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CHAPTER ONE
THERECEPTIONROOMSof the Surrey mansion were thronged with the great and the good. Not a soul amongst them would have declined the invitation to this charity event. It was worth the cost of the hefty donation alone just to be in the same room as its host: the achingly glamorous Sad Prince.
Officially he was His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Khaled bin Bassam al Azir, but unless addressing him directly, who used his official title? Certainly never the press. They preferred the poignant epithet; it suited him too well.
‘Of course it does,’ said one of their number, a society columnist holding court amidst a gaggle of guests. ‘Can you recall a single image where the Prince is smiling?’
Beside her, the woman’s husband shook his head. ‘Not a one. Always looks so melancholy, poor devil.’
‘Poor? Nabhan may be a desert kingdom, but first there was the oil, and now it’s a financial hub. The man’s as rich as Croesus. And he’s what? Thirty-two? In his prime, with the world at his feet. What’s poor about that?’
‘I suppose,’ her husband said, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘But when does he take time off to enjoy it?’
It was seven years since the King’s ill health had forced his retirement from public life. His only son had assumed the workload of prince and monarch, and by all accounts, not stopped working since.
‘Things might have been different had the older brother survived that accident, of course,’ the husband said mournfully into his glass. ‘But who was surprised when it ended badly for him? Always too reckless, that one.’
There were murmurs of agreement from the little group.
‘A horrible business, losing your sibling like that.’
‘No wonder the Prince looks so tortured.’
Sensing an unwelcome shift in their attention, the columnist said loudly, ‘But have you heard the rumours? Apparently he’s about to choose himself a wife.’
There was a collective ‘ooh...’ and all eyes turned back to her.
‘The Palace has denied it, of course, but who believes that? Not when he’s been conspicuously single for six months.’ She cast a meaningful look around her audience. ‘Now there’s a man preparing the way for his bride...’ Seeing the meat and bones of tomorrow’s piece, far more juicy than this dull old charity event, the columnist added, ‘And did you notice how he disappeared promptly at eleven? Maybe the girl’s actually tucked away here.’
She placed a hand to her bosom and gazed feelingly into the distance.
‘We could say we were there the night the Sad Prince proposed to his future princess. Oh, the romance of it.’
‘Romance?’ her husband scoffed, quite ruining the moment and earning a filthy look from his wife. ‘She can forget all that. With that one she’ll be lucky to get so much as a smile.’
For the young woman who was indeed hidden away in a private part of the house, the Prince’s smile, or lack thereof, was not her most pressing concern. Neither was there any romance in the air.
At that moment, though, the Sad Prince was in his suite and removing his clothes. Far from entertaining some fortunate female he was, in fact, alone.
Lily Marchant knew this for a certainty.
She knew this despite being neither his prospective bride nor his new girlfriend, nor yet being on the guest list for the event still in full swing downstairs. Nor, before this evening, having even set eyes on the man in over a decade.
She knew this because she had a ringside view from her hiding place behind the louvred doors of his dressing room—the only place to suggest itself for concealment at extremely short notice.
The Prince had already slipped off his impeccable dinner jacket. The obligatory bow tie hung loose at the collar of his crisp white shirt. Even now his fingers were going to the buttons, revealing a tantalising glimpse of toned chest.
Lily knew the decent thing would be to look away—the man had no idea he was being observed after all. But this was Prince Khaled al Azir. He of the film-star looks, the heart-stopping sex appeal. And once, before she’d grown up and understood how nonsensical it was, the very epicentre of all her romantic hopes and dreams.
His olive-toned skin and raven-dark hair he’d inherited from his Nabhani-born father. From his English mother came impossibly high cheekbones and deep-set pale grey eyes. The sensuous mouth and the look of cool hauteur were all his own, and he was, quite simply, stunning.
Even with his clothes on.
Lily sneaked closer to the gaps in the doors.
A gold watch fell with a clatter to the bedside table, followed by a pair of cufflinks, their diamond studs glittering in the soft lamplight. Both so casually discarded and probably worth a king’s ransom. Certainly more than she or her stepbrother could ever hope to afford.
Lily’s mouth tightened as she was reminded of why she was there.
