Cinderella: Hired by the Prince

CHAPTER SIX

RAMÓN’S introduction to royal life was overwhelming. He walked into chaos. He walked into a life he knew nothing about. There were problems everywhere, but he’d been back in Cepheus for less than a day before the plight of Philippe caught him and held.

On his first meeting, the lawyer’s introduction to the little boy was brief. ‘This is Philippe.’

Philippe. His cousin’s son. The little boy who should be Crown Prince, but for the trifling matter of a lack of wedding vows. Philippe, who’d had the royal surname until a month ago and was now not entitled to use it.

The little boy looked like the child Ramón remembered being. Philippe’s pale face and huge eyes hinted that he was suffering as Ramón had suffered when his own father died, and as he met him for the first time he felt his gut wrench with remembered pain.

He’d come to see for himself what he’d been told-that the little boy was in the best care possible. Señor Rodriguez performed the introductions. Consuela and Ernesto were Philippe’s foster parents, farmers who lived fifteen minutes’ drive from the palace. The three were clearly nervous of what this meeting meant, but Philippe had been well trained.

‘I am pleased to meet you,’ the little boy said in a stilted little voice that spoke of rote learning and little else. He held out a thin little arm so his hand could be shaken, and Ramón felt him flinch as he took it in his.

Philippe’s foster mother, a buxom farmer’s wife exuding good-hearted friendliness, didn’t seem intimidated by Ramón’s title, or maybe she was, but her concern for Philippe came first. ‘We’ve been hearing good things about you,’ she told Ramón, scooping her charge into her arms so he could be on eye level with Ramón, ending the formality with this decisive gesture. ‘This dumpling’s been fearful of meeting you,’ she told him. ‘But Ernesto and I are telling him he should think of you as his big cousin. A friend. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?’

She met Ramón’s gaze almost defiantly, and Ramón could see immediately why Sofía had chosen Consuela as Philippe’s foster mother. The image of a mother hen, prepared to battle any odds for her chick, was unmistakable. ‘Philippe’s homesick for the palace,’ she said now, almost aggressively. ‘And he misses his cat.’

‘You have a cat?’ Ramón asked.

‘Yes,’ Philippe whispered.

‘There are many cats at the palace,’ Señor Rodriguez said repressively from beside them, and Ramón sighed. What was it with adults? Hang on, he was an adult. Surely he could do something about this.

He must.

But he wasn’t taking him back to the palace.

Memories were flooding back as he watched Philippe, memories of himself as a child. He vaguely remembered someone explaining that his grandmother wanted to return to the palace and his father would organize it-or maybe that explanation had come later. What he did remember was his father leading him into the vast grand entrance of the palace, Ramón clutching his father’s hand as the splendour threatened to overwhelm him. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s time you met your grandfather and your uncle,’ his father had told him.

His mother had said later that the decision to take him had been made, ‘Because surely the Prince can’t refuse his grandchild, a little boy who looks just like him.’ But his mother had been wrong.

Not only had he been refused, some time in the night while Ramón lay in scared solitude, in a room far too grand for a child, somehow, some time, his father had died. He remembered not sleeping all night, and the next morning he remembered his grandfather, his icy voice laced with indifference to both his son’s death and his grandson’s solitary grief, snarling at the servants. ‘Pack him up and get him out of here,’ he’d ordered.

Pack him up and get him out of here… It was a dreadful decree, but how much worse would it have been if the Crown Prince had ordered him to stay? As he was being ordered to stay now.

Not Philippe, though. Philippe was free, if he could just be made happy with that freedom.

‘Tell me about your cat,’ he asked, trying a smile, and Philippe swallowed and swallowed again and made a manful effort to respond.

‘He’s little,’ he whispered. ‘The other cats fight him and he’s not very strong. Something bit his ear. Papà doesn’t permit me to take him inside, so he lives in the stables, but he comes when I call him. He’s orange with a white nose.’

