The Prince's Convenient Proposal

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘That’s the general idea.’ Olivia picked up the beaded silver evening bag, popped the lipstick inside.

  Charlie blinked, desperate to hide any hint of tears as her lookalike headed for the door.

  Just before she reached it, Charlie had to ask, ‘Why did you do it, Olivia? When you already had a boyfriend, why did you agree to marry Rafe?’

  Her sister smiled archly. ‘For the same reason as you, my dear Charlotte. For the money, of course.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHARLIE DIDN’T WATCH Olivia and the Prince as they left for the ball. Excusing herself quickly, she retired to her room. Tears threatened, but she gave herself a mental shake. She’d known from the start of this mad adventure with Rafe that it would all end with her sister’s return, so it made absolutely no sense to feel sorry for herself.

  But she wasn’t going to beat herself up either. Sure, she’d been reckless. Any way you looked at it, agreeing to pretend to be a foreign prince’s fiancée was pretty damn crazy. Many would call it foolish in the extreme.

  But Charlie consoled herself that at least her original motives hadn’t been merely mercenary, and Isla was out of the woods, so that was a huge positive. Her mistake had been getting sidetracked by all the trimmings—a handsome and charming prince and his beautiful castle and his gorgeously romantic Alpine principality.

  And at least she’d learned one or two things from this wildly unreal experience. She no longer believed any of that nonsense about fairy tales and happy endings. Sadly, Rafe’s depressingly realistic theory was correct. Life was a compromise.

  For Charlie Morisset, it was time to remember who she really was. An everyday, average girl from Down Under. And a poor one at that.

  Right, come on, girl. Get a grip on reality. Deep breath.

  * * *

  When the first strains of waltz music drifted up from the ballroom, she turned on the television. She’d hardly watched any TV since she’d arrived in Montaigne, but tonight she curled up on the sofa in front of the fire and scrolled through channels till she found a romantic movie, so old it was in black and white. It was also in French, without subtitles, but Charlie could just keep up.

  She refused to think about the laughter and the music and glamour downstairs and she refused to give a moment’s thought to Olivia dancing in Rafe’s arms. The film was very good, and she managed to remain deeply engrossed until a knock at the door signalled the arrival of her dinner.

  ‘Please, come in,’ she called.

  Guillaume appeared, bearing a heavily laden tray and looking deeply distressed. ‘His Highness ordered a special dinner for you, mademoiselle.’

  Charlie smiled bravely. ‘How kind of him.’

  Guillaume set the tray on the coffee table, then gave a deep bow. He looked as if he might have been going to say something of great importance, but after standing with his mouth open for a rather long and awkward moment, he swallowed, making his Adam’s apple jerk nervously, then said simply, ‘Bon appetit, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Merci, Guillaume.’ For his sake, Charlie replied with as much dignity as she could muster, while seated in her bathrobe, and she waited until he’d gone before she examined her meal.

  As the door closed behind him, she lifted the lid on a small casserole dish and was greeted by the tantalising aroma of beef in red wine with herbs and mushrooms. On checking out the other covered dishes, she found foie gras and toast fingers, and wedges of several different cheeses. Yet another little dish housed crème caramel.

  Oh, and there was a selection of Belgian chocolates! And as if these luxuries weren’t enough, there was a bottle of Shiraz and an ice bucket with champagne, plus the appropriate glasses.

  I could get well and truly plastered.

  It was a tempting thought. Charlie could have used a little cheering up, although the last thing she wanted was to leave the castle with a hangover. Even so, it was very thoughtful of Rafe to make sure she had such a wonderful selection.

  And it didn’t help at that moment, to remember the Prince’s many kindnesses.

  Rafe wasn’t just the hunkiest guy she’d ever met. He really was, despite his princely status and his many regal responsibilities, the most thoughtful man she’d ever known. She was used to her dad’s vagaries, and none of her boyfriends had been especially considerate or caring. Rafe, however, had gone out of his way to make sure she’d thoroughly enjoyed her short stay in his country.

