The Disgraced Princess (4 page)

She'd never see the fabled Adriatic coast of Carathia with its Greek and Roman ruins, the rows of vines across the white hills, the palms, the castles that defended each tiny sea-port, and the fishing boats with an eye painted on each bow for protection while they were out on the shimmering blue sea.

She'd never come back.

A waiter arrived bearing a silver tray and ice bucket; with ceremony he opened a bottle of champagne and poured out two glasses before presenting them.

Behind him Rosie could see people laying a table. It appeared she and Gerd were going to be the only people eating here. A swift frisson of excitement swept up through her and she had to resist the temptation to take a tiny, nervous sip of wine.

Gerd said, ‘Are you cold? If you'd rather change your mind and eat inside we'll do that.'

‘No, it's lovely here, perfect.' But just in case he got the wrong idea she said demurely, ‘I've always wanted to dine in a mediaeval building with a handsome man
and drink superb French champagne. It will be something to tell any grandchildren I might have. Will there be candles?'

His smile was narrow and sharp. ‘Of course. Although it's a Renaissance building, to be accurate.' He held out his glass. ‘Very well, then, a toast. We'll drink to your next visit here.'

Their glasses kissed, then separated. Rosie drank, trying to fully appreciate a wine that was clearly something special.

Common sense told her briskly that Gerd probably took French champagne as his due, and gave her the brash courage to say, ‘I suppose Carathia's next big occasion will be the announcement of your engagement to Princess Serina.'

‘You shouldn't believe everything you read in the media,' he said in a tone that told her she was trespassing.

Rosie's reckless heart contracted. For once unable to speak, she sent him a glance through her lashes.

Gerd's expression was unreadable, the handsome face aloof. ‘She's only your age; far too young for me.'

The shameless flare of hope that had blazed fiercely for a few seconds died instantly. If the princess was too young for Gerd, so was she…

So much for her brave decision to stop yearning for him!

‘Too young?' she demanded rashly. ‘You're only twelve years older than I am. Does the princess think you're too old?'

His mouth thinned. ‘We haven't discussed it.'

OK, stop right there!
Although barely a muscle moved
in his handsome face, he couldn't have made it more plain that she'd over stepped the mark.

‘So you don't think I'm too old for someone of your age?' Gerd asked, a steely note in his voice.

Embarrassed colour heated her skin. He couldn't know how painful this conversation was for her, and it was entirely her own fault.

Shrugging, she said, ‘It depends entirely on the person, surely?'

‘A very diplomatic answer,' he mocked. ‘Restraint doesn't suit you.'

‘I can be restrained when I want to,' she said loftily, only to flush at his mocking glance. Talk about a childish rejoinder!

‘I'd noticed.' When she stared warily at him, he elaborated, ‘Rosemary, you've always had beautiful manners and a kind heart. That's not the issue. Would you, for example, think twice about marrying a man twelve years older than you?'

‘Not if I loved him.' He'd never know just how bitter the words were on her tongue. Desperate to change the subject, she said lamely, ‘I'm sorry, I didn't intend to pry.' She paused, then admitted with a wry smile, ‘Actually, of course I did. You and she have been photographed together a lot recently.'

‘She and I know a lot of the same people. Gossip columnists are an over-ex citable lot,' he said satirically. ‘I'm surprised you read that rubbish. For your information, the family will be the first to know if and when I decide to announce my engagement.'

Clever Gerd. Although he hadn't confirmed any plans to marry, he hadn't denied them, either.

‘Fair enough,' she said, pinning a smile to her lips. ‘But you can't stop people from wondering. After all, you're probably the world's most eligible bachelor right now.'

‘And the Press has to sell newspapers and magazines,' he said caustically, then carried the war into her territory. ‘Kelt tells me that Aunt Eva is doing her best to marry you off.'

‘Strangely enough when you consider the disaster her marriage was, that's exactly what she's up to, although it does seem her sole criterion for a good husband is the size of his bank balance.' She gave him a cool glance. ‘So far I haven't been tempted by the men she's introduced to me.'