‘Are there many orange cats with white noses at the palace?’ Ramón asked, and for some reason the image of Jenny was with him strongly, urging him on. The little boy shook his head.

‘Bebe’s the only one. He’s my friend.’ He tilted his chin, obviously searching for courage for a confession. ‘Sometimes I take a little fish from the kitchen when no one’s looking. Bebe likes fish.’

‘So he shouldn’t be hard to find.’ Ramón glanced at Consuela and Ernesto, questioningly. This place was a farm. Surely one cat…

‘We like cats,’ Consuela said, guessing where he was going. ‘But Señor Rodriguez tells us the palace cats are wild. They’re used to keep the vermin down and he says no one can catch one, much less tame one.’

‘I’m sure we could tame him.’ Ernesto, a wiry, weathered farmer, spoke almost as defiantly as his wife. ‘If you, sir, or your staff, could try to catch him for us…’

‘I’ll try,’ Ramón said. ‘He’s called Bebe, you say? My aunt has her cat at the palace now. She understands them. Let’s see what we can do.’

Jenny would approve, he thought, as he returned to the palace, but he pushed the idea away. This was his challenge, as was every challenge in this place. It was nothing to do with Jenny.

As soon as he returned to the palace he raided the kitchens. Then he set off to the stables with a platter of smoked salmon. He set down the saucer and waited for a little ginger cat with a torn ear to appear. It took a whole three minutes.

Bebe wasn’t wild at all. He stroked his ears and Bebe purred. He then shed ginger fur everywhere while he wrapped himself around Ramón’s legs and the chair legs in the palace entrance and the legs of the footman on duty. Jenny would laugh, Ramón thought, but he shoved that thought away as well. Just do what comes next. Do not think of Jenny.

Bebe objected-loudly-to the ride in a crate on the passenger seat of Ramón’s Boxster, but he settled into life with Philippe-‘as if Philippe’s been sneaking him into his bed for the last couple of years,’ Consuela told him, and maybe he had.

After that, Philippe regained a little colour, but he still looked haunted. He missed the palace, he confided, as Ramón tried to draw him out. In a world of adults who hadn’t cared, the palace itself had become his stability.

Pack him up and get him out of here…

It made sense, Ramón thought. If the servants’ reaction to Philippe was anything to go by, he’d be treated like illegitimate dirt in the palace. And then there was his main worry, or maybe it wasn’t so much a worry but a cold, hard certainty.

There was so much to be done in this country that his role as Crown Prince overwhelmed him. He had to take it on; he had no choice, but in order to do it he must be clear-headed, disciplined, focused.

There was no link between love and duty in this job. He’d seen that spelled out with bleak cruelty. His grandmother had entered the palace through love, and had left it with her dreams and her family destroyed. His father had tried again to enter the palace, for the love of his mother, and he’d lost his life because of it. There were threats around him now, veiled threats, and who knew what else besides?

And the knowledge settled on his heart like grey fog. To stay focused on what he must do, he could put no other person at risk. Sofìa was staying until after the coronation. After that she’d leave and no one would be at risk but him. He’d have no distractions and without them maybe, just maybe, he could bring this country back to the prosperity it deserved.

But Philippe… And Jenny?

They’d get over it, he told himself roughly. Or Philippe would get over his grief and move on. Jenny must never be allowed to know that grief.

And once again he told himself harshly, this was nothing to do with Jenny. There’d never been a suggestion that they take things further. Nor could there be. This was his life and his life only, even if it was stifling.

This place was stifling. Nothing seemed to have changed since his grandfather’s reign, or maybe since long before.

Lack of change didn’t mean the palace had been allowed to fall into disrepair, though. Even though his grandfather and uncle had overspent their personal fortunes, the Crown itself was still wealthy, so pomp and splendour had been maintained. Furnishings were still opulent, rich paintings still covered the walls, the woodwork gleamed and the paintwork shone. The staff looked magnificent, even if their uniforms had been designed in the nineteenth century.

