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He and Rafe had met at the prestigious Kings’ Academy here, both fighting against the Lauritanian aristocracy in their own way. Those bleak years had forged an unassailable comradeship and a rule that if one asked for assistance the other would always answer the request without question. A promise made when they’d been abused at the school because they were ‘other’. Rafe for being a commoner. Lance because he wasn’tfrom here.
So here he stood, sipping champagne at the wake surrounded by a dour sea of people. Tasked with reporting back to Rafe on the political machinations of the aristocracy because, as a commoner, his friend would never have been allowed to grace this hallowed occasion. Lance had no desire to reacquaint himself with these people, many of whom had tried to bully him at school, before he and Rafe had joined forces—and the other boys had realised they were a force to be reckoned with. It was a stultifying task, especially since a few of them tried to rewrite history and talk to him as if their past disdain didn’t matter. Anyhow, his lineage was finer than the rest of them put together. Because inheriting a dukedom had some advantages, no matter how determined he was to squander them.
Still, being here pricked at Lance’s keen senses. Rafe was up to something, hinting at a curious interest in the new Queen—a monarch who needed to find a husband, and quickly, as the constitution dictated. Right now, all the royal family’s hangers-on were surrounding her with knives carefully sheathed, waiting to stab each other’s backs at the earliest opportunity in a fight to be named King. He catalogued their names, the ones watching her with avarice, jockeying for an auspicious marriage. Some things never changed. Lauritania was steeped in the past. The future terrified the people here, and it was staring down at them with both barrels today.
Lance downed the dregs of his champagne and grabbed another frosted flute from a passing waiter. The young Queen, pretty as she was, held no interest for him other than an academic one. As his deliberately lazy gaze drifted over the room what he sought was something far more alluring. The flash of golden female brilliance he’d glimpsed earlier at the mausoleum.
Even swathed in black like the rest of them, she’d been impossible to miss. He supposed laughing at a funeral tended to draw people’s attention, but it seemed no one else had noticed the well-covered slip. Lance hadn’t been able to help himself. She’d stood out because she seemed sounaffectedby the misery surrounding them. A diamond amongst these lumps of coal, and he adored bright, sparkly things that grabbed his attention and held. Only because in his life they were so very rare.
When he’d caught her eye she’d almost smiled. On a day when there was not a glimmer of hope to be had, she seemed filled to the brim with it. He’d sensed something a little wild and unbridled about her that in ordinary circumstances he’d like to get to know for a few hours in a large bed of tangled sheets. Or maybe the not so ordinary circumstances were perfect...
Another glance across the room and he spied her, the bright beacon he’d been searching for, golden hair an unruly tangle under her black hat. He began to move, dodging the crush to get to her. Luckily, he was a head taller than most of them so it was hard for her to disappear even as she slipped in and out of the groups of people around her. He quickened his pace, his heart thumping hard at the pursuit. There was no way he’d let her escape him. The universe should allow him some small compensation for coming here.
She wasn’t looking in his direction, staring somewhere into the crowd with a soft, almost questioning look on her face. Watching the throng of people circling about her as if she was somehow separate from the grief here. Yet for all the oppressive misery in the room, her back was ramrod-straight and she held her head high as if the room was hers to own and rule.
A perfectly fitted conservative black dress skimmed her gentle curves, the skirt ending at the backs of her knees, showing off the swell of her calves. Her hair was pulled up from the back of her slender neck, curls drifting loose. Lance wanted to brush them away and drop his lips to the elegant sweep of pale skin at the junction of her shoulder. Skim his mouth along the warm flesh. See if he could get a smile out of her then. Or, even better, a gasp of pleasure.
Lance realised now, as he made his way closer, how small and delicate she was. Even in those modest heels she’d tuck neatly under his chin if he held her. He couldn’t help thinking she’d be the perfect fit. As he reached her, he pitched his voice low, dropped his head and murmured for her ears alone, ‘You’ve been a very bad girl.’
She whipped round, a flush of pink washing over her cheeks, a glorious wide-eyed beauty, too innocent for the jaded man he’d become.
