Out on the polo field, life is simple. Everything comes down to the ball, the goals and the horse beneath me. There is no time for thought or emotion, just reaction. It’s when I get off the field that everything crowds in on me again, the need to be Someone, though I’m not entirely sure who that someone is – the game-playing, the undercurrents.
The walk from the stables into the pavilion is like walking from one world into another. In the stables, my only concern is the wellbeing of my ponies. When I’m surrounded by animals, I don’t feel a need to question who I am or whether life has meaning. I just am. Ponies have no artifice, and they don’t judge. They accept us completely, as we are.
I look around the pavilion, at the flirting, the posturing, the jockeying for attention or position, and I feel bone-weary. Off the field, I’ve played these games my whole life and I can’t figure out why. Is it because it’s expected of me, or because without them I feel insubstantial, as if I’m nothing more than a shadow? Just a trust fund and my family name.
I glance around the table, at the animated conversations, the polite laughter, then my gaze snags on Khara. As usual, she’s quieter than everyone else, steadier. She looks up, meets my gaze, and I smile. It’s a cliché, I know, but her eyes really are dark pools. I could lose myself in them. It’s not the colour, but the honesty in them. Here is the one person I know who doesn’t play games. She has that brashness Americans have, but it’s more than that; it’s a rawness, a sense that what you see is what you get.
I start when I hear my name. I break Khara’s hold on me and force a smile as I turn to Amalia. “Sorry, I missed that?”
“I was asking if you remember that party where we met? Whose party was it?” She’s twirling her hair and looking at me coyly, and it takes a great deal of effort not to roll my eyes. Not her too? What is it with all these women who want to be princesses? I blame movies and fairy tales for creating unreal expectations.
“I have no idea,” I answer curtly.
Amalia giggles. “It was at the yacht club in Antibes, and your cousin wanted to move the party onto a boat, so we picked one and climbed on board. And we found that bottle of Dom in the fridge, and Nick said it was as if it was there waiting for us, but then, just as we opened it, the captain arrived and threw us off.”
I glance around the table to see who else might have heard her reminiscence. The only person paying any attention is Khara, who arches an eyebrow at me.
“Not my proudest moment,” I murmur so only she can hear. That bottle of Champagne cost fifteen thousand quid, and I had to pay about the same again to persuade the captain not to press charges.
I’m relieved to see that, with the luncheon over, most of the VIP guests are drifting back towards the field for the afternoon match. Max, as the highest titled guest at this event, has been invited to open the mixed men’s and women’s event by tossing in the opening ball, so he and Phoenix rise to leave too. I still have a full glass of a rather superb Loire Valley Chenin Blanc, and am in no hurry to join them – and I’m rather relieved to have a quiet moment in the emptying pavilion – until Amalia slips into the empty seat to my left.
Khara is rising too, to follow Max and Phoenix. I reach out and grab her arm. “Please don’t leave,” I mouth at her, nodding as subtly as I can in Amalia’s direction. I don’t want to be alone with her. I may say – or do – something I later regret.
Khara sighs, but slides back into her seat on my right.
“I have missed you.” Amalia lays her hand on my arm in a gesture I’ve used many times myself. It’s the initial contact that says ‘Hello, I’m interested’. “We had fun together.” Her voice is heavy with suggestion as her elegant manicured hand strokes down my arm in sexual invitation. “And we can have fun again.”
She’s a good actress, with the awards to prove it, and she’s an even better seductress. A few weeks ago I might have gone along with her act without a second thought, but with Khara seated beside me, radiating disapproval, I find it much easier to think with my brain rather than my other head. I shift away so that Amalia’s hand falls from my arm. “I thought it was Mateo you wanted to have fun with?”
“Mateo is very charming, but he isn’t you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Khara beats me to it. “You do know Adam never comes back for seconds, don’t you?” She sounds cool and amused, and I have to give her credit for that. Most women would have made a line like that sound bitchy.
