THE EMBOSSED AND gilded envelope had arrived the following day—an invitation to Prince Henrik’s private Jubilee Banquet, an intimate celebration of his fifty years on the throne.
When the gown box had been delivered shortly afterwards, she’d assumed that the formal wear was part of the clothing allowance that came with her salary. She hadn’t been able to resist peeling back the layers of gossamer tissue paper and trying on the most extravagant garment she’d ever handled...just once.
And now, three days later, she was wearing the gown for real—a black, lace beaded sheath that clung to her body and flared at her feet, her heart beating into her throat with awe as she was ushered inside an opulent banquet hall in the formal and ceremonial wing of the palace.
Clara swallowed, any ridiculous fantasy that she and Andreas might have anything in common, or that he needed her concern, crushed into the plush carpet so thick she could have been walking on a cloud.
This part of the winter residence was often open to the public, but tonight it glittered in celebration. The cold marble of the columns and ornate cornices was warmed by the six enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, as well as a million twinkling lights strung like a net of stars across the night sky. To one side, row after row of banquet tables were precisely laid with glittering crystal glassware, ornate gilded centrepieces and cascading fresh flower arrangements. A chamber orchestra occupied a raised dais, where guests danced to ballroom versions of popular Scandinavian folk songs.
Utterly overwhelmed, Clara slipped discreetly around the edge of the room, hoping to blend into the gold-edged midnight-blue drapes that lined the walls, stretching from the floor to the vaulted ceiling.
She scanned the room, casually searching out her nursing colleagues among the Varborg elite. Her pulse fluttered frantically, her body hopeful, her mind full of dread.
Was he there—Prince Andreas?
She hadn’t seen him since the day she’d discovered his identity. That had left plenty of time to promise that, next time they met, she would keep things strictly professional and properly deferential.
She’d just spied her nursing colleagues on the other side of the dance floor when her stare landed on the hottest man in any room.
Andreas.
She froze. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t look away as euphoria spiked her blood. How had she ever once mistaken him for an ordinary man? He’d been utterly spectacular naked, seriously sexy in his hospital scrubs but, dressed in his formal attire, he looked every inch an untouchable heartthrob prince.
Desire, thick, hot and confusing, pounded through her veins.
An impressive row of medals adorned the lapel of his dark tailcoat, the breast pocket bearing the Cronstedt royal coat of arms. His crisp white dress-shirt and waistcoat contrasted with the midnight-blue sash worn across his broad chest, the colour complementing his mesmerising eyes. Nearly every other man there was clean-shaven but, unlike them, he wore his beard, neatly trimmed short, and his golden hair swept back from his aristocratic face, just an inch too long so the ends curled above his collar.
A true, unapologetic Viking.
Horribly turned on, Clara sank deeper into the shadows. Why did her treacherous body hate her so much, when her head had already made all the decisions? She gripped the folds of velvet, wishing she could disappear into the curtains so she wouldn’t have to witness him sharing that dazzling smile of his with the stunning and elegant society women who, unlike Clara, were a part of his world.
Moving on from one conversation, Andreas addressed the mountain of a man at his side—Nils, the bodyguard from the hospital—before conversing with a regal blonde wearing a tiara made of diamonds that Clara would bet a year’s salary were real.
Clara’s skin prickled with humiliation. Here, in Andreas’s world, she was so utterly and obviously out of her depth, an imposter in a hired gown.
Nils spoke into a discreet microphone attached to the earpiece he was wearing, his stare landing on Clara across the vast room, as if he’d just been informed of her precise location.
Clara froze. Would she be told to leave in front of all these important people? In front of him? Perhaps it wasn’t too late to duck out before Andreas saw her. She should never have come. She couldn’t face him. He would surely see through her disguise to the scared little girl inside who’d been abandoned by one parent and forced to grow up fast to help care for the other. What would Crown Prince Andreas Cronstedt need with a woman like that when he could kiss any woman he chose?
The bodyguard whispered to Andreas. With a charming smile, Andreas concluded his conversation with a portly man in his sixties, turned and stared straight at Clara.
A soft gasp left her dry throat.
He’d asked Nils about her; the room was obviously awash with his spies.
From so far away, she couldn’t read his expression. Was he annoyed to see her there after their childish squabble in the lift? What on earth did it matter who regretted the kiss, who’d enjoyed it, who recalled every detail when it was unlikely ever to happen again?
Desperately clinging to the indifference she’d spent days perfecting, Clara raised her chin and gripped her clutch, which contained her embossed invitation, like a shield.
Without taking his eyes off hers for one second, Andreas marched her way.
Her palms began to sweat.
His long strides sliced through the parting crowd.
Her ears buzzed with tinnitus.
Still he descended, full of purpose and so achingly beautiful, looking at him stung Clara’s eyes.
People had started to notice his determined trajectory. Clara grew hot under their curious stares. Whispers began to spread from person to person like a highly contagious virus. Clara’s pulse throbbed frantically in her fingertips and toes. Her head grew light from lack of oxygen. She gulped down a few breaths, trying to look away from his intense eye contact, but she couldn’t make her body obey her commands. Was this what a stroke felt like? She could only stand and wait for him to arrive, her only armour her determination to stay immune to his overwhelming magnetism.
