Stepping into the Prince's World (12 page)

At least that was what she told herself in the sensible part of her brain. But most of her brain was taken up with simply being with Raoul. The future was some grey, barren nothing. For now there was only Raoul—only the way he held her, the way he smiled at her, the way he loved her.

At midday another Jeep arrived discreetly at her apartment and Claire and her shadow soldier—and Rocky—slipped into the back. Then the Jeep made a circuitous journey to the royal palace, and Claire and her dog and her shadow were in Raoul's world.

They drove past the grand entrance, where the King and Queen had watched down their noses as she'd stumbled through formal greetings.

The palace was a storybook fantasy—a concoction of white stone, turrets, battlements, and heraldic banners floating from spires. The palace scared her half to death. This time, though, they drove around to the back, winding through formal gardens into a place that seemed almost a secret wilderness. The driveway curved onto gravel, accentuating the sense of country, and the Jeep finally came to a halt at a far less intimidating entrance, built between stables and a massive conservatory.

A servant did come down the back steps to greet them, but he was dressed in smart-casual. He was in his sixties, white-haired and dignified, and his smile was warmly welcoming.

‘We're happy to have you back, miss,' he told her, and his tone said he meant it.

‘Claire, this is Henri Perceaux—my grandparents' chief advisor,' Raoul told her. ‘Anything you need to know about this country, ask Henri. On top of everything else, he's my friend. He taught me how to ride a horse when I was six.'

‘That's something I've always longed to do,' Claire told him, and both men stared at her as if she'd grown two heads.

‘You're Australian and you don't ride?' Raoul demanded.

‘Nor do I pat kangaroos as they hop down the main street of Sydney,' she retorted. She shook her head. ‘Stereotypes... Just because I'm Australian...'

‘Apologies,' Raoul said, and then fixed her with a look. ‘But you
can
surf, right?'

‘Um...yes.'

‘Then you can still be an Australian. Even if we're about to fit you with a tiara.'

‘You're about to fit me with a
tiara
?'

‘I've a team of dressmakers organised to discuss what you'd like to wear to the royal ball,' Henri said, sounding apologetic. ‘If it's satisfactory with you, miss?'

She took a deep breath. Where was a fairy godmother when she needed one? she thought. One wave of her wand and Cinderella had a dress to die for. Cinders never had to face a team of dressmakers.

‘Anything you want, they will construct,' Raoul told her. ‘Let your imagination go.'

‘My imagination's frozen. I don't know much besides black and jeans.'

‘Then let yourself have fun,' Henri interspersed. He cast a covert glance at Raoul. ‘That's a lesson that needs to be learned. You can still be royal
and
have fun.'

‘Says you,' Raoul retorted.

‘If I may be so bold,' Henri told him, ‘I've watched your grandparents for many years, and within the constraints of their royal roles they do indeed enjoy themselves.'

‘They do,' Raoul said tightly. ‘But they have each other. They've been lucky.'

* * *

The palace was amazing. Over the top. Splendid. When Raoul would have taken her through the palace grounds first, thinking maybe she'd find the fabulous gardens less intimidating, the little girl in Claire made her pause.

‘First things first. I'm in a palace. I need to see a chandelier.'

‘They're all in the reception rooms and formal living areas,' he told her, bemused. ‘Oh, my grandmother has one in her bedroom—no, make that two—but that's because she likes a bit of bling.'

‘Will you show me?'

‘My grandmother's bling?' he demanded, startled, and she stopped dead.

‘No, Raoul, not your grandmother's bling. Your grandmother scares me. But a chandelier, none the less.'

‘Which one?'

‘Don't be obtuse.
Any
one.'

‘Why?' he asked, curious.

‘Because the only chandelier I've seen is a plastic travesty my friend Sophie hangs in her bathroom. And even though Sophie's cut me off because of my dubious legal status, one day I may meet her again and I'd love to be able to raise my brows in scorn because I've met a chandelier bigger than hers.'