He’d left the womb a cynic, his mother claimed. That wasn’tquiteright. He’d become an incurable cynic the day his parents sold off his sister, Victoria, to the highest bidder to further his father’s career. Now, Lance’s preference was for someone as world-weary as him. Not this fresh burst of perfection that made her little part of the room shine.
It was as if he were hypnotised, unable to take his eyes from her. Of course beautiful women were everywhere. He was a glutton for them and not known for his self-control. But he’d never met someone who made the room simply stop and melt away.
She tilted her head and looked up at him with huge blue eyes, so pale and cool they were like the spring meltwater from the mountains. Her mouth perfection in petal pink. She might have been the one blushing, but he was left speechless.
‘And why is that?’ Her voice was soft and musical, with the lilt of an accent that told him she was native Lauritanian.
NoI beg your pardon.Or, perhaps,Who the hell are you?Because he was sure this woman had secrets and he wanted to mine them all. He saw it in the wide shock of her eyes—that someone might have seen what she was trying to hide. Her rosebud lips parted and she took in a shaky breath. God, how he wanted to kiss her. Right here and now. Might have been passable at a wedding reception. Grossly inappropriate at a wake. Though he’d spent most of his adult life being inappropriate. Disappointing his father had once been his greatest mission. Now the man was dead, but Lance still had a reputation to uphold.
And he hadn’t answered her question. She raised her slender, pale eyebrows. As he closed in, he dropped his head again as if to impart something illicit. Then he caught the scent of her. Apples and blossom. So crisp and fresh he wanted to take a bite.
‘You were trying not to laugh.’
The blush swept across her cheeks again. He’d been right. For her there was something about today that didn’t match the grief of everyone else here. She placed an elegant, gloved hand to her chest.
‘If true, that would have been incredibly improper of me.’
Lance loved that she didn’t deny it. What a glorious mystery she was. Yet as she looked up at him tears shimmered in her eyes. Whilst he spent his life pretending not to be a gentleman, Lance still retained some manners. He whipped out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
He hated women’s tears. Especially when there was not a damn thing he could do about them. She gave him a soft smile of thanks, took the sharply pressed linen and dabbed her eyes.
‘Perhaps, but then I’m improper all the time, so I judge everyone by my own low standards. I always say if you can’t laugh at something, life’s no fun.’ He was renowned in the press for taking very little seriously, which showed how underestimated he was. It was a carefully cultivated illusion on his part. Some things were deadly serious, like his sister’s current circumstances. Everything else was simply unimportant.
The woman in front of him brightened a little then, a tiny quirk of her lips. He supposed he should introduce himself, but there was something about the mystery between them that carried an illicit kind of thrill.
Then she pursed her lips a fraction, blinking with long lashes fanning her cheeks. ‘You were at the interment. Should I know you?’
He put his hand to his chest and staggered back as if she’d mortally wounded him. ‘Of course you should know who I am. Everybody does.’
No hint of a smile this time, but her eyes gleamed, their corners crinkling with amusement. Good. Better than the glittering tears threatening to mar her face. ‘Lance Astill. My father was British Ambassador to Lauritania for many years. And you are?’
He held out his hand. She placed hers in his. It was so slender he felt he might crush it. Yet the delicate bones had a surprisingly firm grip. He turned her hand and bowed over it, although not allowing his lips to touch the smooth silk of her black gloves, no matter how much he wanted to. Today was all about games, and he loved to play. He stood back and released her, her eyes wide and mouth open in a tiny ‘Oh’ that could have been shock or surprise. At least there were no more tears.
‘Sara Conrad.’ The name sounded familiar. A Conrad boy at school had been one of his more persistent tormentors... ‘I was the Crown Prince’s fiancée.’
Lance froze. He’d known Ferdinand had become engaged to some aristocrat, but couldn’t fathom it being this woman. She was too full of life to be squashed down by the strictures of the palace. And the Crown Prince was never known for his fidelity. Lance didn’t imagine he’d have taken his marriage vows seriously.