‘You made it,’ he said with a small, restrained smile.
He seemed taller and broader in his exquisitely tailored attire, every inch the regal, self-assured leader he was born to be.
Ignoring his devastating hotness, Clara lowered her gaze. ‘Your Royal Highness.’
Her voice croaked as she bent her knees in the deep curtsey she’d been practising in her heels and gown all afternoon.
All around them, people were staring, likely thinking who exactly could have inspired Prince Andreas’s inexhaustible pursuit across a room full of important people who, like him, belonged there.
When she looked up, Andreas’s mouth wore a tight smile and his eyes were grey and stormy with what looked like fury.
‘Please never do that again,’ he said, his voice low for her ears only.
Clara blinked up at him, a barrage of questions and comments dying on her tongue. How did he expect her to act? She hadn’t been trained on the proper etiquette for addressing a prince you’d kissed, seen naked and then tried to ignore. But there was no time to wonder what social faux pas she’d made.
He held out his hand. ‘Ms Lund, would you do me the honour of a dance?’
Clara quailed inside, dread freezing her diamanté-clad feet to the lush carpet. She had no idea how to dance to this kind of music. She’d make a fool of herself and, worse, a fool of him in a room full of his snobby, aristocratic peers.
She opened her mouth, praying that it wouldn’t be considered an act of high treason to politely refuse a crown prince a dance, when Andreas spoke again.
‘Before you decline...’ he angled his head closer ‘...shall I remind you that we agreed to talk about a certain, very pressing matter?’
He was so calm, so composed, they might have been discussing the weather. But surely they couldn’t settle their unfinished business, the kissing, in front of all these people?
Clara’s entire body burned hot, her skin hyper-sensitised under his observation. She could barely stand upright just thinking about the heat, fizz and excitement of that kiss. Just looking at him all dressed up made that reckless, carefree part of her that felt alive every time she talked to him ache to do it again.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ she said, placing her hand in his, ‘I merely hoped to spare you the public spectacle of me treading on your toes. I have no idea how to dance like this.’
‘I’ll lead you,’ he said, self-assured, smiling at several of the gawking crowd. ‘Just keep your eyes on mine.’
The onlookers parted for them as, unconcerned, Andreas led her to the dance floor. He executed a short bow, gripped her hand and placed his other hand between her shoulder blades. ‘Allow me to worry what your feet are doing.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Clara muttered, her body melting under his touch. ‘But I much prefer to rely on my own two feet.’
Before she could make further complaints, he swept her along into the dancing crowd. Clara gasped, the thrill of once more being this close to him rendering her speechless. The warmth of his body seeped into her palm where it rested on his shoulder. The spicy scent of his cologne, delicious notes of pine forest and wood smoke, sent her head swimming back to fantasy land. The all-consuming focus of his eye contact made her forget that she was being watched by hundreds of onlookers as he effortlessly spun her in time to the music, his strong arms and skilled dance moves preventing her from taking a wrong step.
She laughed, the thrilling abandon of dancing with so expert a partner suppressing her reservations and insecurities. She might as well have been flying. Andreas grinned at her delight, spinning her a little faster so the hem of her dress fanned out, holding her a little closer so she was forced to surrender her body and dignity to him entirely, the way she’d surrendered to that kiss.
Alive once more, all she could do was smile. But this wasn’t reality. Reality was her bank balance; the shameful online headlines bearing her family name; the sting of humiliation she’d experienced outside the hospital lift, when she’d realised with a sinking stomach that, no matter what her body craved, him and her could never be.
As the tempo of the music slowed, she felt Andreas’s body stiffen a little, as if he was aware of the change in her mood.
‘I want to apologise for rushing off that day at the hospital. I’m afraid that, no matter how much I value my work, I must put my family first.’
Clara gave a small sharp shake of her head, stunned by the regret in his voice, the implication that Prince Henrik was right—their relationship was strained. ‘There’s no need to apologise, Your Royal Highness. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t know you straight away when you’re so...famous.’
His fingers flexed against her bare back, or she might have imagined it, because he looked perfectly polite, no hint of the heat from that first night.
But what did she expect—that she, ordinary Clara Lund, was special? Maybe he wanted to explain that, given his wild and notorious past, he kissed everyone he met that way...
‘You accused me of manipulation.’ His jaw clenched. ‘But the truth is, when you didn’t recognise me, I found the anonymity liberating. You fascinated me, with your hair primly pinned back but with your bold and spunky attitude on display.’
Clara exhaled a sound of disbelief as shameful prickles of heat danced over her skin. ‘I’m outspoken. The way I spoke to you must be an act of treason. Not to mention the...kissing.’ She hissed the last word. ‘Two hundred years ago I’d have probably been imprisoned or sent to the guillotine.’
He smiled, a glimmer of playfulness in his eyes that unfurled something deep inside her—that longing to be the young woman she was in years. Clara wished they were at work, where at least she could pretend they were equals, but here, among the glitz and glamour, the titles and ceremony, it was obvious that they had nothing in common.