‘You've truly never met a chandelier?'

‘I told you—I come from the other side of the tracks, Your Highness,' she retorted.

He looked down at her for a long moment, as if considering all the things he should say—he wanted to say. But finally he sighed and shrugged and managed a lop-sided smile. ‘One chandelier coming up,' he told her. ‘But if we're going to do this then we'll do it properly. The ballroom.'

‘There won't be people?'

‘It'll be empty. Cross my heart. Who goes into a ballroom unless there's a ball?'

‘Someone to polish the chandelier?'

‘It's the weekend. Chandelier-polishers are nine-to-five guys, Monday to Friday.'

‘You know that how...?'

‘It's in the “
Boys' Own
Almanac of What Princes Need to Know
”. Trust me.'

‘Why should I trust you?'

‘Because I'm a Prince of the Blood and I love you,' he told her, and before she could think of a retort he handed Rocky to Henri to take to the stables for a romp with the palace dogs—
‘I'll take good care of him, miss
.
'
Then he took her hand and towed her through a maze of more and more breathtaking passages until they came to a vast hall with massive double doors beyond.

‘Behold, my lady,' he said, and tugged the doors open.

* * *

If she only saw one chandelier in her life, this was the one to see. It was breathtaking.

Raoul flicked on the lights as he pulled open the doors and the chandelier sprang to life. Once upon a time it must have been fitted with candles, but the lighting was now instant, with each individual crystal sparkling and twinkling its heart out.

And there were hundreds of crystals. Maybe thousands. The chandelier was a massive art form, a work of a bygone era when such things had been made by skilled artisans funded by the very richest in the land. This was a work of joy.

She'd never seen such a thing. She stood in the cavernous, deserted ballroom and she gaped.

‘It's enormous,' she managed at last.

‘There are bigger,' he told her. ‘If you're interested, the world's largest is in the Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul. It has over seven hundred lamps, it weighs over four tons, and they have a staircase with balusters of Baccarat crystal to match.'

She thought about that for a moment and finally decided to confess. ‘I don't know what a baluster is.'

‘You know what?' He grinned. ‘Neither do I. But that's what our guidebook says. We include the information so we sound modest.'

She looked up again at the glittering creation and shook her head. ‘Modest? I don't think so. How can you come from living in the army to living in a place like this?'

‘How do you know I didn't have a wee chandelier in my rucksack?' he said.

But he suddenly sounded strained and she thought it had been the wrong question. Chandelier or not, he wasn't where he wanted to be. But then he smiled, and she knew he was hauling himself back to reality. Putting regret aside.

He tugged her around to face her and his smile was a caress all by itself. ‘Claire, I refuse to let you be intimidated by a chandelier. They're useful things and that's all.'

‘Useful for what?'

‘For dancing under. How are your dancing skills? I'm demanding to be your partner for at least one waltz.'

‘Only one?' she asked, before she could stop herself.

‘It depends,' he told her. ‘If I dance with you more than twice the media will have me married to you and be conjecturing on how many children we'll have. I'm not objecting, but...'

‘Two dances only, then,' she said hurriedly, because she had to. ‘Raoul, we need to be sensible.'

There was a moment's pause. She saw his face close again, but then it was gone. Put away. He was back under control.

‘As you say,' he said tightly. ‘But the waltz... Claire, the eyes of the world will be on us. Do you need a fast lesson?'

‘I can waltz!' She said it with some indignation, but then relented. ‘Okay, I don't move in circles where the waltz is common, but my mum could dance and she taught me.'

‘I'll feel different to your mum.'

‘You think?'

‘Try me,' he said, and held out his arms, waltz hold ready.

And she hesitated, because more and more she wanted to melt into those arms and more and more she knew she didn't fit there. But Raoul was asking her to dance under what surely must be the second biggest chandelier in the world and he was holding out his arms...

And this was Raoul.

