EMILIA JUMPED AS her phone trilled, startling her out of a daydream. Flustered, she fumbled to answer the call and, as she did so, noticed the name doodled on her notepad.
Ren...
God, she was a complete and utter fool.
‘Hello?’ She did her best to sound like the competent person she usually was, grabbing a pen and furiously scribbling out the doodled name, cheeks flushing hot as she did so. What on earth was she doing, randomly inserting the names of young men she barely knew into the middle of her to-do list? Acting as if she were some love-struck teenager doodling on her pencil case? She was neither love-struck nor a teenager. She was a professional, and she needed to behave like one.
‘Emilia? Hi, it’s me, Harriet. Just checking in. Is everything okay? You sound a little flustered.’
‘Flustered? No, not at all. Just deep in thought. There’s a lot to do.’
‘How’s it going? Met anyone yet?’
Emilia looked around, suddenly suspicious. What had Harriet heard? And from who? ‘What do you mean, have I met anyone? Just because you’re all loved-up doesn’t mean everyone has to spend all their time thinking about romance.’
There was a startled pause at the end of the phone. ‘Em! You know I didn’t mean that. Have I turned into one of those people, the “everyone should get engaged” type, because you know I don’t believe that...’
Damn it, now she had upset Harriet. ‘No, no, of course you haven’t. Ignore me. I was being silly.’
‘You’re sure?’ Emilia couldn’t blame Harriet for sounding hurt. The four friends had bonded through loneliness and they all found it hard to let people in, especially potential romantic partners. Harriet, like Emilia, had barely dated before she’d got engaged to Deangelo.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘I just meant have you spoken to anyone yet. Alex said you were buried alone in a basement office and sleeping in the attic. You should move to a hotel, Em. I’m more than happy to add it to Simone’s gigantic bill. In fact, we’ll get you a suite, champagne every night and fresh flowers and chocolates.’
‘It’s almost worth it just to imagine her face, but I’m fine here. Honestly, the office is perfectly adequate. Natural light would be nice, but it has everything I need, and the bedroom is clean and comfortable and has gorgeous views across to the mountains. It does me very well.’
‘If you’re sure...’ Harriet still sounded doubtful and Emilia hurried to reassure her.
‘Honestly, being here puts me at the centre of all the action and that’s really important. You know I grew up bilingual, thanks to my mother? I barely use my French nowadays, but it’s returned pretty quickly and I know enough Italian to manage to communicate well enough in dialect which, although everyone speaks English, they really appreciate. I’ve been helping out where I can; the whole palace is being overhauled, and it’s paying off. Much easier to get people to cooperate with me if I’ve done them a favour first.’
‘And what have you found out? Any gossip on whether the Archduke is going to propose?’
Emilia closed her eyes and saw Ren—Laurent—leaning against the wall, arms folded, blue eyes alight with laughter, disreputable old jeans moulded to strong legs like a second skin. He hadn’t acted like an Archduke, nor a man considering marriage, two days ago.
But he was both.
‘No, but everyone seems to think Dad’s interest in moving the business here is a really good thing and they do seem to be taking it for granted that there will be an engagement within the year and Bella seems the most likely candidate. Apparently the Archduke has been to Dad’s estate twice and Dad has visited Armaria, but the ball will be the first time Simone and Bella come here. I haven’t told anyone what my relationship with them is. It’s easier to keep work and complicated family life separate. Besides, everyone thinks Dad has just the one daughter,’ she finished, trying to sound businesslike, but Harriet wasn’t fooled.
‘You need to spend some time with your father, Em. It’s his birthday. You have every right to be there.’
‘I don’t think that’s entirely true.’ Emilia blinked suddenly hot, heavy eyes. All she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was her dad to put her first. But he never had. And the more she’d tried to get his attention, the more he’d turned away, pushing her to more and more extreme behaviour. ‘After all, I threw my drink at him on his fiftieth and told him I wished he’d died instead of Maman. And then I walked out of the fancy restaurant, leaving him covered in lemonade. Not my finest hour—you can see why he wouldn’t want me around on this occasion.’
‘You were sixteen and hurting.’
