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CHAPTER TWO
SITTINGBENEATHTHEglittering chandeliers which hung from the vaulted ceiling of the ballroom, Corso did his best to stifle another yawn. The lavish birthday feast was almost over and as soon as the cake had been cut, the dancing could begin. And not a moment too soon, in his opinion. Why the hell had he agreed to celebrate his quarter-century with a glittering party? Had he forgotten that these affairs could feel interminably long, as well as tediously predictable? Forcing his expression into one of benign approval, he nodded as an enormous cake was wheeled into the ballroom and the entire room burst into song.
He could feel the heat from the candle flames as the extravagant concoction reached him and, with one mighty expulsion of air, he leaned forward to extinguish them, to the accompaniment of rapturous applause. With an air of apparent enjoyment, he took a mouthful of wild strawberry and cream gateau and washed it down with a sip of vintage champagne, but afterwards pushed the plate and the glass away. It occurred to Corso that for each year that passed, he enjoyed his birthday less and less.
During the banquet itself, he had sat between two high-born women from neighbouring countries—a countess and a duchess—but this had solely been a nod to propriety. A reassurance to his father—who was not present—and to the courtiers who feared he wasn’t giving proper consideration to his future and, more importantly, an heir. And you could not have an heir without first finding a royal wife to bear him.
But the women had bored him, as they so often did. Corso had not been dazzled by their perfect manners, nor their jewels. He certainly hadn’t been tempted by their coy references to the bloated coffers of each of their kingdoms. Presumably intimating at the large dowry which could be his, should he request either of their hands in marriage, for in this part of the world tradition still prevailed. He knew that when the time came, he would take a wife of a noble lineage which resembled his own and he was okay with that. It was just the way things were and he had long ago accepted his destiny.
But this evening he had been far more interested in observing Tiffany Sackler busily chatting with the handsome man on her right and not looking in Corso’s direction once. Several times she had thrown back her head and laughed, as if her companion were the single most amusing person in the world. Yet her actions had irritated him and her evident game-playing had quelled a little of the hunger in his blood.
A sudden movement caught his attention and he looked down the far end of the banqueting table to see Rosie Forrester staring at him, chewing her bottom lip as if she were worried about something. Her eyes looked huge and she was pursing her lips together, as if trying to silently convey something to him. As their gaze met, she half lifted her arm to wiggle her forefinger at him in a wave and Corso expelled a sigh of irritation.
What was thematterwith the girl?
First, she had arrived after everyone else—bursting into the ballroom all out of breath. To have been late at the birthday party of the Prince of Monterosso was bad enough, but her social gaffe was compounded by the fact that she was wearing what appeared to be a repurposed bedsheet. He had stared in brief amazement at the silky white material which had skimmed her slender frame, unable to miss the crimson ballet shoes exposed by the flying fabric. With its one-shouldered nod to a Grecian goddess, she had looked as if she were going to a downmarket fancy-dress party. And now she was trying to get his attention! Wasn’t she aware that her behaviour was totally out of line? Very deliberately, Corso turned away from her and began to speak to his aide, Rodrigo, who had appeared by his side and was enquiring about the commencement of the dancing.
‘Let the music begin,’ Corso said, with a swift inclination of his head. The violins began to play as he rose to his feet, the orchestra not quite managing to drown out the collective holding of breath as the assembled gathering waited to see which woman he would choose to open the dancing. He was aware that his choice of partner was significant, knowing if he selected either the countess or the duchess then the media would go wild and wedding-dress manufacturers would be giving non-stop interviews to the broadcast media tomorrow morning.
He observed that by now Tiffany’s eyeswereon him but, still irritated by her game-playing, he decided to let her wait and fret for a moment or two, before walking over to where she sat and extending his hand.
‘Would you do me the honour?’ he questioned carelessly.
Her curtsey was deep and practised and she held the submissive pose just long enough for him to get ample exposure to the creamy swell of her cleavage, which no doubt had been her intention. ‘I would be delighted, Your Royal Highness,’ she replied huskily.
The guests made a circle around them as they began to move in time to the music and Tiffany began to talk, as if determined to make the most of this rare public one-to-one with the Crown Prince. Corso listened while she prattled away in her sultry drawl, extolling the virtues of his country, the magnificence of the view from her suite of rooms and the lavishness of the meal she had just eaten. Her body was light yet strong and she was an accomplished dancer. He could feel the occasional brush of her erect nipples against his chest, as he was certain he was meant to, and it had the desired effect of arousing him. Yet he felt curiously...detached, and he frowned.
Maybe a bout of energetic sex would cure him of his ennui.
‘I will see you later,’ he promised, his voice growing husky.
She looked up at him with teasing provocation in her blue eyes. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Si... certo,’he murmured, lapsing into Italian, rather than his native tongue. ‘But for now I must play fair and give other women the chance to dance with me, or I will have a riot on my hands.’
‘I understand perfectly, Your Royal Highness. Untillater, then.’ She bowed her gleaming head and dropped another graceful curtsey, before retreating in a swish of lavishly embroidered silk.
Corso began what he thought of as his duty, working his way through as many of the female guests as possible. He saw their expressions of joy, of hope, and the pure delight which greeted his invitation to dance and knew that the majority of them longed to be his bride. Who could blame them? He was young and virile and had been told more times than he could count just how devastating sexy women found him. That he was heir to one of the most wealthy kingdoms on the planet only increased his worth in the eyes of the opposite sex.
Towards the tail end of the evening, he supposed he really ought to partner young Rosie in a duty dance but when he looked to find her, she was nowhere to be seen. More champagne was poured and an ensemble of acrobats from Monterosso’s leading circus performed a series of awe-inspiring routines, in dramatic costumes which resembled flames. Finally, everyone moved out onto the wide veranda to engage in a little stargazing before the firework display, which was timed to start at exactly midnight, the official end of the Crown Prince’s birthday.
But just as Corso was preparing to take his place at the front of the balustrade, he felt something tugging at his sleeve. Or rather, someone. With a scowl, he looked down to discover who’d had the temerity to touch him in such a fashion—knowing that if Tiffany was attempting to draw attention to their proposed liaison, then she would be history before they’d even begun—when he saw Rosie looking up at him.
In her bedsheet dress she looked even paler than usual and strands of hair from her updo—although admittedly a magnificent shade of moonlight—remained wild. It looked as if she’d been running anxious fingers through it all evening, which, judging from her expression, was entirely possible. Her only jewellery was a replica of an ancient Monterossian necklace—the beaten metal gleaming softly against her milky skin. And something about that simple choker made Corso’s equilibrium falter for a moment. She was no match for the society guests here tonight, he thought, yet her careless appearance caused a peculiar awareness to shimmer through his body, which made him feel decidedlydisconcerted. It whispered featherlight fingers over his flesh. It hinted at something delicious and unknown. But it was gone almost as soon as he had acknowledged it, banished by a swift shake of his head.
‘Corso,’ she whispered.
Now she was addressing him without waiting for his permission to speak—and in a highly insubordinate manner! ‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘But—’
‘Not only is your request highly inappropriate,’ he bit out, from between gritted teeth, ‘but it is also untimely. In case you hadn’t noticed, this happens to be my birthday party and there are many guests craving my attention. Princes and sheikhs who have travelled many miles to be here, as well as many old friends.’
‘But I need to speak to you,’ she said, with an oddly stubborn note in her voice. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.’
