A Proposal from the Crown Prince

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘It’s the September Ball in two weeks.’

  Posy nodded, holding onto her temper as best she could. She knew it was the ball in two weeks; after all, Melissa only mentioned it one hundred times a day.

  ‘Your engagement will be announced along with an honorary title...’

  ‘Hang on.’ Posy held a hand up. ‘A what?’

  ‘An honorary title. It’s customary when a Del Castro marries a commoner...’ she practically sniffed the last word ‘...that the said commoner is given a title until the wedding when they then assume their spouse’s title. I believe you will become a Contessa.’

  Posy swallowed a giggle. A what? ‘Is that really necessary?’ What would happen when she walked away? Would she get to keep the title, a unique souvenir of her engagement? She’d have to get a new passport; she’d bet that it would guarantee upgrades on every flight.

  Melissa didn’t see the joke. ‘Yes. It’s the custom. I told you.’

  ‘Oh, well. If it’s the custom.’ Posy managed not to roll her eyes. There were many customs she was ignorant of and Melissa loved to enlighten her, whether it was the right way to wear her hair when she attended church in the royal pew or which pastry she should eat for breakfast on which saint’s day.

  ‘The King will announce your title and then you need to launch your cause, what you will be patron of. The Dowager Queen is patron of a literacy programme and the Queen a charity to alleviate child poverty on the island.’

  Child poverty? Just a couple of the Queen’s necklaces could probably solve that far better than a letterhead and a charity but Posy wasn’t going to say that out loud. L’Isola dei Fiori was an island of contrasts, the two cities and many villages prosperous, as were many of the bigger farmers, but there were still far too many subsistence farmers eking out a meagre living from their small patches and the slum areas around the cities were as poor as any Posy had seen in places like Marseille or Naples. Nico was working hard to bring in the money to raise educational standards across the island and to introduce free health care but the old feudal systems were engrained and any change looked on with suspicion.

  What on earth could Posy contribute—and what was the point if she wasn’t staying?

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, but the doubts remained. She was twenty-four and all she knew was dance. She had no other skills.

  The idea still preyed on her mind as she and Nico returned from a date adorably riding adorable horses against an adorable backdrop of rolling hills and the sea. Luckily Posy’s horse was both adorable and placid and when Nico put a steadying hand on her bridle it looked more lover-like than restraining. Horse-riding was one of the many things she had never learned to do for fear of injury and using the wrong muscles. And yes, she was enjoying these new outdoorsy skills, testing herself, her body. But, oh, how she missed the discipline of the studio.

  Nico had been less talkative since their kayaking trip. It was as if having opened up once he was reluctant to do so again. On one hand Posy appreciated his return to polite and agreeable, it made her resolution not to continue this charade past the promised three months easier, but on the other it just reinforced how isolated she was in the palace, the disapproving Melissa her most constant companion. Guido could be a friend, but they would have to be circumspect. She didn’t want to inadvertently betray his secrets with too close a friendship.

  Usually she filled the silences with chatter. It was easier to talk inanely than to brood about her future and the opportunities she’d missed in the past, but today she couldn’t put her lack of skills out of her mind. Obviously she wouldn’t be here to figurehead a cause so it was all speculative anyway, but if she were here she wouldn’t want to just hold meetings and fundraise, she’d want to be involved, properly hands-on. But how? What did she have to contribute?

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I thought you might appreciate the peace.’

  He glanced over at her. ‘Don’t stop on my account. What’s on your mind?’

  Posy glared. ‘Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong.’

  The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Maybe not but as you managed to talk while kayaking, while horse-riding, you even manage to make conversation with my aunt, it is out of character for you to sit worrying in silence.’

  ‘I’m not worrying exactly,’ she said with as much dignity as she could manage. ‘I’m just wondering what I’m good for. No, not that...’ she scolded as his gaze automatically dropped to the vee in her dress. ‘Eyes on the road, Your Royal Highness. I mean what could I be a patron of? I wouldn’t want just a ceremonial title. If I’m to champion something I want to get stuck in.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? The arts.’

  ‘Yes, but do you have any arts? I know there’s folk dancing and folk songs, but beyond that? There’s not even a theatre on the island, is there?’

  ‘Not open. My great-grandfather—or was it my great-great-grandfather?—commissioned one. He was a great lover of the theatre—well, of actresses mainly, but it had the same result. But it closed down several years ago, longer maybe. It was mainly used by amateur groups and got too run down even for them.’

  ‘Really? There’s a theatre?’ Posy was gripped by a homesickness so intense she clutched her stomach to try and stifle the pain. A stage, spotlights, curtains, wings. ‘Can we visit it? Now?’

  ‘Really? That’s how you want to spend your first free afternoon in nearly three weeks?’

  ‘Yes. Unless... You don’t have to take me. You must have things you want to do. I’ll see if one of the guards can, if that’s okay, I mean. I won’t be trespassing?’

  ‘No, no, you won’t be trespassing and, yes, I can take you. If that’s what you really want to do.’

  ‘It is,’ Posy said, immeasurably cheered up by the prospect. ‘I can’t imagine anything else I’d rather do. I still don’t see there’s much scope to be a Patron of the Arts here but I always think best on stage. Maybe it’ll spark a bright idea.’

