Stepping into the Prince's World (14 page)

He hadn't.

Two days before the ball he went to see his grandparents. Their discussion was intense, personal, a far cry from their usual formality, but at the end he knew his decision was the right one.

The King had said little, just looked grave.

The Queen had been appalled. ‘You
can't
.'

‘I might not be able to but I intend to try. Grandmama, it's the only way I can stay sane.'

‘She's not worth it. A commoner...'

‘She's worth it.'

‘Raoul, think of what you're risking,' she'd wailed, and he'd shaken his head.

‘I think of what I'm gaining, Grandmama. We can do this if we work together.'

‘You're not giving us a choice.'

‘No,' he'd said, and he had glanced at the side table where the morning newspapers were, full of even more vituperative stories about his Claire. ‘No, I'm not. The country's condemned Claire and in doing so it's refused the best thing that's ever happened to it. And it's rejected the best thing that's ever happened to
me
.'

* * *

Cinderella had her coach at midnight. Claire had her plane tickets. Her flight back to Australia was booked for early in the morning after the ball.

‘It's the same thing, except I won't be leaving any glass slippers behind,' she told herself.

She was standing before the full-length mirror in her apartment, staring at herself in awe. She'd been invited to dress at the palace but she'd refused, so Henri had organised a dresser, a hairstylist and a make-up artist to come to her. She therefore had three women fussing about her. A chauffeur was standing by with a limousine in the courtyard.

For this night she was deemed royalty.

One night before the rest of her life...

She stood in front of the mirror and knew exactly how Cinderella had felt.

This wasn't her. This was truly a princess.

Her reflection left her feeling stunned. She looked taller, slimmer, glowing. She looked regal. Her curls were loosely caught up, deceptively casual, so they framed her face, tumbled artfully to her shoulders. They were caught back within a glittering tiara so some curls hid the diamonds and some diamonds sparkled through.

The tiara alone had made her catch her breath in wonder, but there was also a matching necklet and earrings.

‘They haven't been worn since the Prince's mother died,' the dresser said now, sniffing faintly in disapproval. ‘I'm astonished that he thinks it's suitable to bring them out today.'

And there it was—the whole reason this wouldn't work. This woman had read the tabloids. She knew just how unsuitable Claire was.

‘I guess it's a final thank-you gift before I go home,' Claire said, managing to keep her voice light, as she'd fought to keep it light all week. ‘And it
is
just a loan...'

‘But for him to lend it...'

‘Well,
I
think it's lovely,' the hairstylist said stoutly. ‘Perfect. And I loved the picture of you and His Highness in the paper, miss. So romantic. Wouldn't it be lovely if it was real?'

‘I think I might regret it if it was real,' Claire managed. ‘Do I absolutely need to wear this corset?'

‘Hourglass figures need hourglass corsets,' the dresser snapped. ‘The women I normally dress don't complain. You must make sacrifices for a decent figure'

‘You have a lovely figure already,' the hairstylist declared. ‘Don't listen to her, miss.'

And Claire wasn't listening. This week had been all about not listening.

She stared once more into the mirror at the sparkling vision in silver and white, at the way her skirts shimmered and swung, at the beautiful white slippers—not glass!—peeping from under her skirts. At her hair, which had surely never been lovelier. At the carefully applied make-up, which made it look as if she was wearing no make-up at all and yet made her complexion glow. At the diamonds and the sparkle and everything in life which didn't represent Claire Tremaine.

‘Okay,' she whispered. ‘Bring on my pumpkin.'

‘Your car's ready, miss,' the stylist breathed. ‘Oh, miss, you'll break your Prince's heart tonight.'

‘He's not my Prince,' Claire told her, gathering her skirts and her courage. ‘He's never been my Prince and he never will be.'

* * *

The ball was an hour old when Claire arrived.

