Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘Yes. As you must have realised by now, he’s Pomme and I’m Ren...’ The diminutive came easily to his tongue. And it wasn’t a lie; a very few people shortened Laurent to Ren. But never in public.

  ‘Hi, Ren.’ She straightened, one hand still buried in the dog’s thick ruff. ‘It was nice meeting you but I’d better go before we both get into trouble. I get the feeling the Archduke wouldn’t be too happy if he caught me here.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’d still better go. It was lovely meeting you. And thank you for not arresting me!’ And with one last pat for Pomme, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and a swish of her ponytail she turned and walked away. Laurent stood in the shadows and watched her walk out into the sunlight, the solitude he’d been craving suddenly not feeling as desirable as it usually did. ‘Emilia,’ he said softly, tasting her name, before heading over to the arbour to finally read the report that would help him save his country.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MOMENT OF stillness before an event took shape was always Emilia’s favourite time. She loved the second an event became a success, of course, watching her hard work come to fruition. And she adored the exhilaration that always greeted a finished event. The knowledge that once again all her hard work, long hours, last-minute decisions and substitutions and occasional panics were worth it. But stepping into an empty space for the first time, visualising it filled with people, mentally dressing and decorating and transforming it, was always the best bit of the job. She’d created wonderlands out of bland conference rooms, fairy tale backdrops from ordinary gardens and come up with more innovative conferences than any one person should have to organise in one lifetime and they all started here: gazing out at a blank canvas, pure and mistake-free.

  Of course her blank canvases weren’t usually eighteenth century ballrooms, large enough to hold several hundred people, with doors leading to ante rooms, dining rooms and private nooks. They didn’t usually have a wall of French windows leading out onto exquisite balustraded terraces. She would have to be a poor event planner indeed not to create the perfect ball with this backdrop, even with two very different but potentially demanding clients and just three weeks to work her magic.

  On the one hand was her father’s sixtieth birthday. Simone had emailed Emilia several lists of demands, from a wish for her father’s favourite music and food to be included to a command for a themed ball. At the same time it was clear that, although the Midsummer Ball hadn’t been held for over two decades, the night itself was an important one in the Armarian calendar and there were many traditions that had to be incorporated into the event, from country dances to a candlelit procession and special flower wreaths for unmarried women.

  Tablet in one hand, tape measure in the other, Emilia started to examine the room, taking pictures of possible breakout and bar areas, and pacing out where the stage might be. The minstrels’ gallery would be perfect for a small band but not for a full orchestra and other music acts needed for the dancing section of the ball.

  The royal family had evidently taken the upcoming event as an excuse to freshen up the castle. Every corridor echoed to the whines of drills or the banging of hammers and the smell of paint and turps was omnipresent. Stepladders, ladders and stools were propped up in every corner and dust sheets shrouded paintings and statues. It was all a reminder of just what a big deal this ball was. A career-defining ball.

  But, more than that, it was an opportunity to give something personal to her dad, something only she could give. He might not recognise her hand in the evening and she probably wouldn’t even speak to him or acknowledge that she’d been involved in any way, but making his birthday special might be a way to...what? To make amends for her role in their estrangement.

  At first she had blamed only him—well, her father and Simone. But with maturity had come a painful understanding that her own behaviour had by no means been beyond reproach. Hurting from her parents’ divorce, grieving for her beloved maman, torn away from her home, she had retaliated with the only weapons she’d had—her tongue and her rebellious spirit. And what weapons they had been.

  If only things had been different...

  Closing her eyes, Emilia took a step and then another, whirling around as if she were in the middle of the ball. In another universe she wouldn’t be an employee; she’d be the daughter of the guest of honour. She’d dance with him on his birthday, she’d dance with the Archduke; their names would be linked but she would laugh the rumours off because she would be more interested in working in her father’s business than in marrying a public figure. At this ball she could smile and laugh with no regrets and her father would have no reproach in his eyes. There was no Simone, no Bella...

