The problem was all this choice. Posy had never had a choice before—she’d had a compulsion. From that first baby ballet class she had been on a path with only one destination and no deviations. School had been an unwelcome distraction until finally she had worn her parents down and they had agreed to allow her to audition for ballet school. Her mother had admitted later they knew how hard it was to get a place; they hadn’t really considered what they would do if Posy got in. But she had got in and she’d stayed in despite some major culls as she’d progressed through the school. On to upper school, into the company—and there her path had halted. Leaving was the first major decision she had made since she was eleven.
And she still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing. It wasn’t that she missed dance. That didn’t even begin to convey how it was not having ballet in her life. She ached with loss, was sluggish with lack of purpose, empty without the daily discipline and routine. Would travelling or setting up a studio fill that emptiness? She doubted it. Maybe she should settle for technically perfect and no solos. A future as the head of the corps. There were worse things. Maybe that was growing up, accepting your limitations.
With relief she saw the bars on the top of her phone flicker into a faint life. She still had the solicitor’s number and, thanks to the time difference, it could only be early afternoon in London. She’d make the call and then at least she would have done something decisive before heading back to curl up in the small snug where she ensconced herself of an evening to watch Cary Grant films on Sofia’s ancient VHS player. It was An Affair to Remember tonight. Maybe not, with her own too brief affair all too memorable for all the wrong reasons.
With purpose she angled the phone away from the sun, ready to scroll through her contacts until she found the solicitor’s number, only to stop and stare as her missed call alerts began to flash incessantly. Unknown numbers, her mother’s mobile, all three of her sisters, friends, more unknown numbers. Her voicemail alert was also going crazy. What was going on? An accident? Had the baby come early? She frantically counted back. No, it was far too early. Please no. Her fingers stumbled as she struggled to retrieve her voicemail and her mobile fell to the ground; she bent to retrieve it, uncharacteristically clumsy in her haste, stumbling as she stooped.
‘I wouldn’t listen to that if I were you.’
Posy started at the voice, falling back onto her bottom, hardly aware of the stones digging into her tender flesh as she pushed herself back up into a sitting position. Clasping her errant phone in one hand, she glared up at the smiling Nico. How did he manage to be in the wrong place at the wrong time every time? Begrudgingly she took the hand he held out to her and allowed him to pull her up.
‘Where did you come from?’
‘The path. I saw you leave the villa and followed you.’
She should have been annoyed, or even scared at his words but she wasn’t. Nico wasn’t the charming tease or the sweet seducer of the night before, nor was he the serious suit of earlier that day. Instead he seemed thoughtful, a determined set to his shoulders as he took the phone from her hand.
‘That’s mine. Give it back.’
‘In a minute. I need to tell you something—ask you something first.’
She made a grab for it, fear filling her, not because she was alone with a near stranger and with no way of getting help—but because of the odd look on his face. A sixth sense whispered to her that his odd behaviour was all mixed in with the missed phone calls and a dim part of her knew that somewhere, somehow, everything had changed. ‘No. I have to call my sisters. Something’s happened and I don’t know what. Give it to me.’
But he held the phone just out of reach, compassion in the dark blue eyes. ‘In a minute. Posy. Listen to me. I know what’s happened.’
His calm words hit her and her hand dropped unsteadily to her side, tension competing with fear. ‘You know, but how? How would they know to call you? I don’t even know I know you so how would they?’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Posy, listen to me. I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’
A snort of disbelief escaped her. ‘Haven’t been entirely honest? Which part exactly? When you seduced me on the beach or when you marched up to my front door and told me I’m not entitled to my home? Is this all some part of an elaborate plot to what? Con me out of the villa? What kind of lawyer are you exactly?’ She knew she was babbling again, but it was easier to allow the words to bubble out than hear whatever it was he had to say, find out just why the world, his wife and their cat were so desperately trying to get hold of her.
Nico held up a hand and she came to an abrupt stop, the words drying up in her mouth, and she stared at him. ‘Listen to me, Posy. This is important. I’m not a lawyer. I don’t represent the royal family, the Del Castros. I am one. I’m Nicolas Del Castro.’
‘Nicolas Del Castro?’
She knew that name. How did she know it? ‘You’re a member of the royal family? Like, a prince or a duke or a...’ She paused. What else were royals? Kings, of course, but she’d seen a picture of the current king and she couldn’t remember him being drop-your-clothes-in-the-sand hot. Or indeed hot at all.
His mouth tightened. ‘A prince? Yes. The Crown Prince.’
‘The Crown Prince?’ She stared at him, no doubt looking as stupid as she felt. ‘But yesterday, today...’
‘That’s why I am here. Look, we were seen. Last night. That’s what everyone is trying to tell you.’
Posy blinked as the world swirled to a nauseous stop and she swayed. ‘Seen? When? Who by?’ But she knew the answers. It was all too clear. Her phone was red hot and he was a prince—a crown prince. The answer was unlikely to be a shepherd minding his own business who’d decided to ignore the whole proceedings.
Nico’s answer confirmed her thoughts. ‘A photographer.’