Gerd looked down at her. The fading sun set shimmering little fires in her hair and sprinkled her perfect skin with gold dust. There had been no cynicism in her tone, merely rueful resignation.

‘So who is the current lover?' he probed.

As a child her face had been mobile, every emotion displayed for the world to read. Since then she'd learned control; the Rosemary he'd known, the girl he'd kissed, had been banished, her place taken by this glossy, self-assured woman.

Her brows rose. ‘Mother's?'

‘Yours. Anyone I know?'

‘Nobody at the moment,' she said lightly, her expression giving nothing away.

Frustration tightened Gerd's lips. She was so young—far too young to be making any lifetime promises—but her soft, sensuously curved lips, the conscious awareness
in her eyes, her sophistication, meant she was no stranger to passion.

So? He'd known that ever since he'd kissed her. And if her ardent response hadn't convinced him of it, seeing her in Kelt's arms the next morning would have. The memory of those kisses he'd witnessed still burned like acid. Growing up in the care of a woman whose chaotic search for love had invariably ended in disillusion must have given Rosemary a distorted view of what a relationship could be between a man and a woman.

Reining in a cold, baseless anger, Gerd wondered for possibly the thousandth time if it had been Kelt who'd taught her the full depths of her passion.

He'd never mentioned them to his brother, not even a few hours after their kiss, when Kelt had issued a veiled warning cloaked in friendly banter but making sure Gerd understood that he was watching out for Rosemary. Ashamed of the loss of control that had prompted his desire the previous night, Gerd had responded with an icy aloofness that had convinced Kelt he had no intention of breaking the girl's heart.

He'd seen very little of his brother since then. Partly, he admitted, because he hated the thought of Kelt being Rosemary's first lover.

If he had been, it hadn't lasted long. Shortly after Gerd had returned to Carathia Hani had appeared, and Kelt had gone under like a drowning man.

It would be bitterly ironic if he'd broken Rosemary's heart, setting her on her mother's path of short, futile relationships that had no chance of surviving.

Was she still longing for Kelt? There had definitely
been something in her eyes, in her voice, when she'd watched Kelt dance with Hani.

His instinctive distaste was backed by another, much less civilised emotion. Jealousy…

Gerd looked over her head. ‘The table's ready for us,' he said brusquely. ‘Come and sit down.'

She gave him a curious glance, but responded with cool friendliness, just as she had all week, treating him like a much older brother. To his intense irritation she kept it up while they ordered and settled into a discussion about the parlous state of the planet. He admired her quick intelligence, but he missed the sparkling challenge he'd only glimpsed since she'd arrived in Carathia.

Gerd despised himself for being both intrigued and disturbed. Over the past few days he hadn't been able to stop himself noting the way other men had looked at her, responding to her subtle, understated sensuousness.

His sharp, in voluntary reaction to those speculative glances had angered him. He'd had to stop himself from moving in to—to what?

Establish some sort of claim?

Reluctantly he admitted it. Of course his intervention hadn't been necessary; her experience showed in the way she'd skilfully parried any advances.

He'd wanted her at eighteen, but it was impossible. He was no debaucher of innocent girls.

But now…now she was no longer innocent.

While they'd been talking darkness had fallen—thick, all-encompassing, enclosing them in an intimate circle of candlelight, yet Rosie sensed a distance in him, an aloofness that chilled her. An upward glance revealed
that he was looking at her, his eyes remote behind the thick screen of his lashes.

He was watching her mouth.

Tension shafted through her, bringing with it a fierce delight. She'd seen desire often enough to recognise it. In spite of his formidable restraint, Gerd was attracted to her.

Rosie's heart clamped in her breast.

So? she thought, trying to tamp down the unwanted tumult of excitement. Desire was common coin; it meant nothing beyond the swift heat of passion. She'd always been repulsed by men whose only interest in her was physical.

But this was different; this was Gerd…

Don't go there! Doing her best to be sophisticated, she warned herself that Gerd was very much a man, and so just as capable of feeling meaningless passion as her rejected would-be lovers.