Raoul was half afraid that she'd got cold feet and wouldn't show at all, but at this late stage there was little he could do about it. As heir to the throne he opened the ball with a waltz with the Queen of a neighbouring country. Then there were others he needed to dance with. He had obligations to fulfil and there was no way he could disappear quietly to phone her.

All he could do was dance on with the list of notables Henri had told him were compulsory, and hope that she'd find the courage to come.

Finally he was rewarded when a stir from the entrance announced her arrival.

‘Miss Claire Tremaine,' the footman announced in stentorian tones.

The ball was well under way. The announcement of new arrivals had become a muted background to the night—no one was listening—but somehow all ears caught this.

The attention of the entire ballroom seemed to swing to Claire.

She was stunning. Breathtaking.

Henri must have orchestrated this late entrance, he thought. Henri was in charge of Claire's travel arrangements. Raoul wouldn't put it past him to have staged Claire's entrance so she had maximum attention.

As she did. She stood in the entrance looking slightly unsure—no, make that
very
unsure. She looked so lovely the entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.

His grandmother was by his side and her hand clutched his arm. ‘You don't need to go straight to her,' she hissed. ‘The way she looks...others will dance with her. This is nonsense, Raoul. See sense.'

‘I
am
seeing sense,' he told her. ‘Grandmama, you know what I must do.'

‘Not tonight,' she urged. ‘You need to accompany us onto the dais for the speech. You need to be seen as royal. Stay with us.'

‘Only if you acknowledge Claire.'

‘I'll acknowledge her as the woman who saved your life, nothing more.'

‘Then I'll be in the crowd, watching. If you expect me to be an onlooker, so be it. But meanwhile...' He gently disengaged her arm. ‘Meanwhile I need to welcome the woman I love.'

* * *

It might as well have been a fairytale. For as she stood, uncertain, alone, Raoul made his way through the crowd and quite literally took her breath away.

The ballroom itself was enough to take her breath away. It was transformed by the lights from the great chandelier, by a thousand flowers, by an orchestra playing music that soared, by the throng of nobility in attire that was truly splendid.

But the most splendid of all was Raoul.

He was truly a prince of dreams. He was in full royal regalia, a superbly cut suit with a wide blue sash, medals, epaulettes, glittering adornments of royal blood and military might.

His jet-black hair was immaculate. His height, his build, his dress—he looked every inch a prince at the peak of his power. He was the total antithesis of the man she'd helped from the water.

He was magnificent.

He was smiling as he broke through the throng, and he held his hand out to her well before he reached her.

‘Miss Tremaine,' he said as he reached her. ‘You are very welcome.'

And her response was something that stunned even herself. She sank into a curtsy—a full gesture that she hadn't known how to make until she'd done it.

He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips, his eyes dancing with laughter.

‘What have I done to deserve this?'

‘I've watched too many romantic movies,' she told him. ‘In this outfit nothing else seems appropriate.'

‘Claire, stay...' The laughter died and his voice was low and urgent.

‘For tonight,' she whispered. ‘For now.'

If tonight was all he had then he intended to use it. How to hold this woman in his arms, how to dance with her, how to feel her melting against him and know that she willed it to end?

But he knew why. All around them were eyes raised, looks askance, the occasional snigger, the odd snort of outrage.
This
was the woman who would steal their royal Prince. He knew Claire could feel it, and there was nothing he could do but hold her and know there must be a future for them.

A future at a cost...

But he couldn't think of that tonight. He couldn't think of anything but the woman in his arms.

As they danced the titters and the whispers fell away. He held her and her beautiful gown swirled against his legs, and her breasts moulded to his chest and he felt...

He felt as if he was flying.

* * *

She loved him. How could she let him hold her like this and know that she had to leave? If she let herself think past midnight then her mind simply shut down.

All she was capable of was dancing with the man she loved. Of holding him to her.

Of loving...