She smiled up at him—a smile full of uncertainty and fear, a smile that said she was falling—had fallen—so deeply in love there was no going back. A smile that said she knew the pain of separation was inevitable but for now she was so in love she couldn't help herself.

She stepped forward into his arms. He took her in the classic waltz hold, lightly, but as if she was the most precious creature in the world.

They danced.

She melted.

There was no music—of course there was no music—but the beat was right there in her heart. In his heart. She knew it. She felt it.

He held her and their feet scarcely touched the ground. He moved and she moved with him, in perfect synchronisation. How they did it she would never afterwards be able to tell.

It was as if this man had been her partner for years.

For life.

They danced in the great empty ballroom, under the vast chandelier that had seen centuries of love bloom under its sparkling lights, and that was now seeing a Prince of the Blood fall deeper and deeper in love.

And when the dance drew to an end, as dances inevitably did, the lights continued to glitter and sparkle as Raoul tilted his lady's chin and kissed her.

And as he did so a youth appeared in the doorway. He wasn't a palace employee but an apprentice to the master electrician who checked the chandelier at regular intervals.

The electrician didn't work nine to five—not when there was something as major as a ball coming up. Not when every guest room had to be checked and every facet of palace life had to be seen to work splendidly for this state occasion.

He'd finished checking the chandelier lights that morning, but was missing a spool of wire. ‘Check the ballroom,' he'd told his lad. ‘Make it fast.'

So the lad had slipped into the room—and stopped short.

He knew the Prince—of course he did. And the girl... This woman had been on the front pages of the newspapers for a couple of days. She'd rescued the Prince. She was here for a royal reception and to do some legal something or other. The media had reported sadly that there appeared to be no romantic attachment.

And yet here they were.

The apprentice might not be the smartest kid on the block, but he knew an opportunity when he saw it. He raised his phone and with one click it was done. Photographed. Safe.

Then he went back to report sadly to his boss that the spool of wire was nowhere to be found.

The kiss ended. They were left gazing at each other in some confusion.

I could let myself stay in these arms,
Claire thought.
I could just...try
.

And if it failed? If
she
failed? This wasn't some minor fling. Breaking the Prince's heart would make her seem like a villain the world over. But the alternative...to live in a gilded cage and be judged...

She shuddered, and Raoul saw the shudder and touched her face.

‘No,' he said, strongly and surely. ‘Today we don't let the future mar what we have. You know what I'd like to do now?'

‘What?'

‘Take you to the gymnasium and let you show me your karate skills. You did say you were good.'

‘I did,' she said, because why use false modesty here? Raoul might admit that his was only the second biggest chandelier, but her karate skills were okay.

‘So prove it,' he told her.

She knew what he was doing. The kiss had been intense, passionate—a kiss that claimed—and she'd stepped away in fear. She was falling so hard, so fast. How to keep her sensible self working?

But Raoul must have seen the flash of fear and suddenly emotion was taking a back seat to challenge. Karate. ‘I bet you can't throw me,' he told her.

‘I bet you I can. Do you really have a gymnasium?'

‘Yes.'

‘Just for you?'

‘The staff use it, too,' he told her. ‘This is a large palace and we look after our employees. But I can block out any time I want it to myself. Usually I don't, but today I took the precaution...'

‘Because you want me to prove myself?'

‘Claire, you don't need to prove a thing,' he told her, his voice gentling. ‘You've already proved you're the woman—'

‘Not another word,' she interjected, suddenly breathless. ‘Not one more word, Your Highness. But, okay, let's head to this gymnasium and see if I can throw you.'

* * *

She could throw him.

He lay on his back, stunned, and looked up at the diminutive woman above him with incredulity.

At her first approach he'd allowed her to throw him. He'd learned some martial arts himself—it had formed part of his army training. Then, bemused by Claire's claim to skill, he'd performed a token block—because he suspected that, yes, she really could throw, but he was large and skilled himself, and he didn't want to hurt her pride.