‘He didn’t come after me though, did he? Not that night—not ever.’ She swallowed, pushing the hurt back down where it belonged. ‘He might be a genius but he has no emotional intelligence whatsoever. I guess that’s why it was so easy for him to just walk out on Maman and me when he met Simone. If Maman hadn’t died I doubt I would have seen him more than twice a year growing up, if that. He was always cancelling my custody weekends because he had to work or he and Simone had plans. Sent expensive presents instead, as if a new laptop made up for him not being there. The truth is neither Simone nor he ever bargained on me actually living with them and when I left it made their lives easier.’
‘And yet here you are, on the spot for his birthday and Simone put you there. This is your opportunity, Em, your chance to talk to your father, to tell him how you feel. Okay, I better go. This invoicing won’t do itself, more’s the pity. Call if you need anything, even if it’s just a chat. Especially if it’s just a chat.’
‘Will do, thanks, Harriet.’
Finishing the call, Emilia wished she was the kind of person who could manage a casual ‘love you’ at the end of a sentence. But the words stuck in her throat. They made a person so vulnerable. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d told someone that she loved them—or that someone had said those words to her.
Pushing the notepad away with a sigh, Emilia allowed herself to slump forward, head in her hands. It was all very well for Harriet to say this was her chance to talk to her father, but what would she say? She could apologise for her anger and behaviour as a teenager, but what if he didn’t reciprocate? Still didn’t see how he had let her down? After all, he hadn’t tried very hard to reconnect with her over the last decade. What if she made herself vulnerable and at the end of it she still was on her own? All the hard work she had done to keep herself safe would be undone.
But watching Harriet deal with her father’s dementia made Emilia yearn to at least try and put things right while she still had a chance. To be the bigger person, not the out of control teen pulling everyone into her maelstrom of misery. After all, whatever Simone’s reasons for employing her, she had given Emilia the opportunity to show her dad how much she loved him. And, little as she had in common with her stepsister, to give Bella her due, she had always tried, inviting Emilia to lunches she was too busy to make, sending her gifts on her birthday.
But the thought of Bella brought her back round to Laurent again and Emilia groaned, grabbing her notebook and vowing to not think about anything but work again for the next two hours.
A rap at her door roused her from her thoughts and she called out for whoever it was to come in, surprised to see one of the pages carrying a silver tray with a brown envelope on it. The page, a boy in his late teens, wore the old-fashioned waistcoat and pin-striped trousers the role demanded with dignified pride.
‘This is for you, mademoiselle,’ he said in careful English, proffering the tray.
‘Merci.’ She smiled her thanks as she took the envelope, a little puzzled. The palace might have traditions and customs that seemed a thousand years old but behind the scenes it enjoyed the most up-to-date technology; the pages carried smartphones or tablets whilst Emilia had had no problem connecting to the palace’s IT network. Who would be writing to her? Or—her heart speeded up as she felt something hard within the small envelope—sending her an object?
She began to open the envelope as the page left, tipping out a large wrought iron key. A tag was tied around the middle:
You are always welcome.
Putting the key onto the desk carefully as if it might explode, she reread the message, her heart thumping. It must be from Ren—Laurent. But why was he sending her an invitation to his private garden?
Sending her invitations, misleading her about his identity. What was going on? Emilia opened her top drawer and dropped the key and the message inside, closing it with a decisive bang. The answers to those questions didn’t matter. She was here to do a job, not to speculate about the motivations of the Archduke. So he had sent her a key? She didn’t need to use it. Her situation here was complicated enough. From now on she was steering clear of anything and anyone not related to the ball.
For the next twenty-four hours Emilia stuck to her resolution not to return to the walled garden, although she also didn’t allow herself to speculate why she had retrieved the key from the drawer and stuck it into her bag, reading the note every now and then. Instead she threw herself into an orgy of spreadsheets, Gantt charts and costings, cajoling or bullying her most trusted suppliers to agree to her impossible timeline. Whether it was Simone’s lavish budget or the prospect of supplying the Royal House of Armaria she didn’t know, but most capitulated far more easily than she had anticipated. In fact, they gave in so easily it took half the fun out of her job. Her mood only lifted when the palace head chef said an instant non to the menu she’d put together and they then embarked on a two-hour battle in which they both emerged convinced they’d been victorious. But throughout the feverish hours she was all too aware of the heavy key weighing down her bag.
