How to Marry a Princess

As she approached, the man straightened from the wall and gave her a slow nod. “Your Highness.” His voice was deep and rather stirring, his attitude both ironic and confident. She recognized his accent instantly: American.

Alice had nothing against Americans. Her father was one after all. And yet...

As a rule, the grooms were Montedoran by birth—and diffident by nature. This fellow was simply not the sort Gilbert usually hired.

The groom raised his golden head. Blue eyes met hers. She saw mischief in those eyes and her heart beat faster.

Temptation. Oh, yes.

Down, girl. Get a grip.

So what if the new groom was hot? So what if just a glance from him had her thinking of how boring her life had become lately, had her imagining all kinds of inappropriate activities she might indulge in with him?

Nothing inappropriate is happening here, she reminded herself staunchly.

And then, in an attempt to appear stern and formidable, she drew her shoulders back and gave the man a slow once-over. He wore a disreputable sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off, old jeans and older Western boots.

Hot. Definitely. Tall and fit, with a scruff of bronze beard on his lean cheeks. She wondered briefly why Gilbert hadn’t required him to dress in the brown trousers, collared shirt and paddock boots worn by the rest of the stable staff.

He stepped forward and her thoughts flew off in all directions. “Such a beautiful girl,” he said in a tender tone—to the mare. Alice stared, bemused, as he stroked Yazzy’s long, sleek face.

Like most of her ancient hotblood breed, Yasmine was a fiercely loyal, sensitive animal. She gave her trust and affection to very few. But the bold and handsome American worked a certain magic on the golden mare. Yazzy nuzzled him and nickered fondly as he petted her.

Alice permitted his attentions to the horse. If Yazzy didn’t mind, neither did she. And watching him with the mare, she began to understand why Gilbert had hired him. He had a way with horses. Plus, judging by his tattered clothing, the fellow probably needed the work. The kindhearted head groom must have taken pity on him.

Finally, the new man stepped back. “Have a nice ride, ma’am.” The words were perfectly mundane, the tone pleasant and deferential. Ma’am was the proper form of address.

The look in his eyes, though?

Anything but proper. Far from deferential.

“Thank you. I shall.” She led the mare out into the gray light of coming dawn.

* * *

The new groom had disappeared when Alice returned from her morning ride. That didn’t surprise her. The grooms were often needed outside the stables.

Her country, the principality of Montedoro, was a tiny slice of paradise overlooking the Mediterranean on the Côte d’Azur. The French border lay less than two kilometers from the stables and her family owned a chain of paddocks and pastures in the nearby French countryside. A stable hand might be required to exercise the horses in some far pasture or help with cleanup or fence repair at one of the paddocks.

And honestly, what did it matter to her where the handsome American had gone off to? He was nothing to her. She resisted the urge to ask Gilbert about him and reminded herself that becoming overly curious about one of the grooms was exactly the sort of self-indulgence she couldn’t permit herself anymore.

Not after the Glasgow episode.

Her face flamed just thinking about it.

And she needed to think about it. She needed to keep her humiliation firmly in mind in order to never allow herself to indulge in such unacceptable behavior again.

Like most of her escapades, it had begun so innocently.

On a whim, she’d decided to visit Blair Castle for the International Horse Trials and Country Fair. She’d flown to Perth the week before the trials thinking she would spend a few days touring Scotland.

She’d never made it to Blair Castle. She’d met up with some friends in Perth and driven with them down to Glasgow. Such fun, a little pub hopping. They’d found this one lovely, rowdy pub and it was karaoke night. Alice had enjoyed a pint or two more than she should have. Her bodyguard, huge, sweet old Altus, had caught her eye more than once and given her the look—the one meant to warn her that she was going too far, the one that rarely did any good.

As usual, she’d ignored the look. Repeatedly. And then, somehow, there she was up on the stage singing that Katy Perry song, “I Kissed a Girl.” At the time, it had seemed like harmless fun. She’d thrown herself into her performance and acted out the lyrics.

Pictures of her soul-kissing that cute Glaswegian barmaid with her skirt hiked up and her top halfway off had been all over the scandal sheets. The paparazzi had had a field day. Her mother, the sovereign princess, had not been amused.

And after that, Alice had sworn to herself that she would do better from now on—which definitely meant steering clear of brash, scruffy American stable hands who made her pulse race.

* * *

The next morning, Thursday, the new groom appeared again. He was there, busy with his broom, when she entered the stables at five. The sight of him, in the same disreputable jeans and torn sweatshirt as the day before, caused a thoroughly annoying flutter in her solar plexus, as well as a definite feeling of breathlessness.

To cover her absurd excitement over seeing him again, she said, “Excuse me,” in a snooty abovestairs-at-Downton-Abbey tone that she instantly regretted, a tone that had her wondering if she might be trying too hard to behave. “I didn’t catch your name.”

He stopped sweeping. “Noah. Ma’am.”

“Ah. Well. Noah...” She was suddenly as tongue-tied as a preteen shaking hands with Justin Bieber. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. “Would you saddle Kajar for me, please?” She gave a vague wave of her hand toward the stall where the gray gelding waited. As a rule, she personally tacked up any horse she rode. It helped her read the horse’s mood and condition and built on the bond she established with each of the animals in her care.

But once she’d opened her mouth, she’d had to come up with a logical excuse for talking to him.

And she was curious. Would he work the same magic, establish the same instant comfortable rapport with Kajar as he had with Yazzy?

The groom—Noah—set aside his broom and went to work. Kajar stood patiently under his firm, calm hands. Noah praised the horse as he worked, calling him fine and handsome and good. The gelding gave no trouble through the process. On the contrary. Twice Kajar turned his long, graceful neck to whicker at Noah as though in approval and affection.

Once the job was done, the groom led the horse from the stall and passed Alice the reins. His long fingers whispered across her gloved palm and were gone. For a moment she caught the scent of his clean, healthy skin. He wore a light aftershave. It smelled of citrus, of sun and cedar trees.

She should have said, “Thank you,” and led the horse out to ride. But he drew her so strongly. She found herself instigating an actual conversation. “You’re not Montedoran.”

“How did you guess?” Softly. With humor and a nice touch of irony.

“You’re American.”

“That’s right.” He looked at her steadily, those eyes of his so blue they seemed almost otherworldly. “I grew up in California, in Los Angeles. In Silver Lake and East L.A.” He was watching her in that way he had: with total concentration. A wry smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “You have no idea where Silver Lake is, or East L.A., do you? Ma’am.” He was teasing her.

She felt a prickle of annoyance, which only increased her interest in him. “I have a basic understanding, yes. I’ve been to Southern California. I have a second cousin there. He and his family live in Bel Air.”

“Bel Air is a long way from East L.A.”

She leaned into Kajar, cupping her hand to his far cheek, resting her head against his long, fine neck. The gelding didn’t object, only made a soft snuffling sound. “A long distance, you mean?”

One strong shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It’s not so far in miles. However, Bel Air has some of the priciest real estate in the world—kind of like here in Montedoro. East L.A.? Not so much.”

She didn’t want to talk about real estate. Or class differences. And she needed to be on her way. She went as far as to stop leaning on the horse—but then, what do you know? She opened her mouth and another question popped out. “Do your parents still live there?”

“No. My father was killed working construction when I was twelve. My mother died of the flu when I was twenty-one.”

Sympathy for him moved within her, twining with the excitement she felt at his nearness. Kajar tossed his head. She turned to the gelding, reaching up to stroke his elegant face, settling him. And then she said to Noah, “That is too sad.”