  And then, of course, there were his kisses...

  Would she ever forget the way he’d kissed her tonight, taking such exquisite care not to mess her make-up? All those delicious sexy kisses to her neck, to her throat and ears...

  Until their caution gave way to passion.

  Oh, such blissful passion!

  No wonder she needed to cry.

  * * *

  It was hours later when Charlie’s phone rang. She had fallen asleep on the sofa at some unearthly hour, having found a second movie to watch while drinking yet another big glass of the deliciously hearty red wine. It took her a moment to find her phone among the scattered dishes on the coffee table. Her fingers finally closed around it just as it was due to ring out.

  ‘Hello,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Charlie, I’m sorry if I’ve woken you. It’s Dad.’

  A chill skittered through her. Suddenly terrified for Isla, Charlie sat up quickly, heart thumping. ‘Yes, Dad? How’s Isla?’

  ‘Isla’s OK,’ her father said quickly. ‘Actually, she’s better than OK. She’s coming out of ICU tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m not ringing with bad news, Charlie. It’s good news, rather amazing news, actually. It’s about my paintings.’

  ‘Really?’ Charlie was waking up fast. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve sold one?’

  ‘Not just one painting, Charlie. I’ve sold five!’

  ‘Oh, wow! How?’ She was wide awake now. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  And, of course, her dad was more than happy to recount his amazing story. ‘I happened to meet this fellow here in Boston called Charles Peabody. He works here at the hospital, some kind of world-famous surgeon, actually, absolutely loaded. Anyway, Dr Yu introduced us, just out of politeness, but it turns out Peabody’s wife was born in Sydney, so he has a bit of a soft spot for the place. And he’s apparently something of an art collector.’

  ‘That was very handy.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? It’s as if my stars were all aligned. Anyway, we were yarning and I happened to mention my paintings.’

  ‘As you do.’

  Her father laughed. ‘Of course. Anyway, Peabody was really interested. Afterwards, he got in touch with his New York dealer, who was able to show him my paintings online. And he fell in love with the painting of the alley. You know the one—you’ve always liked it, too—View from Cook’s Alley?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s always been my favourite.’

  It was a remarkable painting, she’d always believed. It showed a view down a steep, narrow alley that had grimy, old buildings on either side that served as a frame for a sparkling view of Sydney Harbour. The slice of the bright blue sky and sunlit water with pretty sailing boats and the curve of the Harbour Bridge made a startling contrast to the narrow dark alley with dank gutters, a stray cat and newspapers wrapped around the bottom of a lamp post. ‘That’s so fantastic, Dad. I always knew someone would realise you’re a genius. I’m so happy for you. I hope this Peabody fellow is paying you top dollar?’

  ‘Top dollar? You wouldn’t believe the sum the dealer managed to sell it for. I still can’t bring myself to say it out loud, in case it breaks a spell or something.’

  Charlie chuckled. No wonder she was superstitious. She got it from her dad.

  ‘But the am
azing thing is,’ her father went on, ‘the dealer’s already sold four more paintings to American collectors—in New York, in Seattle, San Francisco and New Orleans. After all these years, it seems I’ve become an overnight international success.’

  Charlie’s laugh was a little shaky. She was feeling teary again. ‘That’s so fantastic. Totally deserved, of course.’

  ‘Thanks, darling.’ Her dad’s voice sounded a bit choked now. ‘And I mean that. I owe you heartfelt thanks, Charlie. I’m pretty sure I would have fallen by the wayside without you there to prop me up more than once.’

  Charlie had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak. ‘And these sales might never have happened if it wasn’t for Isla,’ she said.

  ‘Correction. They wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you, Charlie. I don’t know how you found that money, or who the kind benefactor was, but we’re so, so grateful.’

  Now she gripped the phone harder, fighting more tears.

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you, love?’ her father said next.

  ‘Your money worries are over.’ At last. Finally. ‘Dad, you so totally deserve this.’