By the following evening her head was aching after too much coffee and not enough air and Emilia found herself sent outside for a walk by the stately housekeeper with strict instructions not to return until her colour had gone from corpse to cream. She put up little fight, the need for fresh air almost overwhelming.
It was a gorgeous evening. Armaria was blessed with long hot summers, crisp snow-filled winters and springs and autumns out of a child’s book of seasons and the early June evening was warm enough for Emilia to be out with no coat or jumper, the light not quite as bright as during the day, but still sunny enough to make sunglasses a must. She pulled the bobble out of her hair, allowing it to swing free past her shoulders, and took a deep breath, letting the fresh flower-scented air fill her lungs.
The castle gardens deserved all the accolades heaped on them. An eighteenth-century designer had created a visual masterpiece of terraces, fountains and colourful flowerbeds, the whole divided by trees and hedges, widening into more informal lawns and woodlands further from the castle. A maze at the foot of the terraces was known as the most fiendishly difficult in Europe, and the gardens were full of hidden nooks and secret corners. But as she wandered through the beautiful rose garden Emilia couldn’t help but think about the walled garden, about how each plant seemed to be there naturally, not because it fitted some overarching vision, how the orchard trees wound and bent around each other, not pruned to unnatural symmetry. The garden was obviously tended, but it wasn’t manicured.
And she had a key...
Of course she had told herself that going there would only lead to trouble. She had liked Ren. She might have only met him twice but she’d found him easy to talk to in a way that was unusual for her. In fact she’d been downright chatty. And although her life was a quiet one, she was still a warm-blooded woman. It was impossible not to notice that he was very attractive with his sudden, elusive smile and killer cheekbones. If Ren had sent her the key then, she would have been very tempted to visit the walled garden in the hope of meeting him there and seeing where their acquaintance took them. Tempted. Not that meeting strange young men was something Emilia habitually did. No dating apps for her, no accepting offers of coffee or dinner. Maybe she was a coward, but she knew all too well what could happen when you allowed your happiness to be held by someone else. That love had a toxic side, and not feeling at all was so much less painful than giving your heart only to see it disdainfully discarded. So no, she probably wouldn’t have gone to meet Ren. But it was nice to think that maybe she would have summoned up the courage,
But Laurent had sent the key and she didn’t know him at all. She would never have speculated about Bella and Clay Industries so freely if she’d realised who he was. And he hadn’t denied that he was considering proposing to Bella, which made him doubly out of bounds and doubly dangerous—he had no idea who she was and her relationship with the man he so wanted to impress. So visiting the garden would be pure insanity and Emilia had only lived a sensible, planned existence since she had left home. This was neither the time nor the place to change that.
But as she neared the old wall set at the back of the castle, near the kitchen gardens which groaned under the weight of beds and beds of vegetables and herbs, Emilia was aware of a sense of an unusual and sweet anticipation and, before she knew what she was doing, she had unlocked the small door and slipped into the secret garden.
Disappointment dropped through her as she realised she was the only person there. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself, speaking aloud so as to give the words more weight. ‘It’s better this way; you can enjoy the garden with no awkward encounters.’ Determined to do just that, Emilia explored every corner from the old orchard, buds turning to leaves, the promise of fruit heavy in the air, to the rambling roses which climbed the high walls and the beds filled with fragrant herbs and flowers. She discovered an old arbour housing an obviously much-used seat, the cushion dented with use, a blanket slung over the neck of the bench, and an archway leading into a shady courtyard filled with potted plants. No castle windows overlooked the courtyard; it was completely private, a small wooden door set into the castle the only clue it belonged to the castle at all and wasn’t some magical garden in an enchanted land.
Despite the courtyard’s privacy she felt uncomfortable being so close to the castle, the key heavy in her pocket, and after a quick peek she slipped back through the archway and into the walled garden, returning to her favourite tree, its branches providing a shady respite from the evening sun which still burnt with Mediterranean intensity.