  It didn’t take too long to get there. The theatre was near the centre of the island’s capital, San Rocco, on a side street in a vibrant bohemian neighbourhood filled with cafés and restaurants, not far from the university. The front was boarded up but it wasn’t hard for Posy to see the potential in the building. It had been built along art nouveaux lines, the lobby a graceful, marble introduction to the small but perfectly formed auditorium beyond, complete with stalls, a dress circle, upper circle and balcony. The royal box wasn’t to one side as was usual but in the very centre of the dress circle, all the better for Nico’s ancestor to watch the actresses and dancers from.

  Posy stepped inside the auditorium, staring around in wonder, and took in a deep breath, regretting it almost immediately; it was very dusty. ‘Look at this,’ she managed, despite the dryness in her throat. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Nico raised a sceptical brow. ‘You are easily pleased. Dingy and in need of disinfecting, I would say.’

  ‘It’s not dingy,’ she protested. ‘It’s full of character.’ Okay, the velvet on the seats was threadbare, the great stage curtains were moth-eaten, the glass on the chandeliers smeared and dim. But the bones of the theatre were there. It wouldn’t take a huge amount to clean it up and repair it. Possibly.

  There were wooden steps at the end leading up to the stage. Posy walked up them carefully, feeling with her foot for any sign of rot or damp, anything that would make the stage unsafe, but it felt completely sound. ‘I agree it’s a little shabby,’ she called down to Nico, who stood at the back of the stalls, watching her. ‘But there doesn’t seem to be anything structurally wrong. What a shame it hasn’t been used for so long, you’d think someone would have tried to restore it.’

  ‘It relied on royal patronage and neither my grandfather nor uncle cared for the theatre. The amateur groups
kept it going for a while but when it started to need more than TLC they gave up too.’

  ‘Poor old lady,’ Posy murmured, and could have sworn the theatre answered her back with a dignified sniff.

  She wandered into the wings and inhaled. No one had been here for a long, long time and yet she could still smell it, smell the anticipation, the sweat, the excitement. How many girls had stood here, stomachs tumbling with nerves, before stepping out onto that stage? How many times had she stood in the wings, rosin on her shoes, smile ready on her face, waiting for that moment when she ran onto the stage, doing the only thing that made her feel alive? How had she walked away from that?

  She flexed a foot, pointing it instinctively, the stage calling to her louder and more enticing than a siren’s song. It needed to be used, trodden upon, brought back to life. Before she could remember all the reasons this was a bad idea she pulled her phone out of her pocket and selected a piece of music, slipping off her shoes as she did so. The music would reach no further than her ears, she would be dancing barefooted in a fifties-style sundress but she had no choice. There was a stage and Posy had to dance.

  * * *

  She’d come home. The instant Nico had wrestled the last lock off the side door and ushered Posy inside she had changed, every atom in her alert, vibrant, positively buzzing with happiness. She didn’t see a lobby caked in dirt, dust and graffiti; she saw a stately, welcoming space. To her the bar wasn’t chipped and stained but ready and waiting for patrons to stand and drink. The seats weren’t rusty and sagging but in need of some TLC, the chipped and faded plasterwork easy to fix with a coat of paint. Her smile grew wider with each step, her eyes brighter. This dark, dusty, cavernous space lifted her, sent her spinning with joy.

  Literally.

  The faintest strains of music reached him as Posy set her phone on the stage, a violin’s melancholy note. She stood, leg pointed, arms raised, perfectly and utterly still. And then as the music swelled, as much as music played tinnily through a phone’s speaker could swell, she began to dance. Nico stood, immobilised, as if each movement she made wound a spell around him, and one blink, one step would break the magic. He’d seen her move before, her prayer-like exercises, the arabesque on the beach, but he’d never seen her here in her natural environment.

  As she danced the magic spread. He could see the seats as they should be, plush red velvet and filled with excited people, the chandelier gleaming, the freshly painted cherubs above blowing golden trumpets for eternity. And Posy herself: it was as if there were two, the girl in the pink dress, barefooted, hair flowing down her back, and the ballerina with her tight bun and layers of white tulle.

  Nico had spent a lot of time in various theatres in various capital cities, watching various plays, ballets and operas. He had probably seen Posy dance before, sitting in a hospitality box in Covent Garden, taking no notice of the dark-haired girl in the Corps de Ballet, so used to watching genius at work he barely appreciated it any more. But not one of the exquisite performances he had watched moved him the way this dance did. She was music brought to life, a lyrical poem in motion, dancing for herself, for this old, forgotten theatre, for the life she had left behind.

  He just couldn’t understand why she had left it. He had loved his research, the logic mixed with experimentation, and had felt a pang when he had left it behind for the drier but eminently more sensible MBA. He was still interested in the subject matter, still read widely, still planned to lure the right people to the university, for his legacy to his island to be a healthy economy and a reputation as a market leader in using and developing clean energy. But he didn’t yearn for research the way Posy yearned to dance. He’d always had a full and varied life whereas she was totally dedicated; nothing else really mattered. And he was no connoisseur but it seemed to him that the girl in front of him was full of life, burning with passion, every movement so evocative of loss and yearning it almost hurt to watch.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was indulgent of me.’