  ‘But it also means I can pay you back for Isla’s operation, and you can pay whoever you borrowed the money from.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Charlie knew it made no sense to be sobered by this prospect. The timing was perfect. Now she wasn’t only free to leave Montaigne, she would also be able to hand the money back to Rafe, even though he didn’t expect it, and her ties with him would be severed. Neatly. Cleanly. Permanently.

  If only she could find a way to feel happy about that.

  * * *

  As dawn broke over the castle, Rafael St Romain paced the carpeted floor in his private suite. He was bone weary, but he was also bursting with impatience. Except for the night of his father’s death, this night of the Grand Ball had turned out to be the most unexpectedly significant and pivotal night of his life. As a result, he hadn’t slept a wink.

  It had all begun quite early in the evening. The business of greeting the long line of guests was just coming to an end, when the head of police, Chief Dameron, stepped up to Rafe, leaning close to his ear.

  ‘We’ve got him,’ he whispered excitedly.

  Rafe immediately knew who the man was referring to. It had to be Montaigne’s Chancellor, Claude Pontier.

  The news was exhilarating, but Rafe hid his surprise behind a frown. ‘You’ve made an arrest?’

  ‘Better than an arrest, Your Highness. Would it be possible to have a private audience?’

  The last of the guests had been presented, so Rafe excused himself, murmuring his apologies to Olivia, before retiring with his police chief to a small salon. There he was given details of the good news. The police had intercepted several important phone calls from Claude Pontier and now they had irrefutable evidence of his corrupt dealings with the Leroy miners who threatened Montaigne with so much damage.

  Chief Dameron handed Rafe a document. ‘And here is Pontier’s signed resignation.’

  This time Rafe’s jaw dropped. ‘He’s resigned as Chancellor? Already?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ Chief Dameron allowed himself a small smile. ‘Given the man’s options, resignation seemed to be his wisest choice.’

  Rafe was elated, of course, but he didn’t like to think too deeply about the techniques his police might have used to persuade the Chancellor to roll over so quickly. Dameron was a gracious and gentlemanly old fellow, but Rafe could almost imagine him threatening Pontier with some ancient punishment for treason, possibly involving menacing machinery and dark, unpleasant dungeons.

  ‘Well,’ he said, shaking off these thoughts as the good news sank in. ‘We’ll need to appoint a new Chancellor.’ Which also meant he had the chance to appoint a citizen who was unquestionably sympathetic to his country’s best interests.

  The police chief nodded. ‘If you’ll pardon my forwardness, Your Highness, might I make a suggestion?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘I’d like to highly recommend the Chief Justice, Marie Valcourt, as someone very suitable to be the next Chancellor.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Rafe smiled. Marie Valcourt was indeed an excellent choice. Apart from her inestimable legal skills, she was fiercely loyal to Montaigne. Her family’s history in this region went back almost as far as his own. Besides, he rather liked the idea of a woman as Chancellor. His father would possibly roll in his grave, but it was time his country moved with the times.

  ‘I’m sure we can trust Marie to act with Montaigne’s best interests at heart,’ he said.

  ‘I’m certain of it.’ Chief Dameron’s smile broadened. ‘If this were medieval times, Justice Valcourt would be donning blue-grey armour and standing at the city gates, sword in hand.’

  Rafe laughed. ‘She’s a wonderful champion of our cause, that’s for sure. A first-class suggestion, Chief.’

  After that, it was almost bizarre how quickly everything had turned around. By midnight, while the Grand Ball continued with music and waltzing and an endless flow of champagne, Rafe had consulted in private chambers with his minsters and, with their consent, he’d spoken at some length to Justice Marie Valcourt. Within a matter of hours, he had appointed her as Montaigne’s new Chancellor.

  It had been well after midnight when the final guests eventually left. Of course, Olivia had known that something was in the wind, but fortunately she’d been happy enough to spend the evening dancing with just about every available male.

  Olivia had done this with very little complaint, for which Rafe was excessively grateful, and afterwards, as he explained the new situation to her, he couldn’t blame her for being instantly wary.