But the magnificence couldn’t disguise the fact that every one of the people working in this palace went about their duties with impassive faces. Any attempt by Ramón to penetrate their rigid facades was met with stony silence and, as the weeks turned into a month and then two, he couldn’t make inroads into that rigidity.

The servants-and the country-seemed to accept him with passive indifference. He might be better than what had gone before, the newspapers declared, but he was still royal. Soon, the press implied, he’d become just like the others.

When he officially took his place as Crown Prince, he could make things better for the people of this county. He knew that, so he’d bear the opulence of the palace, the lack of freedom. He’d bear the formality and the media attention. He’d cope also with the blustering threats of a still furious Carlos; along with the insidious sense that threats like this had killed his father. He’d face them down.

Alone.

Once Philippe had recovered from his first grief, surely he’d be happy on the farm with Consuela and Ernesto.

And also… Jenny would be happy as a muffin-maker?

Why did he even think of her? Why had he ever insisted that she come here? It would have been easier for both of them if he’d simply let her go.

For she was Jenny, he reminded himself harshly, a dozen times a day. She was not Gianetta. She was free to go wherever she willed. She was Jenny, with the world at her feet.

Yet he watched the Marquita’s progress with an anxiety that bordered on obsession, and he knew that when Jenny arrived he would see her one last time. He must.

Was that wise?

He knew it wasn’t. There was no place for Jenny here, as there was no place for Philippe.

He’d been alone for much of his adult life. He could go on being alone.

But he’d see Jenny once again first. Sensible or not.

Please…

Eleven weeks and two days after setting sail from Auckland, the Marquita sailed into Cepheus harbour and found a party. As they approached land, every boat they passed, from tiny pleasure craft to workmanlike fishing vessels, was adorned in red, gold and deep, deep blue. The flag of Cepheus hung from every mast. The harbour was ringed with flags. There were people crowded onto the docks, spilling out of harbourside restaurants. Every restaurant looked crammed to bursting. It looked like Sydney Harbour on a sunny Sunday, multiplied by about a hundred, Jenny thought, dazed, as she made the lines ready to dock.

‘You reckon they’re here to welcome us?’ Gordon called to her, and she smiled.

She’d become very fond of Gordon. When she’d first met him, the morning after Ramón had left, she’d been ready to walk away. Only his shy smile, his assumption that she was coming with him and his pleasure that she was, had kept her on board. He reminded her of her father. Which helped.

She’d been sailing with him now for almost three months. He’d kept his own counsel and she’d kept hers, and it had taken almost all those months for her emotions to settle.

Now…approaching the dock she was so tense she could hardly speak. Normally she welcomed Gordon’s reserve but his silence was only adding to her tension.

There was no need for her to be tense, she told herself. She’d had a couple of surreal weeks with royalty. In true princely fashion he’d rescued her from a life of making muffins, and now she could get on with her life.

With this experience of sailing round the Horn behind her, and with Gordon’s references, maybe she could get another job on board a boat. She could keep right on sailing. While Ramón…

See, that was what she couldn’t let herself think. The future and Ramón.

It had been a two-week affair. Nothing more.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Gordon was behind the wheel, calling to people on the boat passing them. But they didn’t understand English, or Gordon’s broad mixed accent.

‘Why the flags and decorations?’ she called in Spanish and was rewarded by comprehension.

‘Are you from another planet?’ they called, incredulous. ‘Everyone knows what’s happening today.’

Their language was the mix of Spanish and French Ramón had used with the lawyer. She felt almost at home.

No. This was Ramón’s home. Not hers.

‘We’re from Australia,’ she called. ‘We know nothing.’

‘Well, welcome.’ The people raised glasses in salutation. ‘You’re here just in time.’

‘For what?’

‘For the coronation,’ they called. ‘It’s a public holiday. Crown Prince Ramón Cavellero of Cepheus accepts his Crown today.’