  Abruptly Emilia stopped and opened her eyes. Daydreams were just that. Dreams. Inconsequential, useless. She needed to push them aside and concentrate on the ball. It was all she had.

  * * *

  The whole castle hummed with activity and optimism and Laurent found he was humming along with it. Usually his role demanded a certain distance and formality but it was all hands on deck to ensure that the castle would look its very best under the spotlight of the world’s media. For the last few years many of the staterooms had been a little neglected as they were only open to tourists on one day a week, a multitude of cracks and faded plasterwork hidden by closed curtains and strategic lighting. Any formal receptions were held in the wing of the castle which hosted the country’s parliament and, as a result, it was immaculate. It was nice to see the older rooms come back to life, just the way they had been when his father was still alive and Laurent was allowed to be just a little boy, not the Archduke, bowed by duty and expectation.

  Pomme by his side, Laurent half jogged towards the ballroom. It wasn’t often he got to do really practical things, despite a youth spent in the Army cadets and two years before university spent training as an officer. He might be able to create a bivouac out of three branches and some leaves, light a fire using flint, forage for and cook his own dinner and use every gadget on his army knife correctly, but he didn’t get many opportunities. When he was in the castle his food was cooked and served to him, his baths run, his clothes laundered, put away and laid out. People’s jobs depended on his inertia. It didn’t make said inertia any easier to bear. But right now there were more jobs than people to do them and not only was he back in the disreputable jeans usually worn strictly in private, but there was a ladder and a tin of paint with his name on. Turned out this ball was a good idea after all.

  Reaching the ballroom, Laurent skidded to a halt, Pomme one step behind. The room was already occupied by a slight brown-haired girl, twirling around at the far end, arms outstretched as if she were waltzing. Emilia. His chest tightened as he watched her turn, an almost overwhelming desire to walk over and take her hand, be part of her dance, enveloping him. Her eyes were closed, her expression unsmiling but serene, as if she were many miles away, in a different time and place. And then her arms dropped, she stilled and her eyes opened, her face dark with a melancholy and emptiness that Laurent recognised. A look he occasionally saw in the mirror but had never seen on another person’s face. It made him profoundly uncomfortable, as if he were trespassing somewhere he had no right to be, and he stepped back, intending to make a noise as he re-entered the room and give Emilia warning of his proximity. But, somewhat inevitably, Pomme had different ideas. Recognising the person who gave such excellent ear rubs, he bounded past Laurent and, with a snuffly woof, collided with Emilia’s legs and thrust his head under her hand, tail wagging at a speed of at least a hundred beats an hour.

  ‘Pomme!’ Laurent called, half amused, half exasperated by his dog’s manners—and a little bit jealous. How nice to be so confident of your welcome by such a pretty girl—and so justified in that confidence, he thought, watching Emilia bend her knees in order to get closer to the squirming, happy dog. ‘I do apologi
se. He has had training but he forgets himself when he sees a friend.’

  Emilia looked up at that and an expression of such utter joy passed over her face that Laurent nearly took a step back. She had a thin, rather solemn face, dominated by huge hazel eyes, but when she smiled it transformed from prettiness to a very real beauty, her eyes lit by gold flecks, her full mouth set off by identical dimples punctuating her cheeks. ‘Am I his friend?’

  ‘He seems to think so.’

  ‘My first Armarian friend. And what a handsome one.’

  ‘He knows it too,’ Laurent said drily. ‘I try to limit compliments to one a day, otherwise he gets a swelled head.’

  She laughed at that and he was conscious of pride at her reaction. He sensed she didn’t laugh often. ‘You have more self-control than me. If I had a dog like this I would spend my whole time telling him how gorgeous he is and just what a good boy.’

  ‘You don’t have a dog? I assumed you did; you have the magic touch.’

  ‘No—’ she straightened and the light left her eyes as if it had never been ‘—I had one when I was very little but when my parents split up...’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

  There was a world of unhappiness in the unsaid words. ‘Everyone should have a dog.’ Laurent was hit with inspiration. ‘In fact Pomme is the proud father of a new litter. You could have one of his puppies as a souvenir of your time here.’