Amalia turns wide, surprised eyes on Khara, as if only now realising she’s there. “Who are you?”
“No one.”
That she certainly is not. I wrap my arm around her and pull her closer before I turn back to Amalia with a bright smile. “Haven’t you heard? Khara’s my girlfriend.”
I expect Khara to stiffen and try to pull away, as she did that time I used her as a shield against Elena. But she surprises me. She leans closer and slides her hand possessively along my thigh.
Amalia looks back at me, employing her trademark pout. In the past, it was that pout that did it for me. Now I feel absolutely nothing. Well, not nothing. I’m feeling a hell of a lot, but it’s all concentrated in my groin, and on the spot where Khara’s hand rests against my thigh.
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Amalia says.
“Clearly I am.” I trap Khara’s hand with my free one, determined to keep it where it is. My trousers already feel tight enough. If she so much as moves an inch, my stirring arousal is not only going to be uncomfortable, it’s also going to be obvious.
Amalia’s beautiful almond eyes narrow. “Are you sure?” She turns to Khara. “Because with Adam you’re only his girlfriend if you last long enough for it to make the papers. If the press don’t know about it, you’re nothing more than a shag.”
My temper is starting to fray at the edges, a rare occurrence. As if sensing my dangerous mood, Khara gives me a sharp pinch between the ribs, out of Amalia’s line of sight, but I can’t resist one more dig. “You and I both know the papers don’t know everything. I’m pretty sure they haven’t heard about your rather interesting little fetish.”
Amalia pales. With a toss of dark, silky hair, she rises and walks away, back ramrod-straight. Okay, maybe that last comment was uncalled for.
“For a moment there I thought I was protecting you from an obvious gold-digger, but now I’m not so sure who needed protecting. Geez, but you’re mean.” Khara shifts away from me.
I rub my head, still not letting go of her hand which is trapped beneath my other. “I’ve had about as much as I can take of women kissing up to me because of my family name or my family’s fortune.”
She rolls her eyes. “Poor little rich boy,” she mocks, pulling her hand out of my grip. “If you didn’t exploit your name and fortune to get into women’s pants in the first place, maybe you’d have better luck.”
That’s the kind of thing my sister would say.
I blow out a breath. “You are nothing if not honest.”
“And you’re not.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain.
“What is this inheritance that everyone wants to get their hands on?”
I don’t want to tell her. Is it because I’m afraid she’s going to turn out to be like every other woman and suddenly find me more desirable? Or because she won’t?
I blow out a long breath. “The inheritance my cousin left me is the opportunity to replace him as Crown Prince of Erdély.”
I search her face for the sudden piquing of interest I’ve seen in the faces of so many other women, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she looks at me steadily, the same way she did when I flashed my credit card, and something pulls tight in my chest. It’s that feeling that twisted my gut for the first time in Vegas a year ago: the fear that everything I have, everything I am, means nothing.
“I haven’t heard of Erdély,” she says, tone thoughtful.
“You, and at least nine-tenths of the planet. It’s a tiny micro-state on the border between Austria and Hungary.”
“Like Westerwald?”
“Even smaller. It’s about a third of the size, and only has a population of about a hundred thousand people.”
“What’s it like?”
I can rattle off the country’s GDP, the key dates in Erdélian history and name every ruler since the sixteen-hundreds (backwards), but that is the one question I can’t answer. I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t been there in at least twenty years.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “And that’s the big decision you face, the one you’re trying to avoid – whether or not to take your cousin’s place?”
I nod, and she purses her lips in a way that reminds me of Uncle Lajos. “But you don’t want to, because it’s too much responsibility and will put a dent in your self-indulgent lifestyle?”
It’s not really a question, more of an answer. How the hell does she know that?
“What’s the alternative, if you say no?” she asks.
“I go back to my job schmoozing clients for my father’s firm.”
“I meant the alternative for Erdély.” Jemmy could take lessons from Khara in how to put me in my place.
