. ‘But you're not planning on staying here yourself?' He was shamelessly inquisitive and Marc grimaced. ‘You know I'm only here until I get the mess that my cousin left sorted out. Miss Tamsin will stay here. There's no need for me to stay as well.'

‘The place needs a master.'

‘I'll be on call if you need me. I can't stay here indefinitely. It's not my home.'

‘You're Prince Regent for twenty-five years,' Dominic said softly. ‘For some that's a lifetime. You could live here.'

‘I don't wish to.'

‘But…'

‘Dominic, no.' He was still watching Tammy, but the laughter had gone. The feeling of entrapment he'd had ever since Jean-Paul's death was threatening to overwhelm him.

‘I'm sure Miss Ingrid—'

‘Miss Ingrid has nothing to do with my decision on where I'm to live.' He flashed Dominic a suspicious look. The
elderly butler could take liberties where no one else could, but enough was enough. ‘Stop fishing.'

‘I'd never…fish,' the butler said, offended, and Marc gave a reluctant grin.

‘I'm very sure you would. What time did you say M'sieur Lavac is coming?'

‘Nine.'

‘Then I'd better eat my breakfast. And shower and change. And…is Miss Ingrid breakfasting yet?'

‘No, sir.'

‘What a shame. Well, I might have time for a quick walk before meeting M'sieur Lavac.'

‘Yes, sir.' And Dominic turned away before Marc could see the involuntary smile that flashed into his wise old eyes. ‘I'm sure that would be a very good idea. The south lawn is lovely at this time of the morning.'

 

The south lawn
was
lovely, but Marc hardly noticed it. He'd showered and dressed in record time, donning what were for him very casual clothes. Jeans and an open-necked shirt and that was it. He'd been about to pull his shoes on but suddenly thought, dammit, why should I?

So he headed down the steps wearing bare feet.

He instantly regretted it. There was gravel between the steps and the lawn. His feet recoiled in instinctive reaction and Tammy, strolling up towards the entrance, saw him and laughed.

‘You've forgotten your royal slippers, Your Highness.'

‘I often go barefoot,' he told her, but her smile deepened.

‘Yeah, like I often wear a tiara.'

‘Or elegant little black dresses?' Her smile was magnetic, he thought. Gorgeous.

‘Sometimes it's necessary to wear what the natives wear,' she told him with dignity, and it was his turn to grin.

‘I agree. Hence the bare feet.'

She smiled still more and looked down at her own bare toes. ‘I don't think you should copy me. I'm hardly a native here yet.'

‘You think you'll be happy staying here permanently?'

‘Hey, give me a break. How can I make decisions like that already? I've only been here for one night.'

‘But you like what you see?'

‘I'm a bit worried about the standard of our accommodation,' she told him, trying to keep laughter from her voice. ‘It's not what I'm used to. But Henry and I have been discussing the matter. We suppose we can slum it.' Her eyes twinkled. ‘After all, if you can then I guess we can, too. No Antipodean's about to be surpassed in toughness by a Broitenburgian!'

She smiled once more, a gorgeous, all-enveloping smile, with lovely laughter lighting her eyes. And it set Marc back.

Henry was snuggled into her shoulder. He wasn't asleep but he was clearly a happy, content and tired little boy. The way the child's body curved into her breast did something to Marc's insides that he hardly recognised. Marc stared at the picture woman and child made and thought—it looked good. They looked so at home in this setting. It was as if the baby was meant to be here. As if both were meant to be.

Woman and child seemed made for each other, and Tammy was standing on the castle steps as if she belonged.

This could work.

He'd been staring at her for too long, and she broke the silence before he'd finished with his train of thought. ‘Um…Marc, about a house of my own…'

He frowned, thrown off track. This certainly wasn't where his thoughts had been leading. ‘A house of your own?'

‘Okay, not a gardener's cottage,' she conceded. ‘I see that such a place would be inappropriate for Henry. But for you
to have me living here with you is also inappropriate. Last night… You must see that it can't work.'

He thought about it and disagreed. ‘I think it worked very well last night.'

‘It didn't.' The humiliation she'd felt the previous night surfaced again, and with it anger. ‘If you think I'm going to play hostess to your mistress, you have another think coming.'

‘Hey, Ingrid's not my mistress.'

‘No?'

He flushed. ‘Hell, Tammy…'

‘My mother says you're a womaniser,' she said flatly, her anger fading as she searched for a more temperate tone. What she was saying was unpleasant enough without hurling it at him in fury. But she'd been thinking things through and they both had to face the truth. ‘Whether that's true or not hardly matters, but Mrs Burchett agrees that you go from one woman to another. She says Ingrid's only been on the scene for a couple of months. She also says that now Ingrid's getting possessive you'll ditch her and there'll be someone else.'

It was so close to the bone that he almost gasped. Damn it, how well did the servants know him? And how dared this unknown woman throw his personal affairs in his face?

‘This is none of your business.' He was almost rigid with shock and fury, but she didn't appear to notice.

‘It's not,' she agreed, with all the placidity in the world, ‘unless you try to kiss me again—which, if you know what's good for you, you won't. But if you intend to keep entertaining your women here—'

‘Will you leave my private life alone?'

She had no intention of doing so. She couldn't. ‘It puts me in an impossible situation,' she explained. ‘Like—what was my role here last night? Guest? Hostess? Or was Ingrid hostess? She did her best to put me down and made it clear
that I was her absolute social inferior. Does that mean every time you change girlfriends I'm to be patronised by another woman?'

‘She didn't patronise—'

‘Yes, she did,' Tammy said softly. ‘You forget, I was raised with Lara and Isobelle. I can spot patronising from a mile off. And that's the lesser issue. You having one woman after another will give Henry the wrong moral values.'

‘I don't believe I'm hearing this.'

‘Someone has to say it,' she said flatly. ‘If you want me to stay here then you need to find us alternative accommodation.'

‘The palace is yours,' he told her, goaded. ‘There's no need at all for these histrionics. I'm leaving.'

Silence.

It was early morning still. A gardener was heading over the far lawn with a wheelbarrow, and a couple of sparrows were engaged in an argument over the remains of a squashed worm right by Tammy's feet. Otherwise the world seemed to hold its breath. Waiting…

‘You're leaving?' she said finally—almost conversationally—and he nodded.

‘Yes. As soon as you're settled.'

‘Leaving me here alone?'

‘Not alone. With the staff.'

‘With the staff.' She was thinking fast and was clearly unhappy with what she was coming up with. ‘You mean you're intending to skive off and leave me with the responsibility for all of…?' She gazed up at the castle and then turned to motion to the expansive grounds beyond. ‘All of
this
?'

No one had ever talked to him like this. No woman. What had she said—
Skive?
‘I'm not leaving you with responsibility for anything,' he snapped.

‘So you're going—where?'

‘I told you. Renouys—my own establishment—is ten miles south of here.'

‘That's right,' she said thoughtfully. ‘I'd forgotten. You're really a not important prince. So you'll go back to being no one in particular and operate your secondary role as Prince Regent on the side?'

‘Actually,' he told her through clenched teeth—his anger threatening to overwhelm him, ‘I'm an aquatic engineer. I design and advise on community water supplies, and I need to get back to my work.'