Leaning against the trunk, she closed her eyes, aware the ache in her temple still hadn’t quite disappeared, and breathed in the sweet evening air. It wasn’t the work or the time pressure causing her sleepless nights and stress. It was knowing that she and her father would be occupying the same space for several days and that avoiding him for the whole time was unrealistic.
What if this ball was a sign that it was time to move on? To try and make amends. She wasn’t foolish enough to imagine an ending where her father enfolded her in his arms and promised to make the last twenty years up to her, but she could walk away with her head held high, knowing she had done all she could. Maybe then she could finally move on. Find it within herself to be brave and search out the kind of happiness Harriet had embraced.
Her one attempt at a romantic relationship had backfired so horribly she’d steered well clear of any semblance of one ever since. But that had been a long time ago and she was older and wiser now. She had fought for and found her self-worth. Was she willing to let her father destroy it again? Especially now...
Her attraction to Laurent might be misjudged and mistimed but it showed she wasn’t made of ice after all. If she could let her guard down once then maybe she could again. Only next time she’d investigate any potential interest to make sure he was who he said he was and not the ruler of a small Mediterranean country.
‘Is everything okay?’
She jumped at the sound of a low masculine voice, opening her eyes to see Laurent leaning against the tree next to hers, his eyes crinkled in concern.
‘Oh, hi.’ She was conscious of a bubble of happiness expanding her chest at the sight of him. ‘I’m fine, but thank you.’
‘Are you sure? Is there anything I can help with?’
The offer, from a man she barely knew, touched Emilia deeper than she wanted to admit. Was she really that starved for kindness? ‘No, honestly. I only came here to return the key.’ She slipped the heavy iron key out of her pocket and held it out to him. ‘Here.’
Laurent made no move to take it. ‘It’s yours whether you use it or not.’
Emilia replaced the key in her pocket, half relieved he hadn’t taken it, but not wanting to dwell on why. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’
His mouth tightened. ‘That was badly done of me.’
‘I said things I wouldn’t have said if I’d known. I’m sorry. I overstepped...’
‘Don’t apologise. I put you in that situation. The truth is I liked the way you spoke to me; I liked the things you said. I liked the connection we forged.’
‘Connection?’ She could hardly breathe as she said the word and his eyes darkened.
‘It seemed as if we already knew each other. Or maybe it was just me.’
Honesty propelled her forward until she was standing next to him, close enough to touch. ‘I felt it too. But it wasn’t real; it couldn’t be real. You’re not who I thought you were. You have a life I can’t imagine, commitments I can’t comprehend. A duty I respect and all that goes with that.’ She didn’t—couldn’t—say Bella’s name but it hung there all the same and in that instant she realised she was just as culpable because wasn’t she too hiding who she was? If Laurent realised she was Mike Clayton’s daughter then what—would he want to court her instead?
Maybe it was a big leap from connection to courting but, even if it was, Emilia knew she would never want to be wanted because of what she was instead of who she was. And maybe Laurent felt the same way. With that thought came a flash of understanding about why he might have withheld his identity from her, and with understanding came sympathy. She couldn’t look at him as she spoke. ‘But even if I do admit I felt a connection, the whole situation is too complicated.’
‘Even in here? Where I am just Ren and you are Emilia and there are no titles and there is no duty or expectation? Can’t we be friends here?’
‘Well...’ She was more tempted to agree than she would have thought possible. She was Emilia Clayton, who always played by the rules and buried herself in work rather than think about all the ways she wasn’t living. But this garden felt like a place where those rules didn’t exist and where Emilia could throw off those shackles and just be. ‘I have to go,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll miss staff dinner if I’m much longer.’
‘In that case, why not stay here and have dinner with me?’
‘Here?’ She looked around as if food might spring magically up from the ground and a smile softened his rather harsh expression.
‘Here. I’ll be ten minutes. Promise you won’t leave?’
‘I...’ If she walked fast she’d make it to the staff dining room before the end of dinner. She could slip into her usual spot at the end of the table and, as usual, eat a hurried meal, not really talking to anyone, her position too temporary and too undefined for her to easily fit in with the hierarchical castle staff. How tempting to agree to stay in this walled garden with a man who looked at her as if he knew her and liked what he saw, and pretend that the world outside the walls didn’t exist. ‘Okay, on one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘Pomme joins us. I don’t want anyone saying I ate dinner with the Archduke unchaperoned.’