Right. She stood in the bow and let her hands automatically organize lines. Or not. She didn’t know what her hands were doing.

First thought? Stupidly, it was that Ramón wouldn’t be meeting her.

Had she ever believed he would? Ramón was a Prince of the Blood. He’d have moved on.

‘Is that our berth?’ Gordon called, and she caught herself, glanced at the sheet the harbour master had faxed through and then looked ahead to where their designated berth should be.

And drew in her breath.

Ramón wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. But there was a welcoming committee. There were four officials, three men and a woman, all in some sort of official uniform. The colours of their uniform matched the colours of the flags.

This yacht belonged to royalty, and representatives of royalty were there to meet them.

‘Reckon any of them can catch a line?’ Gordon called and she tried to smile.

‘We’re about to find out.’

Not only could they catch a line, they were efficient, courteous and they took smoothly over from the time the Marquita touched the dock.

‘Welcome,’ the senior official said gravely, in English. ‘You are exactly on time.’

‘You’ve been waiting for us?’

‘His Highness has had you tracked from the moment you left Auckland. He’s delighted you could be here today. He asks that you attend the ceremony this afternoon, and the official ball this evening.’

Jenny swung around to stare at Gordon-who was staring back at her. They matched. They both had their mouths wide open.

‘Reckon we won’t fit in,’ Gordon drawled at last, sounding flabbergasted. ‘Reckon there won’t be a lot of folk wearing salt-crusted oilskins on your guest list.’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ the official said smoothly. ‘Jorge here will complete the care of the Marquita, while Dalila and Rudi are instructed to care for you. If you agree, we’ll escort you to the palace, you’ll be fitted with clothing suitable for the occasion and you’ll be His Highness’s honoured guests at the ceremonies this afternoon and this evening.’

Jenny gasped. Her head was starting to explode. To see Ramón as a prince…

‘We can’t,’ Gordon muttered.

But Jenny looked at the elderly seaman and saw her mixture of emotions reflected on his face. They’d been at sea for three months now, and she knew enough of Gordon to realize he stacked up life’s events and used them to fill the long stretches at sea that he lived for.

He was staring at the officials with a mixture of awe and dread. And desire.

If she didn’t go, Gordon wouldn’t go.

And, a little voice inside her breathed, she’d get to see Ramón one last time.

Once upon a time Ramón had been her skipper. Once upon a time he’d been her lover. He’d moved on now. He was a Crown Prince.

She’d see him today and then she’d leave.

For the Marquita to berth on the same day as his coronation was a coincidence he couldn’t ignore, making his resolution waver.

He’d made the decision to send his apologies when the boat berthed, for Jenny to be treated with all honour, paid handsomely and then escorted to the airport and given a first-class ticket back to Australia. That was the sensible decision. He couldn’t allow himself to be diverted from his chosen path. But when he’d learned the Marquita’s date of arrival was today he’d given orders before he thought it through. Sensible or not, he would see Jenny this one last time.

Maybe he should see it as an omen, he decided as he dressed. Maybe he was meant to have her nearby, giving him strength to take this final step.

Servants were fussing over his uniform, making sure he looked every inch the Ruler of Cepheus, and outside there was sufficient security to defend him against a small army. Carlos’s blustering threats of support from the military seemed to have no foundation. On his own he had nothing to fear, and on his own he must rule.

The last three months had cemented his determination to change this country. If he must accept the Crown then he’d do it as it was meant to be done. He could change this country for the better. He could make life easier for the population. The Crown, this ultimate position of authority, had been abused for generations. If anyone was to change it, it must be him.

Duty and desire had no place together. He knew that, and the last months’ assessment of the state of the country told him that his duty was here. He had to stay focused. He didn’t need Jenny.

But, need her or not, he wanted Jenny at the ceremony. To have her come all this way and not see her-on this of all days-that was more unthinkable than anything.

He would dance with her this night, he thought. Just this once, he’d touch her and then he’d move forward. Alone.