  ‘You fathered a litter? What a clever boy.’ Emilia addressed Pomme in caressing tones. ‘But I couldn’t possibly. I mean, his puppies are bound to be expensive. And I live in London. But thank you. That’s a lovely thought.’

  ‘Well, if you change your mind...’ Laurent didn’t know why it was so important to him, but he vowed to make sure that when Emilia left she took a puppy with her. A girl who obviously loved dogs like she did should have one. Sometimes it felt as if he could only really be himself with Pomme and he couldn’t help guessing that she was similar; again he felt that odd sense of intimacy, as if he already knew Emilia, as if they were alike.

  He shook the thought away. A smile and a quick conversation and he was making up a connection that couldn’t exist, projecting his own feelings onto a strange girl because of a luminous smile and the sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t tempt me; it wouldn’t take much to change my mind, but it wouldn’t be fair. A dog like this wants countryside and freedom, not city parks and bylaws. Besides, I share my home with two other girls and I have no idea what they’d say if I came home with a puppy. But it was a very kind suggestion.’

  ‘Don’t make your mind up completely until you’ve seen them. In fact, what are you doing now?’

  ‘Measuring and planning. I’m thinking that with such disparate ages and types of people attending the ball it might be fun for several different bands to play concurrently and other entertainment to be on offer as well. Like a grand fete or a fair, a kind of festival vibe, you know? Make the gardens an extension of the ballroom, especially for the more traditional elements which feel like they belong outside. Apparently there are several marquees we can use and plenty of outside staging. At least the weather is pretty much guaranteed to be warm and dry, a definite bonus. In London we always need rainy day contingency, even—especially—in the height of summer.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ It really did—and refreshingly different from the balls of the past, grand formal occasions accompanied by the swelling tones of the orchestra, of waltzes and foxtrots, the gardens a mere backdrop and place for assignations. But this was a new start, a fresh dawn for a new Armaria, and Laurent couldn’t help but be entranced by Emilia’s vision—and by the animation in her voice, her face, in her whole body as she described it.

  ‘I hope so. I have to run my ideas past the Contessa, and past Simone tomorrow. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to actually speak so everything has to be conveyed through me. Luckily, there’s a big enough budget and enough space to accommodate everyone’s ideas, but I haven’t broken it to the castle staff that Simone would like a themed ball—complete with costumes. I’m not sure how the Archduke and Duchess will feel about that.’

  ‘Nor am I.’ Laurent spoke with perfect truth. He suspected his mother would hate the idea but accept it philosophically if it helped them achieve their objectives. He, on the other hand, would do anything not to add to the little furrows creasing Emilia’s forehead as she spoke. ‘But the ball is in honour of Mike Clayton so I’m sure they will be happy to accommodate his wishes.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I managed to talk her out of fairy tales and medieval knights but I need to offer her something in return. I was wondering...’ She paused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I know Shakespeare is English but he’s kind of universal and lots of his plays are set around here. I was wondering about A Midsummer Night’s Dream as a theme? Then people can wear pretty much what they like—go traditional in Greek chitons or Tudor clothing or anything else really. It fits in really well with the traditional Armarian wreaths and we can supply masquerade cloaks and masks for anyone who doesn’t want to dress up. I thought we could hire actors to perform the play, just wandering the grounds.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea; I must get a donkey’s head ordered immediately.’

  ‘You’ll be attending the ball then?’

  ‘Yes...’ Laurent remembered with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t actually told Emilia who he was. ‘I hope you’ll save a dance for me.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be dancing. There’s always too much to do behind the scenes. My costume will involve trainers, black clothing so I can pretend to be part of the scenery and an earpiece. Not very glamorous at all. Less Titania, more a rustic. So what are you and Pomme up to now?’

  Laurent nodded at the ladder. ‘I’m painting. Pomme is waiting for me to finish so he can have a walk. He’s not really any use at practical tasks.’

