the steps. ‘We’re about to find out,’ he said.
It wasn’t your usual homecoming, that was for sure. No family members hurried out to greet them with a hug. Instead, they passed through serried ranks of servants, all dressed in knee breeches and coats with vast quantities of gold braid. Caro was all for vintage clothes, but that was ridiculous.
Philippe greeted all of them easily, not at all daunted by the formality. Caro’s French wasn’t up to much, but she caught her name and it was obvious that he was introducing her, so she smiled brightly and tried to look as if she might conceivably be the kind of girl Philippe would fall madly in love with.
She trotted along behind Philippe as they were led ceremonially to his apartments, trying hard not to be intimidated by the palace. It was decorated with the extravagant splendour which, like the footmen’s livery, had been all the rage in the eighteenth century. There were sweeping staircases, vast glittering chandeliers, marble floors, massive oil paintings and lot of gilded and uncomfortable-looking Baroque furniture.
There were an awful lot of long corridors, too. ‘It’s like being in an airport,’ Caro whispered to Philippe, ‘and having to walk miles to the gate. You should think about having one of those moving walkways put in.’
Of course, airports didn’t have footmen placed outside every room, presumably so that no member of the royal family would have to go to the effort of opening a door for themselves. As Philippe appeared, they would get to their feet and stand to attention, only to sink back onto their chairs when he had passed with a nod of acknowledgement. It was like a very slow Mexican wave.
Philippe’s apartments were on the second floor of one of the palace wings. They were airy, gracious rooms, most with views out over the lake to the mountains beyond, but impersonally decorated.
‘Home, sweet temporary home,’ said Philippe, looking around him without enthusiasm.
‘It’s not exactly cosy, is it?’ Caro was wandering around the room, touching things and feeling ridiculously self-conscious. The rooms were huge, but knowing that there were all those servants outside the door made it feel as if she and Philippe had been shut away together.
Just you and me.
They certainly weren’t going to be cramped. There was a large sitting room, a dining room with a beautifully equipped but untouched kitchen behind a breakfast bar, a study and three bedrooms, each with a luxurious en suite bathroom.
‘And this is our love nest,’ said Philippe and opened the last door with a mock flourish.
‘Oh.’ Caro made an effort of unconcern but all she could see was the huge bed. The bed where she was going to sleep with Philippe tonight. The fluttering started again in the pit of her stomach.
‘Plenty of pillows, as you can see.’ Philippe’s voice was Martini dry. ‘And the bed is wide enough to put one down the middle if you’re feeling twitchy.’
She was, but no power on earth would have made her admit it.
I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself.
‘You said yourself that won’t be necessary,’ she managed. ‘I’m sure you have more experience than I do of these situations.’
‘I don’t know about that. The pillow question hasn’t come up very often before, I must admit.’
No, because the women Philippe took to bed would be sexy, sophisticated and size six at the most. They wouldn’t have to worry about holding in their tummies. Their legs would always be waxed, their nail polish unchipped, their skin perfect. Caro was prepared to bet they never, ever dribbled into their pillows or woke up with mascara rings under their eyes.
‘But then, you don’t usually sleep with someone like me, do you?’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’
It was odd seeing her here, in her father’s old jacket. She was completely out of place in all the baroque splendour, but her eyes were a deep blue and the sun through the window cast a halo of gold around the cloud of hair that tumbled to her shoulders. The formal apartments were warmer and more welcoming with Caro in them.
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.
From: [email protected]
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