‘And it’s all over the Internet, isn’t it? How bad is it?’
‘It’s pretty explicit.’
Posy swallowed, a laugh trying to inappropriately bubble up. She’d wanted some direction, something to change. Careful what you wish for, Posy.
‘Why are you here, Nico?’
‘To bring you to the palace until we get this situation under control.’
She wanted to stamp her foot at his calmness. ‘Under control? What do you mean?’
He looked at her, his face unreadable. ‘I think we should get married. Don’t you?’
CHAPTER SIX
POSY BLINKED, THEN blinked again. Yep, he was still here, still with that determined set to his shoulders and the same shuttered look on his face. ‘You think we should what?’
‘Get married.’
This was a joke, right? But there was no hint of amusement in his hard eyes.
‘But...that’s ridiculous. We don’t even know each other.’ Plus he hadn’t even asked her. Not that a ring and a bended knee would make any difference but at least she wouldn’t feel like a problem he needed to sort out. She folded her arms and glared at him.
Nico raised one lazy brow. ‘Rosalind Anne Marlowe,’ he drawled. ‘Twenty-four years old. Your parents own a well-thought-of light aircraft manufacturer. You have three sisters, one a pilot, another a celebrity journalist who is married to Javier Russo, a friend of my cousin, Alessandro’s.’
‘Yes, but...’
He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You went to train to be a ballerina when you were eleven and graduated into the Company where you spent the last five years as a member of the Corps de Ballet until your unexpected sabbatical this summer. No one knows if you plan to return to dancing or if you have other plans but your sabbatical has caused quite a stir—you have shown no interest in anything except ballet your entire life. You share a flat with two other dancers, have had a handful of boyfriends although no relationship lasted more than three months and you m
et them all through work. How am I doing so far?’
‘That,’ Posy said, trying not to shudder at the bald facts of her life laid out before her, ‘is worse than a naked picture. You had me investigated?’
‘Of course. The future Crown Princess of L’Isola dei Fiori can’t have any skeletons in her closet and your closet is squeaky clean. Not as much as a knucklebone.’
Twenty-four and squeaky clean. No wonder she’d been dismissed as having no fire, no life. ‘So you know where I went to school? Big deal. My parents’ job? So what? That doesn’t mean you know anything about me. You don’t know my favourite book or colour or food or film...’
His eyes darkened and he took a step nearer. ‘I know you like to dance on the beach even when there’s no audience there to see you. I know you like the feel of cold, salt water on your bare skin and the barer the skin, the better. I know the look on your face when you make your mind up to do something and the way your hands clench when you’re nervous. I know the look on your face when I touch you. I know the way you sigh, the way you moan...’
She put a hand up, warding him off, telling herself that his words were meaningless, that they weren’t sinking into her, swirling through her veins. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. My sisters have all fallen in love this year and that’s wonderful but I didn’t feel jealous of what they have. I don’t feel jealous. Marriage has never been my goal. Why would I marry you? Why would I marry anyone?’
‘What are your plans, Posy?’
She gaped, thrown by the sudden change of subject. ‘What?’
‘When you leave here. Once you’ve escaped the paparazzi who will very soon be at your door—if they’re not already—when you’ve got off the island and away, where will you go? Back to London?’
‘I don’t know. I’m on a sabbatical, remember? I’m trying to figure things out.’
‘I’m offering you a job for life. It has its perks: a nice salary, a home—several homes—good holidays. You’ll have to work, that’s the bit the fairy tales leave out. It’s not all balls and white chargers. There’s a lot of opening things and state occasions and smiling while your feet hurt but as a ballerina I think you’re more than qualified.’
That last bit was true; she was an expert at smiling through sore feet. ‘A job for life. How romantic.’
She turned and began to walk back to the villa. There was some of Sofia’s sherry in the kitchen and if that wasn’t strong enough she was pretty sure there was a dusty bottle of absinthe in one of the covered rooms. It couldn’t make her hallucinate more than she clearly already was.
‘There’s no room for romance in my life,’ Nico said soberly as he fell into step beside her. Despite all the craziness of the last few minutes Posy couldn’t help but be aware of his height, of the warmth of his arm as the path pushed them together, of the way she felt his every move, his every look deep inside, the tension in her stomach, in her thighs, at his proximity. ‘Look what happened when I took a chance on a night’s adventure. Everything I do, everywhere I go I am scrutinised and any woman unlucky enough to be linked to me goes under the same intense spotlight. Men like me marry women who know the score. Women prepared for this world.’
An unwanted flicker of sympathy warmed her momentarily. It sounded lonely. Almost as lonely as a loveless marriage full of duty. ‘Why me? Why now? And no, don’t give me the photo story. It’s embarrassing, sure. But.’ She flicked him a sidelong glance. ‘Men usually get away with this kind of thing much easier than women. I don’t think this is going to make a huge impact on your life—just make sure the next viral photograph shows you being adorable with a puppy and the world will be at your feet.’ She swallowed as the impact of her words sank in, heaviness descending, blanketing and choking. There was no way she could get back on stage in the foreseeable future, knowing that everyone would be whispering, speculating, knowing...what reputable company would want someone so notorious?
