His Temporary Cinderella: Ordinary Girl in a Tiara / Kiss the Bridesmaid / A Bravo Homecoming

Philippe remembered quite clearly dismissing the idea that he might want to sleep with Caro. But that was before he’d kissed her. It didn’t seem nearly so unlikely now.

She had wandered over to the window and stood there looking out, hugging the jacket around her so that he could see the flare of her hips. Her legs were strong and straight in the jeans. There was nothing special about her, not really. Other girls had blue eyes and creamy skin and hair that felt like silk when he slid his fingers through it. Caro was lusher than most, warmer than most, more vibrant than most, but she was still just an ordinary girl, Philippe reminded himself. Not the sort of girl he desired at all.

‘I won’t lay a finger on you unless you ask me to,’ he said. ‘So you can relax.’

‘Oh, sure,’ said Caro, turning from the window. ‘Great idea. Relax. After all, I’m in a strange country, living in a palace and I’ll be going to bed with a prince tonight. What on earth have I got to be nervous about?’

Philippe rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We’re friends, remember?’

He could see her remembering that had been her idea. ‘Yes,’ she conceded reluctantly at last.

‘And friends trust each other, don’t they?’ ‘Ye … es.’

‘So you’re going to have to trust me when I say you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

Caro stood there, chewing her lip. ‘You’re right,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, now we’ve got that sorted, we can get on,’ said Philippe briskly. ‘We’ve been summoned to an audience with the Dowager Blanche at four o’clock. Sadly, saying we’re busy is not an option. At some time I need to see my father’s equerry, too, but what would you like to do until then?’

Caro looked hopeful. ‘Have lunch?’ she said.

To: charlotte@palaisdemontvivennes.net

From: caro.cartwright@u2.com

Subject: I’m here … where are you?

Dear Lotty

I was going to ask where you are, but then it might be better if you didn’t tell me, as I might not be able to withstand your grandmother’s interrogation. She’s pretty scary, isn’t she?

Philippe took me to meet her today—oh, no, that’s right, I didn’t meet her, I was presented. And I had to learn how to curtsey! Philippe gave me a whole lesson on etiquette before we went. I suppose you take it all for granted, but I was completely bamboozled by everything I had to remember. I was really nervous, and I think Philippe was too. He had that aloof look on his face, the one that doesn’t give anything away, but I noticed that on the way there (a five mile trek along the palace corridors, or that’s what it felt like) he kept shooting his cuffs and running his finger around his collar as if it was too tight. He’d changed into a suit for the Dowager Blanche, and I must say he looked pretty good, although I didn’t give him the satisfaction of saying that, of course. Philippe knows perfectly well how attractive he is, without me puffing him up any more.

Caro lifted her fingers from the keyboard and flexed them as she reread what she had written. Was there too much about Philippe in there? She didn’t want Lotty getting the wrong idea. But how could she not mention him? She’d better make it clear that they had a strictly platonic relationship.

We’ve decided to be friends, which is great because it means we don’t have to be polite to each other. He’s certainly not polite about me. I put on my best dress in honour of the occasion (you know, the apple-green tea dress I bought last year) and he was beastly about it. I won’t repeat what he said, but it was very rude. And I won’t repeat what I said to him in return, because that was even ruder!

There, that sounded suitably casual and friendly, didn’t it? Caro started typing again.

Anyway, back to the Dowager. She doesn’t exactly operate an open door policy, does she? When we finally made it to her apartments, we had to go through endless antechambers, each one bigger than the last, and naturally we never had to do anything demeaning like opening a door ourselves. Instead, there was a whole army of footmen whose sole job seems to be to fling open doors. Weird. (Or maybe it seems perfectly natural to you???)

We eventually found ourselves facing your grandmother across acres of polished parquet. Philippe didn’t tell me about that, and I’d worn my pink shoes, the ones with the kitten heels. BIG mistake! The floor was so slippy the best I could manage was a teeter and we’d just about made it when my foot skidded out beneath me. I would have fallen splat on my face if Philippe hadn’t grabbed my arm. He’s pretty quick when he wants to be, isn’t he? I was mortified, but then I looked at Philippe and I saw that he was trying not to laugh, and of course that set me off, and I got the giggles.

Caro felt her lips tugging at the memory, although it hadn’t been that funny at the time. There was nothing worse than trying not to laugh when you knew that you absolutely, definitely mustn’t. With the Dowager Blanche’s glacial eyes on her, she had had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheeks, and at one point she had been convinced that her eyeballs had been about to pop with the pressure of keeping the giggles in.

Still, I managed a curtsey, which I thought was pretty good under the circumstances but Philippe told me afterwards I looked as if I was laying an egg.

I wouldn’t say your grandmother gave me the warmest welcome I’ve ever had. In fact, a midwinter swim in the Antarctic would probably have seemed balmy in comparison, but it was obvious she blamed me for you leaving. Don’t worry, I played along and Philippe was brilliant! He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles and told your grandmother that he was in love with me and that he would only stay if he had my support, so he expected me to be treated with respect!!!! He almost had me fooled.