“Then my cousin Mátyás will inherit when my uncle dies.”
She holds me pinned with that steady gaze. “Is this the same Mátyás you said would be a perfect fit for Baroness Elena?”
I nod again.
“And you think the people of Erdély deserve that?” There’s a glimmer of humour in her eyes now, as if she’s enjoying baiting me, enjoying my discomfort.
“I think Erdély deserves better than me.” That feeling is back, making it hard for me to breathe. I stretch and rise. “I’m done with this event. Want to blow this joint?”
“I need to go back out there and pretend to be the perfect bridesmaid.”
“You already passed with flying colours. Let’s go play tourist some more.”
***
The family name opens a lot of doors. At Chantilly’s chateau, it opens very literal doors. The curator falls over herself to give us a private tour, even escorting us through rooms that aren’t usually open to the general public. The elegantly furnished state apartments are even more lavish than those in the palace in Neustadt, with walls decorated in ornate gold leaf, and the collection of artworks is second only to the Louvre. As our guide leads us from one gallery to the next, Khara is speechless again. There are masterpieces by Raphael, Poussin, van Dyck and Giotto, an endless list of the masters which means little to me, but clearly means a great deal to her.
“Does your family have a palace like this?” she whispers as we stroll down the Psyche gallery, a long hall displaying the forty-four stained glass windows depicting the life of the goddess Psyche.
I shrug. “There’s a recent nineteenth century castle, and an older seventeenth century hunting lodge, but I’m going to guess neither is as elaborate as this one.” Nick used to call the castle ‘the farm’ and did everything in his power to avoid spending time there.
Khara laughs. “I think your idea of ‘recent’ is a little different to mine.”
In the chateau’s Reading Room, which is not nearly as impressive (or as comfortable) as the palace library in Neustadt, the curator shows us the collection of ancient illuminated manuscripts. “This belonged to one of your ancestors,” she says, donning gloves and opening a glass cabinet to retrieve a Book of Hours, a religious devotional richly decorated with gold leaf.
“Wow,” Khara breathes. Then she glances up at me. “I guess that makes your ancestors kind of important?”
I shrug. “I remember one of my ancestors married into the Bourbon-Condé family, though that had to be at least four centuries back.”
I study the yellowed pages, the bright ink and burnished gold of the manuscript. I have no idea which of my many, many forebears this belonged to, but I’m struck suddenly by the sense of that life, lived centuries ago, still remembered in the pages of this book, this tangible reminder of a life once lived. What legacy will live on when I’m gone? Will I be like Nick, nothing more than an embarrassing memory best forgotten?
“All the royal families intermarried, so of course you’re related to a lot of important European historical figures,” the curator says. She probably thinks she’s being helpful, but please, please don’t let ancient history do what a black card and a title couldn’t. Please don’t let it turn Khara’s head. It’s suddenly very important that she sees me, not my history.
Khara gazes at me thoughtfully. “Now I know why you are the way you are. From what I recall of European history, most of those old time royals were complete douches. It must be in the genes.”
The curator gasps, a horrified look on her face, but I laugh, relieved. “Spoken like a true American,” I say, taking her hand. “Shall we go and look at the gardens?”
The chateau is surrounded by a French-style water garden, immense geometric mirrors of water reflecting the sky and formal fountains. Beyond that lies a parkland, and the less formal Anglo-Chinese garden with its dense vegetation and quaint cottages, and the romantic English Garden with its temple of Venus and Island of Love, where an afternoon wedding is in progress. We hover, watching from a distance as the bride and groom exchange vows beneath a bower of roses.
“A dream wedding,” I comment.
Khara shakes her head. “Not mine. I want a wedding just like … like one I attended in Vegas last year. Simple, no fuss, just a handful of close friends sharing a magical moment.”
“How can you sigh over art, but not have a romantic bone in your body?”