The doors were swinging open. The Master of State was waiting. Cepheus was waiting.

He’d set steps in place to bring this country into the twenty-first century, he thought with grim satisfaction. His coronation would cement those steps. Fulfilling the plans he’d set in place over the last few weeks would mean this country would thrive.

But maybe the population would never forget the family he came from, he thought as he was led in stately grandeur to the royal carriage. There were no cheers, no personal applause. Today the country was celebrating a public holiday and a continuum of history, but the populace wasn’t impressed by what he personally represented. His grandfather’s reputation came before him, smirching everything. Royalty was something to be endured.

The country had celebrated the birth of a new Crown Prince five years ago. That deception still rankled, souring all.

Philippe should be here, he thought. The little boy should play some part in this ceremony.

But, out at the farm, Philippe was finally starting to relax with him, learning again to be a little boy. He still missed the palace, but to bring him back seemed just as impossible as it had been three months ago.

Philippe was now an outsider. As he was himself, he thought grimly, glancing down at his uniform that made him seem almost ludicrously regal. And the threats were there, real or not.

He could protect Philippe. He would protect Philippe, but from a distance. Jenny was here for this day only. Sofía would be gone. He could rule as he needed to rule.

‘It’s time, Your Highness,’ the Head of State said in stentorian tones, and Ramón knew that it was.

It was time to accept that he was a Prince of the Blood, with all the responsibility-and loss-that the title implied.

The great chorus of trumpets sounded, heralding the beginning of ceremonies and Jenny was sitting in a pew in the vast cathedral of Cepheus feeling bewildered. Feeling transformed. Feeling like Cinderella must have felt after the fairy godmother waved her wand.

For she wasn’t at the back with the hired help. She and Gordon were being treated like royalty themselves.

The palace itself had been enough to take her breath away, all spirals and turrets and battlements, a medieval fantasy clinging to white stone cliffs above a sea so blue it seemed to almost merge with the sky.

The apartment she’d been taken to within the palace had taken even more of her breath away. It was as big as a small house, and Gordon had been shown into a similar one on the other side of the corridor. Corridor? It was more like a great hall. You could play a football match in the vast areas-decorated in gold, all carvings, columns and ancestral paintings-that joined the rooms. Dalila had ushered her in, put her holdall on a side table and instructed a maid to unpack.

‘I’m not staying here,’ Jenny had gasped.

‘For tonight at least,’ Dalila had said, formally polite in stilted English. ‘The ball will be late. The Prince requires you to stay.’

How to fight a decree like that? How indeed to fight, when clothes were being produced that made her gasp all over again.

‘I can’t wear these.’

‘You can,’ the woman decreed. ‘If you’ll just stay still. Dolores is a dressmaker. It will take her only moments to adjust these for size.’

And Jenny had simply been too overwhelmed to refuse. So here she was, in a pew ten seats from the front, right on the aisle, dressed in a crimson silk ball-gown that looked as if it had been made for her. It was cut low across her breasts, with tiny capped sleeves, the bodice clinging like a second skin, curving to her hips and then flaring out to an almost full circle skirt. The fabric was so beautiful it made her feel as if she was floating.

There was a pendant round her neck that she hoped was paste but she suspected was a diamond so big she couldn’t comprehend it. Her hair was pinned up in a deceptively simple knot and her make-up had been applied with a skill so great that when she looked in the mirror she saw someone she didn’t recognize.

She felt like…Gianetta. For the first time in her life, her father’s name seemed right for her.

‘I’m just glad they can’t see me back at the Sailor’s Arms in Auckland,’ Gordon muttered, and she glanced at the weathered seaman who looked as classy as she did, in a deep black suit that fitted him like a glove. He, too, had been transformed, like it or not. She almost chuckled, but then the music rose to a crescendo and she stopped thinking about chuckling. She stopped thinking about anything at all-anything but Ramón.

Crown Prince Ramón Cavellero of Cepheus.

For so he was.

