‘After all,’ Miranda had said, hand in hand with her new husband, Cleve, ‘the villa was a refuge when we needed it. It brought us love and happiness. It seems right to share that with others but it won’t be the same. Not for us.’
It was as if they all had agreed to make the most of this last stay. The summer hadn’t yet broken and so the family had spent the day swimming and sunbathing, wandering along the cliff tops and revisiting their favourite haunts in the villa for a nostalgic wallow.
The evening had drawn in and, after a feast sent over by the palace chefs, they were all relaxing in the sitting room separated into pairs, apart from Posy all alone in the love seat. She couldn’t help a sad, wistful sigh for when they had been a family of six, not nine. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her sisters’ various husbands and fiancés, she really did, it was just they were their own families now. Little complete units of two—soon to be three in Miranda’s case. Everything had changed irrevocably. For her as much as any of them.
‘Why so sad, Rosy-Posy?’ Her parents were just as bad as her sisters, curled up together on the sofa, actually holding hands. At their age! This year out had brought them closer together than ever. Not that Posy was complaining. After several weeks of watching Nico’s uncle and aunt ignore each other it was lovely to be back in her parents’ all-encompassing loving circle.
‘I’m not sad. I’m thinking.’
‘That explains it, then.’
‘Careful, Posy, you’ll hurt your brain.’
Miranda and Imogen were sitting at opposite ends of the room, Andie lying next to Cleve as he absent-mindedly massaged her growing tummy, Immi and Matt cuddling up together on the window seat, but her twin sisters still managed to insult her in unison. Maybe nothing too much had changed after all.
The only person not to smile at their joint offensive was Portia, who looked penetratingly at Posy. The sole member of the family who knew the truth, she’d been trying to get Posy alone all day—and Posy had eluded her at every turn. She didn’t know why; it should have been a relief to stop acting the happy bride-to-be for one moment, to stop laughing good-naturedly at all the Princess Posy jokes, to allow herself to drop her guard. But she was more than a little scared that if she stopped pretending even for a minute she wouldn’t be able to carry on at all. And it was lovely seeing her parents so happy and proud, so relaxed, the last thing she wanted was to be the person to change that.
‘Isn’t Nico joining us?’ Javier, Portia’s handsome film-star husband, asked.
‘Yes, when am I going to meet my future son-in-law?’ her father chimed in. Posy had dreaded seeing her parents, knowing that they had seen the pictures of her and Nico, but they had fallen over themselves to reassure her of their support. Her father had made it clear that he blamed Nico entirely for the whole fiasco. Posy hadn’t known whether to be relieved or not when Immi had loyally pointed out it was the photographer at fault, leading Portia to defend the freedom of the press, and the whole discussion had become a heated one about body shaming and double standards. Normally she would have loved to join in the debate but today she’d sat quietly, all too aware the body that had been shamed was hers.
‘We’re not actually officially engaged, Dad, and you’ll meet him tomorrow,’ she answered, feeling Portia’s investigative gaze on her. ‘Before the ball. I wanted you all to myself tonight.’
‘What’s he like?’ her mother asked. ‘You know him, don’t you, Javier? Is he good enough for Posy?’
‘You thought so when you introduced us,’ Posy said meaningfully in case Javier had forgotten the story he and Nico had concocted.
Javier smiled at her reassuringly. ‘I was a couple of years older than Nico when I lived here, so I didn’t see much of him outside of lessons. I was always friendlier with Alessandro. Nico had a reputation as a wild boy, he hated the restrictions of the palace, but he’s grown up to be a steady young man. He cares a great deal about L’Isola dei Fiori’s future and how to ensure it thrives.’
‘It’s Posy’s future I’m concerned with,’ her father growled and Posy was overcome with a rush of love for her parents, who had always supported her, even when they didn’t understand her. ‘I hate that you’ve given up ballet, Posy. Why the rush to marry? Can’t you wait a couple of years?’
‘Nico needs to take on his duties here now, Daddy. He had a couple of years after Alessandro’s death to take his MBA so he could help manage the economy with confidence, but he can’t put off joining the government any longer. And I need to be with him, helping him. I’m looking at ways to make dance part of my life here.’
‘That’s all very well and good but what’s he like as a person, not a prince? What do you love about him, Posy?’ Since when had her sensible and capable mother got so romantic?
‘Yes.’ Miranda shifted with an audible huff, her hands automatically moving to cradle her stomach. ‘Tell us about him. He must be pretty special to lure you away from the stage.’
Posy stared at her family, searching for the right words to convince them. ‘Erm... Well. He’s really handsome...’
The twins immediately made gagging noises and Posy threw a pillow in Imogen’s direction, remembering in time that Miranda’s pregnancy gave her immunity and contenting herself with glaring instead. ‘He is. He’s always winning Europe’s Hottest Prince in HRH Magazine’s polls. His eyes are the darkest blue I’ve ever seen and when he smiles it’s like you’re the only person he sees...’ Where had that come from? She shifted, picking up another cushion to cuddle and hide her embarrassment behind as her mother heaved a romantic sigh.