  ‘So what does this mean for me, Rafe?’

  ‘Chancellor Valcourt agrees that the constitutional requirements regarding my marriage are totally out of date and unnecessary,’ Rafe told her. ‘There’s to be a special meeting of Cabinet tomorrow to repeal the old law. I’m assured it will be passed, without contest, which means—’

  ‘I’m no longer needed here,’ Olivia supplied.

  He nodded. ‘If that’s what you wish, yes, you are free.’

  ‘I can tear up our contract?’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘But I can keep the money?’

  He suppressed a weary smile. ‘Of course.’

  Olivia brightened instantly. ‘That—that’s very kind, Rafe.’

  ‘No, it’s you who has been kind,’ he assured her. ‘I’m very grateful to you for stepping up to the plate. My country would have been in deep trouble without your help.’

  ‘And Charlotte’s help, too,’ Olivia said with unexpected generosity. Then her eyes narrowed as she shot Rafe a cagey glance. ‘I suppose my sister will go home now as well?’

  ‘I suppose—’

  * * *

  Rafe paused in his pacing and stood at the window, looking out over the familiar view of snowy rooftops, which were only just visible in the pre-dawn light. It was almost eight. A reasonable hour, surely? He didn’t think he could wait much longer before he went to Charlie’s room.

  Of course, he wanted to ask her to stay.

  All night, during the ball, throughout the political manoeuvres and the diplomatic tensions, Rafe had been battling with thoughts of Charlie and their interrupted kiss. He couldn’t get the honeyed taste of her kisses out of his mind. He kept remembering the exquisite pleasure of holding her in his arms, her breasts pressed against his chest, her stomach crushing against his hard arousal.

  He kept hearing the soft needy sighs she’d made as she wound her arms more tightly around him, driving him insane with the knowledge that she was as ready as he was.

  Now that he’d had hours to pace impatiently, his memories of her were at fever point. Rafe desperatel
y needed more of Charlie. He needed her spontaneity and responsiveness. He’d been waiting all night.

  He was dizzy with wanting. He wanted her. Now.

  * * *

  At eight-fifteen Rafe left his room, his pulses drumming crazily as he crossed the carpeted hallway to Charlie’s door. He knocked quietly, and held his breath as he waited for her response.

  There was no sound from within.

  Perhaps she was still asleep? He waited a little longer, listening intently for the smallest sounds, but Charlie’s suite was fully carpeted, so her footsteps would almost certainly be silent.

  After what felt like an age, but was probably no more than thirty seconds, Rafe knocked again, more loudly this time.

  There was still no response. He remembered the two bottles of wine he’d sent to her room last night. Perhaps she’d been a little too indulgent and was sleeping it off?

  He called, ‘Charlie? Charlie, are you awake? It’s Rafe.’

  When there was still no response from within he began to worry. Swift on the heels of his worry came action. Pushing the door open, Rafe marched into the sitting room, where Charlie had dined last night. It was all very tidy now. No sign of her meal. Even the cushions on the sofas were plumped and in place.

  The door to Charlie’s bedroom was closed, however. Rafe crossed to it and knocked again. ‘Charlie?’

  Again, there was no answer and he felt a fresh stirring of alarm.

  ‘Charlie!’ he cried more loudly, pushing open the door as he did so.

  The bed was empty.

  In fact it was neatly made up. And there was no sign of her belongings. Thoroughly alarmed, Rafe flung the wardrobe doors open. The long red coat, the blue dinner dress and the black and white polka-dot outfit from Belle Robe were still hanging there—but not the ball gown, which was now in Olivia’s possession. All Charlie’s other clothes and her suitcase were gone.

  He knocked on the door to the en-suite bathroom, then opened it. Again, it was empty and cleared of Charlie’s things.

  Dismayed, Rafe went back to the bedroom. And that was when he saw the small folded sheet of white paper on the snowy pillow. With a cry, he snatched it up.