The great doors of the cathedral had swung open. The Archbishop of Cepheus led the way in stately procession down the aisle, and Ramón trod behind, intent, his face set in lines that said this was an occasion of such great moment that lives would change because of it.

He truly was a prince, she thought, dazed beyond belief. If she’d walked past him in the street-no, if she’d seen his picture on the cover of a magazine, for this wasn’t a man one passed in the street, she would never have recognized him. His uniform was black as night, skilfully cut to mould to his tall, lean frame. The leggings, the boots, the slashes of gold, the tassels, the fierce sword at his side, they only accentuated his aura of power and strength and purpose.

Or then again…maybe she would have recognized him. His eyes seemed to have lost their colour-they were dark as night. His mouth was set and grim, and it was the expression she’d seen when he’d known she was leaving.

He looked like…an eagle, she thought, a fierce bird of prey, ready to take on the world. But he was still Ramón.

He was so near her now. If she put out her hand…

He was passing her row. He was right here. And as he passed… His gaze shifted just a little from looking steadily ahead. Somehow it met hers and held, for a nano-second, for a fraction that might well be imagined. And then he was gone, swept past in the procession and the world crowded back in.

He hadn’t smiled, but had his grimness lifted, just a little?

‘He was looking for you,’ Gordon muttered, awed. ‘The guy who helped me dress said he told the aides where we were to sit. It’s like we’re important. Are you important to him then, lass?’

‘Not in a million years,’ she breathed.

She’d come.

It was the only thing holding him steady.

Gianetta. Jenny.

Her name was in his mind, like a mantra, said over and over.

‘By the power vested in me…’

He was kneeling before the archbishop and the crown was being placed on his head. The weight was enormous.

She was here.

He could take this nowhere. He knew that. But still, for now, she was here on this day when he needed her most.

She was here, and his crown was the lighter for it.

The night seemed to be organized for her. As the throng emerged from the great cathedral, an aide appeared and took her arm.

‘You’re to come this way, miss. And you, too, sir,’ he said to Gordon. ‘You’re official guests at the Coronation Dinner.’

‘I reckon I’ll slope back down to the boat,’ Gordon muttered, shrinking, but Jenny clutched him as if she were drowning.

‘We went round the Horn together,’ she muttered. ‘We face risk together.’

‘This is worse than the Horn.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Jenny said, and the aide was ushering them forward and it was too late to escape.

They sat, midway down a vast banquet table, where it seemed half the world’s dignitaries were assembled. Gordon, a seaman capable of facing down the world’s worst storms, was practically shrinking under the table. Jenny was a bit braver, but not much. She was recognizing faces and names and her eyes grew rounder and rounder as she realized just who was here. There were speeches-of course-and she translated for Gordon and was glad of the task. It took her mind off what was happening.

It never took her mind off Ramón.

He was seated at the great formal table at the head of the room, gravely surveying all. He looked born to the role, she thought. He listened with gravitas and with courtesy. He paid attention to the two women on either side of him-grand dames, both of them, queens of their own countries.

‘I have friends back in Australia who are never going to believe what I’ve done tonight,’ she whispered to Gordon and her skipper nodded agreement.

Then once more the aide was beside them, bending to whisper to Jenny.

‘Ma’am, I’ve been instructed to ask if you can waltz.’

‘If I can…?’

‘His Royal Highness wishes to dance with you. He doesn’t wish to embarrass you, however, so if there’s a problem…’

No. She wanted to scream, no.

But she glanced up at the head table and Ramón was watching her. Those eagle eyes were steady. ‘I dare you,’ his gaze was saying, and more.

‘I can waltz,’ she heard herself say, her eyes not leaving Ramón’s.

‘Excellent,’ the aide said. ‘I’ll come to fetch you when we’re ready.’

‘You do that,’ she said faintly.

What have I done?