His smile was as sweet as it was sudden. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. But inside these walls there is no Archduke, just Emilia and Ren. Deal?’
She couldn’t help answering his smile with one of her own. ‘Deal.’ Staying was probably, definitely, a bad idea but she couldn’t walk away even if she wanted to. Emilia wasn’t one for crushes or sudden fancies; she wasn’t really one for romance at all, for putting her body or mind or heart in the hands of another, trusting someone else with her happiness. She knew all too well how dangerous that was. But there was a flutter of sweet tension down in her belly when she looked at Laurent, a thrilling in her veins at the burr of his voice. He was still a stranger but at some level something in her recognised something in him. The unwanted, unasked for attraction should terrify her—and usually she would run from it—but here in this garden it felt natural. Safe. Even if she knew that safety was merely an illusion.
‘Laurent?’
Laurent turned as his mother called his name, masking his impatience at the delay. It was seven-thirty and that meant Emilia would be in the walled garden waiting for him. The castle kitchens would have sent up a basket of food and it would be placed by the small door that led into the palace courtyard. If any of the staff wondered why the Archduke had taken it into his head to dine outside and alone every night for the past week, they kept it to themselves.
The evenings were an oasis during increasingly busy days. The Prime Minister was making his impatience felt and, although there was little he could do, he made sure Laurent knew just how little faith he had in the proposed deal and Laurent’s ability to pull it off. The Chancellor’s worry about the next year’s finances were infecting all of Parliament and Laurent knew that if Clay Industries decided against investing then he would have to capitulate on some of the Prime Minister’s demands. The ball and its outcome was increasingly important.
But during the summer evenings, stretched out on a picnic blanket, none of these concerns felt so urgent. Emilia was an entertaining and intelligent companion whose stories of her life in events often kept him amused for hours. Every evening he felt more at ease with her; every evening felt more and more like coming home.
Only real life kept intruding. Simone Clayton had suggested he and Bella wore matching costumes, a clear signal of intent from the Claytons and one he couldn’t ignore. And a signal Emilia was aware of; she was organising the costumes after all. That was why, despite the intimacy of the situation, they never touched, never strayed into personal territory. The more time Laurent spent with Emilia, the more he liked her. The more he saw of her, the more he admired her. And he was definitely attracted to her. But he respected her too much to cross a line that once crossed would spoil the first real friendship he had experienced for far too long. A line a man contemplating marriage to another had no right to cross.
A line he wanted to cross more every night.
‘Hello, Maman.’ He kissed his mother’s cheek as she approached him, smiling down at her. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘So are you, mon fils. Is everything okay? I’ve hardly seen you all week.’
‘I’ve been busy, with the ball, Parliament, arranging a tour for Mike Clayton. These things all take time.’
‘Just a few days until they arrive and less than a week until the ball. Are you ready, Laurent?’
The truth was, three weeks ago he had been ready. Three weeks ago he had seen his path clear in front of him and known that following it was the right thing to do. But now he couldn’t help but be enticed by other paths, winding, hidden paths with twisty corners and beguiling destinations. He set his jaw. ‘Don’t worry, Maman, I’m ready.’
His mood was sombre as he collected the basket and carried it through to the walled garden, an eager Pomme at his heels. Emilia was in her usual place, curled up under her favourite tree, her tablet in hand, forehead furrowed as she tapped away. She smiled as Pomme bounded over, one hand automatically caressing the dog’s ears as she looked up at Laurent. ‘How much would you hate traditional Greek costume?’
‘A lot,’ he responded as he placed the picnic basket on the ground, pulling out the blanket and throwing it over to Emilia, who caught it with one hand.
‘Tudor dress?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Regency?’
‘For A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’
‘Breeches are timeless and it has to be better than a tunic. We’re running out of time to get costumes made so you really need to pick one. Bella isn’t keen on Tudor either but she is happy with either of the other two.’
‘You pick.’