Better stop dwelling on his looks before she moved on to his shoulders and forearms and hands... ‘He’s clever. Properly clever. He was studying for a PhD in some kind of engineering and then switched to an MBA when Alessandro died. He loves being active. He finds it hard, palace life, because he really likes being outdoors pushing himself. Rock climbing and skiing and things like that.’
‘Impressive CV, Posy, but beyond the hot body, action-man hobbies and big brains what’s he really like? What made you fall for him?’ Imogen laid a hand on Matt’s knee and smiled up at him. ‘Apart from the title, that is.’
Posy glared, needled by her sister’s words. ‘There’s lots of things, actually. He has this absolutely huge sense of duty. I mean, people don’t see that, they see the motorboats and the girls and the parties and the rest but he’s always put the island first—that’s why he switched to an MBA. He knew he couldn’t govern the island without that kind of knowledge. He has such big plans. He wants to make L’Isola dei Fiori a tourist paradise while keeping the heart of it intact, to improve the health and education for everyone, to expand the university to make it a world leader in technology, especially renewables. And he’s loyal. He doesn’t let many people in but if he’s on your side he’ll defend you to the end, do anything to protect you.’ As he was protecting her with the best weapon he had—his name. ‘He’s thoughtful and really kind. He carries the world on his shoulders but pretends it doesn’t weigh anything. He’s the best person I know and that’s why I’m marrying him,’ she finished defiantly.
There was a moment’s silence. Posy’s whole family were staring at her.
‘I can’t wait to meet him, darling,’ her mother said at last and the others chimed in. All except Portia, whose expression was troubled.
Posy hugged the cushion tighter. Where had all that come from, that torrent of words? Of emotions? Worst of all she’d meant every word.
Did she feel like that because she had spent so much of the last few weeks with Nico? Was it simply Stockholm Syndrome? Or was it the sex twisting her brains and emotions with all those feel-good hormones?
Or was she actually falling for Nico? And if so what on earth was she going to do when he’d made it all too clear that emotions weren’t part of their deal at all?
*
* *
It should have been a relief, this small respite from looking after Posy. Nico had never appreciated before how difficult life in the palace could be for someone not bred for it. Not only did Posy not know her way around, not know the customs or etiquette, she didn’t speak the language. Nor did she have any friends or acquaintances on the island. Oh, she had bodyguards, tutors, maids and the private secretary she still shared with his aunt, but otherwise she was completely dependent on him.
He had obviously anticipated spending some time with his chosen bride aside from the official ‘dates’—he wanted his marriage to work as some kind of partnership, after all. He just hadn’t expected to spend this much time, to find himself so responsible for another human being.
Nor had he expected to find it so easy.
Nico paced around his sitting room. Soon he would have to steel himself to move into the much larger suite traditionally lived in by the heir and his family. Alessandro had lived in all those rooms alone, never changing the décor chosen for him when he was twenty-one, décor that represented the man the palace wanted Alessandro to be, not the man he actually was. Nico intended to give Posy free rein to redecorate the rooms any way she saw fit, to give her one piece of this old, formal place that could really be hers. Would that be enough to keep her, a place of her own?
He turned and looked at his sitting room. He’d only been here a few weeks so it wasn’t that surprising that, although it had been furnished with his own furniture, shipped over from Boston, he hadn’t personalised any of his suite yet. There were no books on the dark wooden shelves, no pictures on the white walls. But then there hadn’t been a great deal of personal stuff in the Boston apartment either and he’d lived there for five years. He had one photo of Alessandro, a candid shot of his cousin out on a boat, laughing as the spray hit him, on his desk but he displayed no pictures of his grandparents or his parents. No ex-girlfriend special enough to deserve a lasting place anywhere—no ex-girlfriend special enough to deserve a temporary place. He didn’t buy art or ceramics or anything that showed his personal taste and all his books were textbooks, his magazines research journals and he read most of those electronically anyway.
By contrast Posy had already personalised her rooms with little more than a sprinkle of fairy dust. She’d arrived on the island with a backpack and a small holdall and half of her things were still at the villa and yet photographs of her whole family—and a much-loved and deceased golden retriever—sat on her bedside table. Books and magazines were strewn across her coffee table and haphazardly piled onto her bookshelves. She had raided some of the unused rooms so that cushions were piled high on all seating and lamps cast warm glows from every nook. Her sewing basket sat on the floor, usually open with a pair of unfinished shoes on top—what she planned to do with all the darned pointe shoes once she’d worked her way through the box, he wasn’t quite sure. She collected gifts and souvenirs everywhere they went and examples of the lacework, pottery and glass ornaments presented to her as they toured the island were proudly displayed on every available surface. She’d kept the vases filled with flowers and added glass bowls with pebbles and shells she’d collected, and scarves and throws decorated every chair. The main rooms of the various royal suites were large affairs, acting as sitting/dining rooms informally and private reception rooms more formally, big enough for small parties. They were grand, purposefully so, luxurious but not usually cosy. Somehow Posy had made hers so. Made herself a home even if it was temporary, something Nico had never really had.