The entrance to the grand ballroom was made in state. Ramón led the procession, and it was done in order of rank, which meant Jenny came in somewhere near the rear. Even that was intimidating-all the guests who hadn’t been at the dinner were assembled in line to usher the dining party in.

If the ground opened up and swallowed her she’d be truly grateful. Too many people were looking at her.

Why had she agreed to dance?

Ramón was so far ahead she couldn’t see him. Ramón. Prince Ramón.

She wasn’t into fairy tales. Bring on midnight.

And Gordon had deserted her. As she took the aide’s arm, as she joined the procession, he suddenly wasn’t there. She looked wildly around and he was smiling apologetically but backing firmly away. But she was being ushered forward and there was no way she could run without causing a spectacle.

Cinderella ran, she thought wildly. At midnight.

But midnight was still a long time away.

Courage. If Cinders could face them all down, so could she. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to be led forward. The aide was ushering her into the ballroom, then into an alcove near the entrance. Before them, Ramón was making a grand sweep of the room, greeting everyone. The heads of the royal houses of Europe were his entourage, nodding, smiling, doing what royalty did best.

And suddenly she realized what was happening. Why she’d been directed to stand here. She was close to the door, where Ramón must end his circuit.

She felt frozen to the spot.

Ramón. Prince Ramón.

Ramón.

The wait was interminable. She tried to focus on anything but what was happening. A spot on the wax of the polished floor. The hem of her gown. Anything.

But finally, inevitably, the aide was beside her, ushering her forward and Ramón was right in front of her. Every eye in the room was on him. Every eye in the room was on her.

She was Jenny. She made muffins. She wanted to have hysterics, or faint.

Ramón was before her, his eyes grave and questioning.

‘Gianetta,’ he said softly, and every ear in the room was straining to hear. ‘You’ve arrived for my coronation, and I thank you. You’ve brought my boat home and thus you’ve linked my old life with my new. Can I therefore ask for the honour of this dance?’

There was an audible gasp throughout the room. It wasn’t said out loud but she could hear the thought regardless. Who?

But Ramón was holding out his hand, waiting for her to put hers in his. Smiling. It was the smile she loved with all her heart.

Was this how Cinders felt?

And then Cinders was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. She put her hand in his, she tried hard to smile back and she allowed the Crown Prince of Cepheus to lead her onto the ballroom floor.

Where had she learned to dance?

Ramón had been coached almost before he could walk. His grandmother had thought dancing at least as important as any other form of movement. He could thus waltz without thinking. He’d expected to slow his steps to Jenny’s, to take care she wasn’t embarrassed, but he’d been on the dance floor less than ten seconds before he realized such precautions weren’t necessary. He took her into his arms in the waltz hold, and she melted into him as if she belonged.

The music swelled in an age-old, well-loved waltz and she was one with the music, one with him.

He’d almost forgotten how wonderful she felt.

He had to be formal, he told himself harshly. He needed to hold her at arm’s length-which was difficult when he was not holding her at arm’s length at all. He needed to be courteously friendly and he needed to thank her and say goodbye.

Only not yet. Not goodbye yet.

‘Where did you learn to dance?’ he managed, and it was a dumb thing to say to a woman after a three-month separation, but the tension eased a little and she almost smiled.

‘Dancing’s not reserved for royalty. My Papà was the best.’

This was better. There was small talk in this. ‘He should have met my grandmother.’

‘Yes,’ she said, and seemed to decide to let herself enjoy the music, the dance, the sensation of being held for a couple more circuits of the floor while the world watched. And then… ‘Ramón, why are you doing this?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why did you ask me to dance…first?’

‘I wanted to thank you.’

