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How easily he won them over with his teasing.
Then he spoke of Prince Claude, and the devastating flu that had ravaged the islands. And then he returned to speak of the flowers again, and how they brought a smile to people’s faces and brightened the most difficult of days...
Perhaps for the Marchioness, Beatrice thought bitterly, watching as he left the stage and the crowd started to disperse.
Oh, she did not want to be feeling like this. It was supposed to be a crush, or just sex—not this lurch in her chest at the sight of him. Not those bats all flying out of their caves and swooping at the sound of his deep voice.
She was so awkward, so emotionally inept, that she’d probably have fallen for her gigolo, Beatrice tried to insist to herself. It was infatuation, lust—whatever label she could put on it.
Because it could not be anything more than that.
It just could not be.
‘Beatrice!’
She turned at the sound of her name.
It was Jordan, with a suited man whom Beatrice took to be Stavros, but there was no introduction.
‘Have you seen Despina?’ Jordan asked.
‘No.’
Poor Jordan must be exhausted, given they had only landed that morning. Her hair was all frizzed from a week of humidity, and she had an air of grim determination on her face.
‘We’re going over to the marquee,’ Jordan said, and then frowned at Beatrice’s bare shoulders. ‘Beatrice, I told you about the dress code. And where’s your lanyard?’
‘I’m not here for the marquee.’
She so wasn’t—though admittedly her shoulders were on fire and she thought some shade would be nice. But she knew she was beyond underdressed.
‘I wasn’t planning to come. How come Princess Jasmine didn’t—?’
‘It was always the plan to have the Prince, a soldier who has served in the military, make the speech. Princess Jasmine was the reserve.’
Jordan’s eyes again lit on Beatrice’s bare shoulders, or perhaps they moved lower this time.
‘You could have at least—’ she hissed, and then plastered on her official smile as Julius came over with Tobias.
It was then that Beatrice remembered she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that it mattered in terms of thesizeof things, more the ache of things, and the way her body reacted to his presence. She hated how she wanted to leap on him, but of course she just stood there.
‘Beatrice.’ He gave her an odd half-smile of acknowledgment.
‘Your Highness.’ Her mouth managed a smile. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Very full-on.’
She should have just smiled and nodded and stopped talking, but Beatrice pushed on. ‘I thought Princess Jasmine was the royal patron of the Flower Festival?’
He waited.
‘Sir?’ she added hastily.
There was an awful silence.
And Beatrice knew she wasn’t imagining the awkwardness when Tobias, whose job it was to rescue the Prince from awkward silences, stepped in.
‘Sir, I think they’re ready for us at the marquee.’