He’d grown up here, son of the second son, a spare whose use was supposed to be temporary. No one wanted a spare to feel too much at home in a place where they had no real purpose, just a drain on the royal purse. He’d liked Boston a lot but that had never been home either, the city so busy, the winters so very cold and long. He’d always intended to return to L’Isola dei Fiori armed with a purpose, with a way to make his own life, one away from the palace. Then he might have thought about putting down roots, buying some art, a photograph or two. Maybe.
He’d never envisioned anyone else living with him. Never met anyone who might have persuaded him otherwise, anyone he could have trusted. Maybe he’d been looking in all the wrong places. Maybe it was easier to look in the wrong places and know he’d be disappointed than look elsewhere and risk actually being really hurt. Maybe.
Damn but it was quiet. He’d been looking forward to the peace but the quiet just seemed eerie, his bed too big, his rooms too stark, every meeting duller than the one before.
He was relieved when the shrill ringtone interrupted his introspective pacing and he was conscious of a lightening of mood when he saw Posy’s name lit up on his phone’s screen. Unwilling—or unable—to analyse why that might be, he snapped, far more curtly than he intended, ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hi, Nico.’ He’d thrown her, he could tell. ‘Is this a bad time?’
‘No.’ He tried to soften his tone, aware that his irritation with her was completely irrational. Why did she have to be so damn reasonable? ‘It’s fine.’
‘Oh, okay. It’s good news. You know I emailed Bruno, my old ballet master, to see if he could put me in touch with some people to advise me on the best way to go about starting the Arts programme? Well, he’s come here. For the ball. And he’s brought some third-year students to perform as well. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘He’s just turned up here with some students?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. I mean, I invited him. They like to give the third years performing opportunities but it was such short notice and he’s so busy, I didn’t think for a moment he’d actually come.’ Posy was breathless, the words tumbling out of her in her excitement. This man, Bruno, clearly meant a lot to her. Nico was conscious of a tension in his shoulders, his grip on his phone too tight. ‘He knows everyone, from philanthropists to musicians, and does loads of educational work on the side. If he’s willing to advise me then I’m so less likely to make mistakes.’
‘That’s great.’ It was. Posy was clearly fired up about restoring the theatre, which meant she was likely to want to see the project through. Not that she actually needed to be married to him to accomplish that. ‘Is there time for them to perform tonight? My aunt has spent a lot of time putting the timings together.’ He had no idea why he was being so dampening, why Posy’s news was sending out danger alerts when it all seemed so possible.
‘She’s delighted. I’ve never heard her sound so pleased. She actually called me Rosalind rather than Miss Marlowe, which is a major step forward, I reckon. There’s loads of space in the ballroom, enough for an entire company, not just a quartet. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am. It’s great, well done.’ He tried to muster some enthusiasm into his voice, aware he was overdoing it and sounding more like a children’s entertainer. ‘Are you planning to show him the theatre tomorrow?’
‘He has to get straight back to class so there isn’t time. We’re popping over there now and then straight back to the palace for rehearsals. There’s just about time.’
‘You’re cutting it fine.’ He glanced at his watch. Two p.m. ‘The ball starts in six hours. Don’t you have to get ready?’ His mother and aunt usually started getting ready around lunchtime for the September Ball, massages and manicures, hairdressers and facials.
Posy laughed. ‘There’s six hours yet. It’ll take me twenty minutes. Actually, make that forty if I have a quick shower. I’m used to dressing up, remember? That’s why you’ve hired me.’
She was joking but her words twisted in his gut all the same. He had hired her, hired, bribed, persuaded—the word didn’t matter—to do a job. And it was a huge job. She was only twenty-four, her whole life still ahead of her. Did she really want to limit herself to this narrow life on a small island? Was he really willing to allow her?
‘Forty minutes? It’ll take me longer than that.’ He tried to inj
ect some humour into the conversation. ‘So you’re heading to the theatre now?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. Do you want to meet us there, meet Bruno and explain some of the history of the theatre to him?’
‘That sounds great but I can’t, meetings, you know.’
‘Of course, I should have thought. I’ll see you later, at the reception. My family’s looking forward to seeing you. I think they were hoping you’d have had time to make it over to the villa. I warned them how busy you are but they never listen to me, perils of being the youngest.’
Was that hurt he could detect in her voice? He had meant to visit the villa yesterday to welcome the Marlowes to the island—and to formally ask Mr Marlowe for Posy’s hand, despite Posy’s cross reminder that she was a grown woman and quite able to speak for herself. But he’d known how much Posy was looking forward to having all her family around her, to being just a Marlowe girl again, not a Prince’s paramour or a tabloid sensation, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to intrude.
Plus he didn’t know how to be part of a big, cosy family and he’d had enough of being the outsider. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been so busy.’
‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry. I guess I’ll see you at the reception.’ There was a wistful question in her voice, which Nico ignored.
‘See you then. Enjoy the theatre.’
He put the phone down and stared unseeingly at the white walls, the wistful sound in Posy’s voice still echoing in his ears. He’d known her five weeks. Just five weeks. And already she needed more than he could give her; she’d probably deny it, even believe her own words, but he knew.
He just didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
A Proposal from the Crown Prince Page 13