“It’s not romantic to spend your life savings on a dress you’re only going to wear once, and on feeding a whole lot of people you’re not even that close to. There are much better things to spend money on, like college tuition, or a mortgage on a new home, or the chance to travel like …”
She bites her lip, and I wonder what else she was going to say.
“What if money wasn’t an obstacle? Would you want the big white wedding then?” I press.
She turns on me. “What does it matter? I’m not going to marry someone rich, so there’s no point even going there. All I want is someone kind and good and dependable.”
“Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?”
“In my experience, they usually are.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “This is more than just feeling left out at school, isn’t it? What happened to make you so cynical?”
She narrows her eyes at me, as if I should already know the answer. Then she blows out a breath and shakes her head. “The first time I met a guy like you, I was in high school. You know the type: super rich family, the popular kid in school, good at sports, a little bit dangerous.”
She’s right. That does sound like me.
“I was so thrilled when he noticed me. Me, the girl that no one ever saw.” She blushes and looks away. “I was thrilled right up until he told the entire school he did it as a bet to get into my pants.”
Did he win the bet? I’m too afraid of what the answer might be to ask.
“The worst of it was that I really should have known better. I’ve had a lifetime of watching my mother date men like that. You want to know what I learned from her?”
I shake my head.
“Men like that don’t marry women like us. They’ll happily screw us, but when they marry they choose women from their own social circle, and they break our hearts.”
“Max is marrying Phoenix.”
She laughs softly. “Max is different. Besides, Phoenix blends into his world. She knows the right things to say, how to act in social situations. She wasn’t always a cocktail waitress, and she doesn’t live in a trailer.”
I want to deny it, to tell her that the men I know aren’t all like that. That I’m not like that. But I can’t. I’ve screwed my way through enough waitresses, receptionists, and hotel front desk staff whose names I haven’t even bothered to ask, to recognise that I’m one of those men. She has every right to call me a douche.
The vows are done, and the wedding guests stand and clap as the bride and groom walk down the petal-strewn aisle hand in hand.
As the guests move to the reception marquee set up on the lawn, Khara smiles up at me cheekily. “I told you my deep, dark secret. Now you tell me yours.”
“I don’t have any secrets,” I lie.
“Ha! Tell me why you really offered to tutor me.”
Ouch. Do I have to? But fair is fair … “My friend Charlie died a few years ago. His parents donated a new sports centre to our old prep school as a memorial, and this week was the dedication. I wanted an excuse to get out of it.”
She eyes me, and it’s that moment in the grotto all over again. She wants me, but she doesn’t like me. I can imagine what she sees: a self-centred man who’d do anything to avoid taking anything seriously. I can’t blame her.
And yet I want to prove her wrong. Madly, desperately, I want more than just to get Khara into my bed. Don’t get me wrong; I still want to sleep with her. I want to see her hair spread out across my pillows, and I want to see her eyes go wild and dark, and I want to lick Chantilly cream off her skin.
But there’s something else I want even more: I want to prove to her that I’m a better person than she thinks. Better than that jock in high school who humiliated her.
She turns away and starts walking back in the direction of the chateau. I have to hurry to catch her up.
“What do I have to do to convince you that I’m not like every other rich man you’ve ever met?”
She pauses to look at me. “Care about something or someone other than yourself. Do something real and useful with your life. Something that involves rolling up your sleeves, not the kind of job that involves taking a pay check for doing nothing.”
She mistakes my silence for disagreement, sighs and shakes her head. “I thought so. You know, most of the population goes to work every day. It’s really not that hard.”
It’s not holding down a job that’s hard.
That old, dark fear raises its ugly head again, and this time I know what it is. It’s the fear that if I care about anything or anyone, if I invest too much of myself in anything, then I will be vulnerable again. It is easier to be shallow, to hide behind the external trappings, behind the gloss of my family’s wealth and reputation, than to let anyone or anything in. That is why I can’t accept Uncle Lajos’ offer. Because then I will have to care about an entire nation.
I cared about Charlie. I cared about Nick. I can’t, I won’t, let myself care about anything that way again.