‘Maybe, maybe not. You’re not no one. You’re the goddaughter of my grandfather’s mistress. We were photographed on the beach they used to throw parties on. Pictured standing outside the villa he gave her. That makes you a story, makes us a story and I think it’ll take more than puppies to change this narrative. Look, Posy. I know this seems drastic but you’ve lived a life of discipline, I don’t think life as a royal would be as chafing for you as it would for many other women, the way we have to live, the lack of privacy and freedom.’
Posy swallowed. ‘You’re serious. You actually think this is a real, viable option? I’m on a sabbatical, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up my dreams for good. I’m a dancer, not a princess. Yes, I can stand for long periods of time and curtsey in heels but even if I was crazy enough to consider agreeing—which I’m not—there’s got to be more to being a princess than that.’
‘Posy, I’m just trying to find a way out of this mess that works for both of us. Either you go down in history as the dancer who romped naked with the Prince or you can be a princess. Your choice.’
Posy shivered despite the balmy afternoon sun. Ballet dancers were for the most part free from the downsides of fame, their private lives unknown to the outside world. But her sister Portia was an entertainment journalist and Posy had seen how easy it was for her to tear people down, people who were famous for much more laudable reasons than a fling with a prince. She’d seen how Javier spent his life as a headline, the truth an incidental compared to the possible scandal. ‘I don’t want to be famous,’ she half whispered. ‘Or notorious. Yes, I want to be loved and admired for my dancing but once the spotlights dim I don’t need or crave attention.’
‘Then this has got to be hard for you but you don’t have time to dwell on it. You need to decide now.’
‘What’s in it for you? If I say yes?’ She couldn’t believe she was even asking the question, asking any questions instead of marching back to the villa, packing her bags and hightailing it away from the villa and away from Nico. But hadn’t she run away from obstacles just a week ago? Look how that had panned out.
‘What do you mean?’
Oh, that blank look wasn’t fooling her. ‘I agree and I get a job for life, as you so romantically put it. I get a PR team doing their best to make sure those photos are forgotten and buried. But what about you? What do you get out of it apart from a loveless marriage?’
There was no answer for a long minute and when he did speak his voice was toneless. ‘My cousin died unexpectedly the year before last. He was supposed to be the Crown Prince, the next King.’
Of course. How could she have forgotten? ‘I heard, I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you. He was raised to it, to duty and country first. As the spare, a cousin at that, expectations weren’t so high for me and I may have taken advantage of that.’
‘May?’
For the first time that day his mouth quirked into a smile and Posy felt an answering pull. Prince or not, she doubted many people turned Nico down when he smiled in that particular way, charm mixed with devilry and a certain aw, shucks frankness. ‘That was the narrative. Alessandro was the obedient heir and I was the wastrel always getting him into trouble. Truth was Alessandro loved trouble as much as any boy, but he loved his country more and he knew his duty. I didn’t expect to be standing here, heir to an old-fashioned constitution and a dependent country, but here I am—and I love my country too. L’Isola dei Fiori needs a stable succession. It needs an heir settled down with a wife and children, the one thing Alessandro failed to do. If he had...’ the smile intensified ‘...you and I would be having a very different discussion right now.’
Posy wasn’t sure if the jolt in her stomach was in answer to that wolfish smile or the casual mention of a wife and children. That was what he’d meant by duty, wasn’t it? Not just making pretty speeches and cutting ribbons but bearing his children, future princes and princesses. The begetting
of those future princes and princesses. Surely, surely this had to be some kind of joke...
But although Nico was smiling there was still little humour in his face. She shivered, pulling her battered mind back to the matter at hand, utterly ludicrous as this whole conversation was. ‘But he didn’t marry and so you need a wife. Any wife.’
‘That’s about it. Apart from the any wife part. My grandmother went to a lot of trouble to put a shortlist aside for me.’
‘I’m guessing I wasn’t at the top of that list.’
‘It’s doubtful but you’ve been catapulted right up there. It seems,’ he clarified, ‘that recent events make it hard for me to court any of these eligible young ladies in an approved fashion.’
‘Oh.’ She chewed on her lip, a habit she’d thought had been trained out of her along with slouching and bad turnout. ‘You don’t sound too heartbroken.’
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t even looked at the list. I got...sidetracked.’
Her toes curled at the dark meaning in his voice. It was a good thing she wasn’t even entertaining this crazy idea because Nico Del Castro was definitely a bigger bite than she could comfortably chew.
‘So you pick a wife, she agrees gratefully and bang, happy ever after?’
‘Not quite. Before we get married there is a nice, public falling-in-love period to go through. What do you think, Posy? Ready to be wooed and wed?’
* * *
It stood to reason that nothing about this process was going to go smoothly and, by the pursed pinch of her lips and the cloud on her brow, his intended bride was the biggest obstacle of them all. She hadn’t spoken one more word since Nico had brought up the whole public wooing part of the plan. To be honest he couldn’t really blame her—he had agreed to the idea but it was still far too sickly for him to easily stomach.
A Proposal from the Crown Prince Page 6