She looked up, startled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, your event, you know what will work.’ He knew he sounded autocratic, every bit the spoiled young aristocrat some thought him, and Emilia’s expression was troubled.
‘If you’re sure. No complaining—if I put you in a pink frockcoat and a white wig you’ll accept it?’
‘If you put me in a pink frockcoat I’ll have you arrested for treason.’
‘Go with Regency,’ she said, getting to her feet and shaking out the picnic rug. ‘It’s a classic for a reason and you and Bella can be Theseus and Hippolyta just as much as if you were in tunics. The flower wreath will still work with a regency hairstyle.’ She bent down to pick up her tablet and began tapping away again and Laurent watched her.
He knew every bit of her now, the way she moved, the way her eyes turned from green to gold to brown to match her moods, the way the light caught her hair, bringing out honey highlights, the shadows that darkened her expression when she lapsed into thought, the dimples that peeped out when she was amused. He knew how she never stopped, her tablet always by her side as she made notes, answered emails and researched ideas even as she ate. How she rose early and worked late, how she already knew every inch of the castle and had ideas to showcase every one of those inches.
But he knew nothing about her background or her family. Had no idea if she had ever been in love. Her secrets were locked up tight and he had no right to go prying. Not while he was planning to go to his ball with another woman on his arm. Not while he was still planning to propose to another woman.
Not while his country’s prosperity could depend on that proposal.
Maybe these evening picnics were a bad idea. He saw them as his salvation but he had been content with his path before Emilia had turned up.
But in just a few days Bella Clayton would be his guest and, regardless of what that meant, he would have to give her the courtesy of his time and attention. Their picnics had an end date. The thought pulled at him. This friendship couldn’t just fizzle out. They should do something special first.
‘We should do something different tomorrow evening,’ he said and Emilia put her tablet down and regarded him in some surprise.
‘Like what?’
‘We could leave the castle while we can, before the ball guests arrive and your time becomes even more hectic. Let’s hit the city. Where is your favourite place in San Tomare? The Italian quarter? The docks? The old town?’
Emilia’s gaze shifted. ‘I...well, I haven’t had much of a chance to explore Armaria, not even the city. I’ve been so busy here, I haven’t actually left the castle.’
‘Not at all? You’re not working twenty-four hours a day, surely?’
‘No, but I am working all waking hours. Three weeks is not very long to put on a ball, especially one where most of the guests need travel and accommodation sorting as well.’
‘Then tomorrow I will show you my city.’
Every instinct screamed at him that this was a bad idea. These illicit picnics were one thing; a night out, beyond the safety of the castle walls, was quite another. But Laurent needed one night before his life changed for ever, a night when he wasn’t Laurent; he was Ren showing the city he loved to a pretty girl.
‘You want to show me the city?’
‘People pay good money for guided tours, and I am offering you one for free. It’s a one-time offer though...’
‘Then how can I resist? Thank you.’ She smiled then, that sudden full smile which transformed her thin, solemn face into something else entirely, into an enchanting beauty of curves and dimples, of hints of fire and a sweetness which took his breath clean away. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all.’ He managed to somehow keep speaking although he wanted to stop time and drink her in. ‘You’re the kind one to take pity on me and grant me the pleasure of your company.’
She laughed at that, the usually hidden dimples deepening. Her laugh was husky, a little uncertain, as if she didn’t unleash it often. ‘I’ll do my best to live up to that. Shall we meet here? Same time as usual?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for the soldiers who guarded all the entrances in and out of the palace to see them together, linking Emilia’s name to his, exposing her to any resulting gossip. ‘I’ll pick you up at the crossroads, about quarter of a mile from the castle, if you go right when you leave the gates. Wear trousers, jeans if you have them, and a jacket,’ he added and she stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Sensible shoes are probably a good idea too.’
‘Intriguing.’ With that she opened the picnic basket and passed Laurent a perfectly chilled bottle of beer, taking one for herself as she did so. She raised hers to his. ‘To new adventures.’
‘To new adventures,’ he echoed. But he knew that tomorrow wasn’t about the new. It was about saying goodbye. To the old Laurent, to his old life and to the brief, sweet friendship that had so unexpectedly come his way.