That hateful thought prompted her to remark tartly, ‘Pondering matters of state, Gerd? Or should I call you Your Royal Highness now?'

Their eyes clashed, his hard and more than a little intimidating. ‘Only if you say it in Carathian. And even then, only if you're a Carathian citizen.'

‘So what do people who are neither call you?'

‘My family and friends call me Gerd.'

‘Then I'll stick to that,' she said jauntily, adding with a wry smile, ‘even though I'm neither family nor friend.'

She didn't know what she expected from him after that—a smoothly bland statement that she was both, per
haps. But he leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily, his handsome face sardonic.

For some reason an erratic pulse beat high in Rosie's throat; she had to clasp one hand around the stem of the champagne glass to stop herself from covering that betraying little hollow, but she could do nothing about the exhilarating rush of adrenalin that charged through her.

Lazily he said, ‘We've had this conversation before. Since you're Alex's half-sister, I consider you to be very much part of the family even though there is no blood connection. As for being friends, do you think a man and a woman can be nothing more than friends?'

‘Some men, some women,' she returned. ‘It's not impossible.'

His brows lifted. ‘Let's be specific, then. Do you think you and I could be friends?'

Was he flirting with her? Tantalised by the thought, Rosie struggled to achieve the right throw away tone. ‘It doesn't seem likely. Friendships need to be worked at, and how often have we seen each other in the past three years? I don't think we can call our selves friends. Friendly acquaintances, possibly.'

There, that should show him she didn't want any sort of
flirtatious
relationship with him. Darn it, she was trying to get him out of her system! Encouraging this sort of half-bantering innuendo was not the way to do that.

‘An innocuous description.' But a raw edge in his voice sent surreptitious little shivers the length of her spine, warned her it might not be wise to take his words at face value.

A waiter arrived with the first course, a cold soup, and while they drank it Gerd steered the conversation into much safer channels.

Relieved, Rosie followed his lead, keeping her gaze away from those darkly golden eyes, that fascinating mouth. Only to discover she couldn't stop looking at his hands—lean, long-fingered and smoothly assured.

Little quivers tightened inside her as she found herself wondering what they'd feel like on her skin. She swallowed hastily and told herself to be sensible. She knew exactly what they felt like; when he'd kissed her he'd slid his hands across her back, causing a shuddery delight to riot through her.

Stop thinking about it! She forced herself to be bright, to wait a second before she spoke, and to restrict herself to impersonal glances and manufactured smiles.

By the time dinner ended she was as taut and tightly coiled as an over-wound spring. There wasn't the usual business with credit cards, and she bit her lip to stop asking how such payments were managed. Did the restaurant send a bill to the palace?

The same car met them again, with the same anonymous security man beside the chauffeur. Rosie sank back into the seat, clipping her seat belt across to form a fragile barrier between her and Gerd.

Stupid, because of course he wouldn't pounce!

Gazing out of the window, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘I like modern buildings, but I have to admit these old houses with their carvings and oriel windows and studded doors have something that makes me wish New Zealand had a longer history.'

‘The novelty, probably.' He sounded distant, glad that
the evening had finished. ‘You're used to houses built of timber. The fact that in Carathia stone has always been the cheapest and most common material might make the buildings here more romantic.'

Rosie ignored a little jab of pain. ‘Could be,' she agreed, and lapsed into silence as they drove through the still-busy streets and up the hill to the palace, huge and dramatically lit on the hill.

‘It's so big,' she ventured, gazing at the classical splendour of it. ‘Did the ancestor who built this have a particularly large family?'

‘A particularly large sense of his own importance,' Gerd told her astringently. ‘One of his barons married a woman from southern Italy who found the family's ancient castle intolerably cold. She must have been very beautiful and he must have been besotted, because he razed it and used the stone to build a mansion. Not to be outdone, the then Grand Duke had the original castle here demolished so he could build a much bigger, more grand palace than his vassal.'