  He realised with a shock the music had stopped and Posy was standing at the edge of the stage, looking out at him. ‘No, it was beautiful. What was it?’

  ‘Giselle. I’ve danced it many times but always as a willi, a spirit. Never the title role. I always wanted to and here was my chance. The peasant girl saving the life of her Prince. I never thought I’d live it rather than dance it.’

  ‘Live it? You plan to save me from being danced to my death by the ghosts of scorned women?’

  ‘Maybe. It depends if you deserve saving or not. I was thinking more of the peasant girl and the Prince part rather than the whole supernatural and betrayal bit.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Is that the part you wanted to dance most?’

  ‘Or Juliet.’ She laughed, a little self-consciously. ‘I always liked the really tragic roles best. But yes, it’s a dancer’s dream, to go from shy girl to falling in love to the whole mad scene at the end of Act One and then the tragically noble Act Two with that gorgeous pas de deux...not that it matters. That’s not my role any more, not my life.’

  No. She was quite clear about that. The thing Nico couldn’t understand was why. Why if she danced like that?

  Nico had to get married; he knew that. He knew that compatibility and respect were the best he could hope for and in the last few weeks he had believed it could actually happen; that he could marry someone he could be content with. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck that he’d stumbled on her, on the safe partner he needed. With Posy there would be no huge dramas, no cold wars. She was diligent and disciplined, realistic and hardworking. She’d led a narrow life but she was intelligent and a quick learner, an easy conversationalist, good with people. Everything on his ‘how to be a good queen’ wish list personified with the added bonus of a sweet sensuality that heated his blood.

  She deserved more than he could offer. Deserved more than life in a gilded cage. Deserved to dance the roles she craved. Deserved a man who loved her for all those qualities he had listed, not one who merely esteemed her for them.

  She deserved better than him.

  ‘You’re right...’

  He jumped as she came up beside him, wondering for one moment if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. ‘I usually am.’

  ‘You’re going to make an insufferable king. But in this instance I’ll let you have it. I should choose the arts. I should try and get enough money to restore this theatre and get touring companies to come here. That would be great for tourism but I’d want discounted tickets for locals and performances for schools. At the same time I could champion dance, music and drama for people of all ages.’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea.’

  ‘I don’t really know how to go about it,’ she confessed. ‘But I know plenty of people who do. Maybe this is what I’m meant to do. If I can’t dance myself I could inspire others to, show people how important music and drama and dance are.’

  It was perfect. A working theatre with performances by some of Europe’s touring groups would do wonders for tourism, offer visitors the culture they would expect when visiting a capital city. At the same time Posy’s idea tied into his own plans to raise the level of education on the island, including more opportunities for adults. And if she was thinking so far ahead she must be considering staying past the end of their three-month agreement. Which was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WHEN POSY HAD been little and unable to decide what to do her mother had always made her write a list. ‘You know the right path somewhere deep inside,’ she would say. ‘Write a list of fors and againsts and the right path will appear.’ And it always had. Posy hadn’t needed a list for a long, long time, her path had been so straightforward. Until it had suddenly twisted and the way she’d fled she’d chosen purely on instinct.

  And look where instinct had brought her: away from her c
areer, onto the front pages and about to get formally and possibly, probably, temporarily engaged to a man who didn’t love her. Poised on the brink of, surreally, and hilariously, becoming a Contessa before—even more surreally—a princess. One day a queen.

  Maybe. If she decided that was what she wanted.

  She definitely needed a list.

  Okay. Points in favour of staying: she would have a purpose. The idea of taking over the theatre and introducing an educational arts programme to L’Isola dei Fiori filled her with more excitement and hope than she would have believed possible a couple of months ago. She would be protected from the paparazzi, who currently had her firmly in their sights. She could make a life with Nico, whom she liked, whom she was attracted to, who seemed to like her. Who needed her...

  Posy closed her eyes. Needed her for what? To provide romantic photos and lure the tourists in? To act as a hostess? To provide him with heirs? None of that was something only she could do. Nico didn’t need her, he needed a wife, any wife.

  Okay. That was the first item on the ‘against’ list. What else? When she’d walked away she had thought she would probably never dance again but marrying Nico would ensure that actually happened. Had she really given up on her dream? She would live her whole life in the spotlight. Nico didn’t love her...

  Posy’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t as if she were actually looking for love, but neither had she consciously not been looking for it. She was only twenty-four. Was she ready to give up any chance of really falling for someone? Of someone really falling for her?

  It was hard to imagine settling right now when she was surrounded by so much loved-upness it almost made her ill. Thanks to a sterling effort by some of the palace staff enough of the rooms in Villa Rosa were both clean and secure enough for her whole family to stay there and Posy had moved back in yesterday to welcome them to her home for the last time. It had been an emotional reunion, even though it wasn’t that long since they’d last all gathered together here at the villa for Immi and Matt’s engagement celebration barely two months before, but knowing it was the last time they would be able to call it their second home had provoked more than a few nostalgic tears.