‘You weren’t outspoken, you were honest. That hardly ever happens to me. I’ve never met a woman like you.’ He sobered. ‘In truth, I was struggling to be back here that night. Just for a few moments, I wanted to just be myself with you. Selfish, I know.’
Why was he struggling to be home? Was it the prince’s diagnosis and his regrets over his career? And couldn’t he be himself with everyone? Hadn’t she felt the same? For a few moments in his company, she’d felt more vibrantly alive than she’d ever felt before.
‘And I guarantee that, these days...’ his lips twitched with amusement ‘...kissing a prince carries no such penalty.’
In spite of the confusing mix of desire and unease swirling inside her, Clara laughed. If only they were alone, they could have a candid conversation and get to know each other better. Discover if they had other things in common.
Ridiculous! He was a prince. They weren’t on a date. He probably had official duties tonight, given that Prince Henrik was, as yet, nowhere to be seen. And she was out of her depth. Feeling foolish at how easily she’d been seduced to feel emotionally close to a man who was from another world, Clara changed the subject.
‘You look very...regal. Did you earn all those medals?’
‘Yes,’ he stated simply, obviously reluctant to talk about his military service. ‘You look beautiful in that dress,’ he said instead. ‘I knew it would suit you.’
Clara stiffened, her confusion growing. ‘You picked out this dress?’
He gave a half-shrug, as if the gesture was no big deal.
‘Why?’ Something spiky and hard settled in her stomach. She was so naïve.
‘I thought you’d like it.’ A frown tugged down his beautiful mouth. ‘Consider it a gift—an apology for making you feel that your job here was compromised by my actions.’
Clara’s throat burned with humiliation. Of course he wouldn’t understand the symbolism of what for him was a seemingly innocent gesture.
Seeing red, Clara hardened her stare. ‘Well, then, I insist on paying you back.’
As if the dress was tainted, her skin began to chafe and itch underneath.
He maintained his bland smile but a muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘It’s necessary to me.’ A flush crept up her neck. ‘I don’t like to be beholden to anyone. I pay my own way in the world.’
Chills rattled her bones. She shouldn’t have come tonight. She didn’t belong here, not like this: pretending to fit in, wearing a borrowed dress, playing Cinderella in his arms when any second now the clock would strike midnight and he’d see how implausible their flirtation was.
‘Why so independent, sötnos?’ He gripped her waist a little tighter, as if he could literally repair the damage he would never understand by holding onto her. ‘I simply assumed you might find the gift welcome. After all, you work so hard.’
Shaking her head with disbelief, Clara forced her feet to remember that they were under her own control, not his. ‘That’s an easy thing for you to ask when you grew up here. But seeing as you appreciate my candour, Your Royal Highness, know this: I’ve been contributing to my family’s income since I was sixteen and my father upped and left us with nothing but his debts, never to return.’
Stricken, Andreas appeared instantly contrite, but it was little comfort.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, a flicker of panic in his stare. ‘Please accept my apologies for the dress. It won’t happen again.’
Appalled by the burn of irrational tears behind her eyes, Clara tried to remove her hand from his.
She never cried.
‘I should have known,’ she said, shaking her head when he refused to relinquish his grip, the panic in his eyes now full-blown.
She wouldn’t make a scene, but nor would she play his puppet, regardless of their audience.
‘For a minute there,’ she continued, ‘I’d almost convinced myself that we were, in some ways, equals. That we had something important in common. But the cold hard reality is that I was fooling myself.’
His stare turned steely, the muscles of his clenched jaw standing out beneath his facial hair. ‘We are equals. Two human beings drawn to each other.’
Clara scoffed at his naïvety.
‘Are we?’ She fought to keep her voice as calm and quiet as she could, given the humiliation pounding in her head. ‘In that case, what’s it to be? Repayment for the dress? Or do you prefer I return the garment? I can take it off right now, in fact.’
Indignant, she skidded her feet to a halt and reached for the side zip under her arm.
Andreas’s eyes blazed with an inferno of heat.
‘Don’t you dare,’ he growled, taking her arm.
With a benign smile on his face, he guided her from the dance floor and through an inconspicuous door tucked into the corner, manned by two liveried footmen.
Awash with shame for her outburst—and spitting mad that, for all her independence and distrust, she’d been naïve enough to fall under his spell out there on the dance floor—Clara accepted her fate. She’d done it now; he would kick her out and wash his hands of her.
And it would be for the best. She was so laughably out of her depth in his world. Their stark differences had only been highlighted by the extravagance of the stupidly beautiful dress that now felt like a prison straitjacket.
But, for one heady moment out there in his arms, as he’d twirled her round and round, nothing else had seemed to matter—not his title, or her family debts, or even the misguided attraction she just couldn’t seem to fight. He’d been just a man, and she a woman.
Except when the dancing had stopped, and her feet were firmly back on the ground, reality had struck. They came from impossibly different worlds: his full of glitter and magic, and hers the real world.