Only, of course, the night wasn't all about dancing. There were formalities scheduled. After the next set the King and Queen were to make their anniversary speech. And as they made their way to the stage they paused by the couple in the midst of the dance floor.

‘You should stand by us, Raoul,' the Queen told him, but she said it in the tone of one who knew she was already beaten.

‘You know my decision,' Raoul said softly. ‘I stand by Claire.'

‘Raoul—go,' Claire told him.

‘Will we come to the stage as a couple, Grandmama?' Raoul asked, but the Queen shook her head.

‘No! This is
not
what I planned.'

‘I'm staying here,' Raoul told her.

‘Then come onto the stage with us yourself, young woman,' the King told Claire unexpectedly, suddenly urgent. As if he'd somehow emerged from his books and was seeing Raoul's firmness for what it was. ‘This country's treating you shabbily and I won't have it.' He put a hand on her arm. ‘Come with us. Please.'

‘As a couple,' Raoul said.

‘No!'
The Queen was vehement.

‘Then come to assist an old man onto the stage,' the King told Claire. ‘Raoul, assist your grandmother.' And he took Claire's arm and held it.

So in the end there was no choice. They made their way to the stage, but not as a couple. The King was escorted up first, leaning heavily on Claire as if he did indeed need her help.

Raoul escorted his grandmother up the stairs as well. But then, as she made to tug at him, to stand beside her on the far side of the stage from Claire, he shook his head.

‘Claire, our place isn't here.'

The noise from the ballroom had faded. Attention was riveted on the stage. To reach Raoul, to leave the stage, Claire would have to walk right in front of both King and Queen.

Raoul was on the far side of the stage, waiting for her to return to him. She sent him an almost imperceptible shake of her head and backed into the wings. The curtains hid her.

This was her rightful place, she thought. Out of sight. She was in the wings with the workers, with the people handling the curtains, the workers associated with the orchestra.

Where she belonged.

She leaned heavily against the nearest wall and hoped Raoul wouldn't follow.

Fantasy was over. The King was preparing to speak.

Somewhere below was Raoul. He needed to listen to his grandparents' speech but she didn't need to be beside him.

She couldn't need him at all.

* * *

If there was one thing King Marcus had been known for during his long reign it was his long speeches—and he didn't disappoint now. He'd prepared a very meaningful, very erudite, very lengthy speech and the crowd settled down to listen. This was their King. The country was fond enough of their Queen, but King Marcus was seldom seen in public and they were prepared to indulge him when he was.

After a moment's hesitation Raoul backed away from the stage, stepping down into the main hall. He didn't want any attention to play on him. After all, this was his grandparents' night, and he even found it within him to be grateful that Claire had backed into the wings, out of sight. The focus was on his grandparents—as it should be. The time for him to claim Claire would follow.

Around him the guests were listening with polite attention, laughing when the King meant them to laugh, applauding when it was appropriate. The men and woman in the orchestra behind the King were all attentive too. They were giving this pair of beloved monarchs their due.

He had a sudden vision of himself and Claire in fifty years, doing the same thing.

It wasn't going to happen.

He glanced at his grandmother and found she was staring straight at him. He winced and turned his attention elsewhere. To the orchestra on the raised platform behind the royals. Men and women in demure black, riveted to the King's words.

Except one. A young man seated behind the drums. The man seemed to be searching the crowd. Looking for someone?

His attention caught, Raoul followed his gaze and saw the man's eyes meet one of the guests. A man in his mid-forties was standing not far from Raoul. He was formally dressed, as a foreign diplomat, and he was standing alone. There was nothing to make him stand out from so many similar guests.

But the man was watching the drummer, not the King, and as the drummer's gaze met his he gave his head an almost imperceptible nod. Then casually—oh, so casually—he reached down as if to adjust his shoelace.

And then he straightened, his arm outstretched...

A glint of metal...

Years of military training had made Raoul's reactions lightning-fast. Act first—ask questions later. That was the training instilled for when lives were at stake.