  ‘It’s amazing how hard everyone is working to get the castle ready. I mean, with candles and moonlight it would look incredible, but with all this buffing up it’s really going to shine. I guess Mike Clayton really is important to Armaria.’

  Laurent stilled. Was his wooing of the tech tycoon so obvious? ‘What have you heard?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone light as if the conversation was inconsequential.

  ‘Not much, just that Clay Industries is looking for a new European headquarters and Armaria wants to encourage industry. You don’t need an MBA to put two and two together and guess that this ball is a way of wooing them. Plus Amber said—’ She stopped abruptly, her rather sallow cheeks turning pink.

  ‘Amber?’

  ‘My business colleague. She mentioned that there’s a lot of chatter about the Archduke’s marriage. Poor guy. Can’t be much fun having the world’s media watching your every move and speculating every time you speak to someone with working ovaries. Anyway, Amber said some of the gossip magazines are suggesting a closer tie than a business one between the palace and the Claytons.’ She stopped, the pink now deep red. ‘But I don’t want to gossip; it’s none of my business,’ she finished, an odd, slightly bitter note in her voice.

  ‘It’s all right. You won’t get arrested for gossiping about the Archduke’s marriage. If it were a prosecutable offence half of Armaria would be in jail right now.’

  ‘How horrid for him. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with all that, aren’t you? Even this glorious castle wouldn’t make up for the lack of privacy and freedom. I’ve never fancied being royal or in the public spotlight. Not since I first saw Roman Holiday.’

  ‘Since you went to Rome?’ Laurent was slightly reeling from how accurately Emilia had summed up his situation. Most people told him how lucky he was, seemed to envy him the accident of birth that had placed him here. They didn’t feel sorry for him or, if they did, they hid it well. It was bizarrely refreshing to hear such a different perspective. He needed more of that. Fewer courtiers
and advisers, more straight talking.

  ‘No, I’ve never been to Rome, although one day I would love to, not that that’s relevant. No, I meant Roman Holiday. The film. You must have seen it. Audrey Hepburn? Gregory Peck?’

  ‘An old film?’ His mouth quirked in amusement, his smile widening as he watched Emilia bristle.

  ‘A classic,’ she corrected him.

  ‘So no high-speed chases?’

  ‘You need to watch more classics; there’s plenty of high-speed chases in them. North by Northwest, To Catch a Thief, anything with Cary Grant.’

  ‘But not in Roman Holiday.’

  ‘No, but there is a scooter. I can’t believe you don’t watch classic films; you’re missing out.’

  Laurent leaned against the wall and folded his arms, Pomme coming to sit by his side. ‘Let me guess. It’s set in Rome and—who is it, Audrey Hepburn?—she’s on holiday and meets an Italian millionaire played by Cary Grant and they don’t like each other and then they fall in love. On a scooter.’

  Emilia crossed her own arms in response and fixed Ren with what he assumed was her most withering glare. It was actually pretty adorable and his chest tightened again. Standing here, faux arguing, just hanging out with an intelligent, beautiful woman as if he were no more than the handyman she thought him was the most fun he’d had since, well, since he could remember.

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ she said loftily. ‘It’s Gregory Peck for a start and he’s American, not Italian, and a journalist looking for a big story.’

  ‘My favourite kind,’ Ren murmured. He couldn’t quite keep the dryness out of his voice and Emilia glanced at him uncertainly.

  ‘She’s a princess in Rome for some big summit and she sneaks out of the palace for a bit of freedom.’

  ‘That’s more like it. I like the sound of her.’

  ‘She’s utterly charming. Very fragile but regal as well, with these huge sad eyes.’ Laurent couldn’t help but feel as if Emilia was describing herself. ‘Anyway, Gregory Peck recognises her and thinks he’s going to get an exclusive so pretends he has no idea who she is and takes her on this whirlwind tour of Rome while his friend takes loads of photos of her. She cuts her hair and they see all the sights and then they fall in love...’