She had better not tell Lotty that her hand had tingled all evening from the impression of his fingers, or that she could still feel the graze of his lips against her knuckles.

I could tell your grandmother didn’t like it, but at least she didn’t seem to realise it was just an act, so that’s something. I had to sit through an icy interrogation about my family, friends, utter lack of connections (or job, come to that), but don’t worry, I only gave her my name, rank and serial number. Actually, Lotty, I felt a bit sorry for her. I think that beneath all the guff about duty and responsibility and behaving like a princess, she’s really worried about you. Can you get a message to her to say that you’re all right at least? Don’t say where you are, though, as she’s ready to send in the entire Montlucian army to bring you back if necessary! But I think she needs to know you’re safe—and I do too!

I suspect the grilling Philippe got was even worse, but it was in French so I didn’t understand it. But when our audience was finally at an end we were both very relieved to get out of there. I had to hang on to Philippe as we walked backwards (!!!!!!) across that floor, and he kept hold of me when we were allowed to turn our backs at last and escape. We started off walking sedately through the anterooms, but the further down the corridor we got, the faster we walked, and by the time we reached the staircase we were running and laughing. It was such a relief to be able to let all the giggles out, and somehow it didn’t seem so bad knowing that Philippe had had to grit his teeth to get through it too.

Caro paused, remembering how the two of them had run down the grand staircase, laughing. The steps were shallow and carpeted in red, and they swept round and down to the magnificent marble hall where an array of footmen watched impassively.

Philippe had let go of her hand by then, but his eyes had been warm and alight with laughter and that dark, sardonic look had disappeared altogether. Caro’s heart had stumbled for a moment when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs and she’d looked into his face. It had been like looking at an entirely different man, one whose brother hadn’t died, one whose father didn’t blame him.

Shaking the memory away, she went back to her email.

So, I’ve survived my first encounter with the Dowager Blanche. It wasn’t a complete disaster. For some reason her little pug—Apollo?—took a shine to me. He sure is one ugly dog! Difficult to know which end of him is less attractive. I was worried he was about to have a heart attack with all that wheezing, but he came to sit on my foot while your grandmother was lecturing Philippe in French about something, and I made the mistake of patting him. After that, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I said I’d take him for a walk sometimes, which Philippe thought was heroic of me, but he was quite cute really, I suppose, and besides, what else am I going to do with myself? Philippe seems to be lined up for royal duties, but there isn’t a lot for me to do except sit on the balcony and look at that beautiful lake (which isn’t such a bad plan, now I come to think of it.)

It’s beautiful here, Lotty. I don’t think I’ll ever find my way round the palace or get to grips with all the formality, but the setting is magical. Like being in a fairy tale kingdom, where nothing feels quite real.

I’d better stop. Philippe had to go to some reception for financiers, so I’ve had the evening to myself, and I thought it would be a good chance to drop you a line—or quite a few lines, as it’s turned out. It’s all so new to me, and there’s so much I’d love to talk to you about. Can’t wait to catch up properly when all this is over and compare notes!

Hope you’re having a fab time out there in reality, Lotty. Let me know, OK?

Lots +++++++++ of love

Caro

When Philippe came back later that night, Caro was already in bed. She was sitting up against the pillows, a book in her hands and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her face was scrubbed, the cloud of chestnut hair tucked behind her ears, and she was buttoned up to the throat in a pair of old-fashioned pyjamas, patterned with sprigged rosebuds so faded they were almost invisible.

No sheer negligees for Caro, Philippe realised. No wispy lace or dainty straps designed to slide seductively over a shoulder. He ought to be glad that she had so little interest in attracting him, so why did the sight of her make him feel so grouchy?

‘Don’t tell me, they’re vintage pyjamas?’ he said, loosening his tie and trying to roll the irritation from his shoulders.

‘As a matter of fact, I bought them when they were new.’

‘What, when you were twelve?’

‘I’ve had them a long time,’ she admitted with a defiant look over her glasses. ‘They’re comfortable.’

‘There couldn’t be any other reason for wearing them,’ said Philippe sardonically. She certainly hadn’t bought them with seduction in mind!

So it was annoying to realise how appealing she looked, there in bed. The modest pyjamas only drew attention to her lush curves, and the glow from the bedside lamp picked out golden lights in her hair. Seduction was clearly the last thing on Caro’s mind, but she looked warm and soft and inexplicably inviting all the same.

Philippe jerked his tie free from his collar with unnecessary force.

‘How was your evening?’ Caro asked.

‘Tedious. I shook hands, smiled, pretended to listen intelligently to someone droning on about financial forecasts. Welcome to the exciting world of royalty.’

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tugged off first one shoe, then the other and tossed them aside. ‘And that was just one evening! I’m not sure I can stand the thought of another six months of this. I’m going to expire of boredom by the end of the week!’

‘Lots of people have to put up with boring jobs,’ Caro pointed out as his socks followed the shoes.