‘You paid me, remember? It’s me who should be thanking. And the world is watching. For you to ask me for the first dance…’

‘I believe it’s the last dance,’ he said, and the leaden feeling settled back around his heart as the truth flooded back. Holding her was an illusion, a fleeting taste of what could have been, and all at once the pain was unbearable. ‘I’ve wanted to hold you for three months,’ he said simply, and it was as if the words were there and had to be said, whether he willed them or not. ‘Jenny, maybe even saying it is unwise but, wise or not, I’ve missed you every single night.’ He hesitated, then somehow struggled back to lightness, forcing the leaden ache to stay clear of his voice. He couldn’t pass his regret onto her. He had to say goodbye-as friends. ‘Do you realize how much work there is in being a Crown Prince?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said faintly. ‘I guess…there’s speeches to make. Ribbons to cut. That sort of thing.’

‘Not so much of that sort of thing.’ His hand tightened on her waist, tugging her closer. Wanting her closer. Sense decreed he had to let her go, but still not yet. ‘I haven’t even been official Crown Prince until today,’ he said, fighting to make his voice sound normal. ‘I’ve not even been qualified as a ribbon-cutter until now. I’ve been a prince in training. Nothing more. Nothing less. But I have been practising my waltzing. My Aunt Sofía’s seen to that. So let’s see if we can make the ghosts of your Papà and my Grand-mère proud.’

She smiled. He whirled her around in his arms and she felt like thistledown, he thought. She felt like Jenny.

He had to let her go.

He didn’t feel like a prince, she thought as he held her close and their bodies moved as one. If she closed her eyes he felt like Ramón. Just Ramón, pure and simple. The man who’d stolen her heart.

It was impossible, he’d said. Of course it was. She’d known it for three months and nothing had changed.

The world was watching. She had to keep it light.

‘So it’s been practising speeches and waltzing,’ she ventured at last. ‘While we’ve been braving the Horn.’

‘That and getting leggings to fit,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Bloody things, leggings. I’d almost prefer the Horn.’

‘But leggings are so sexy.’

‘Sexy isn’t leggings,’ he said. His eyes were on her and she could see exactly what he was thinking.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered, feeling her colour rising. Every eye in the room was on them.

‘I’ve missed you for three long months,’ he said, lightness disappearing. He sounded goaded almost past breaking point.

‘Ramón, we had two weeks,’ she managed. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

He stopped dancing. Others had taken to the floor now, but they were on the edge of the dance floor. Ramón and Jenny had central position and they were still being watched.

‘Are you saying what we had didn’t mean anything to you?’ he asked, his voice sounding suddenly calm, almost distant.

‘Of course it did,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘At the time. Ramón, please, can we keep dancing? I don’t belong here.’

‘Neither do I,’ he said grimly, and he took her in his arms again and slipped back into the waltz. ‘I should be leaving for Bangladesh right now. My team’s left without me for the first time in years.’

‘Speeches are important,’ she said cautiously.

‘They are.’ The laughter and passion had completely disappeared now, leaving his voice sounding flat and defeated. ‘Believe it or not, this country needs me. It’s been bled dry by my grandfather and my uncle. If I walk away it’ll continue to be bled dry by a government that’s as corrupt as it is inept. It’s not all ribbon-cutting.’

‘It’s your life,’ she said simply. ‘You’re bred to it and you shouldn’t be dancing with me.’

‘I shouldn’t be doing lots of things, and I’ll not be told who I should be dancing with tonight. I know. This can only be for now but I will dance with you tonight.’

The music was coming to an end. The outside edge of the dance floor was crowded, but the dancers were keeping clear of the Crown Prince and his partner. A space was left so that, as soon as the dance ended, Ramón could return to his royal table.

Waiting for him were the crowned heads of Europe. Men and women who were watching Jenny as if they knew instinctively she had no place among them.

‘You have danced with me,’ Jenny said softly, disengaging her hands before he realized what she intended. ‘I thank you for the honour.’

‘There’s no need to thank me.’

‘Oh, but there is,’ she said, breathless. ‘The clothes, this moment, you. I’ll remember it all my life.’

She looked up into his eyes and felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach up and kiss him, just a kiss, just a moment, to take a tiny taste of him to keep for ever. But the eyes of the world were on her. Ramón was a prince and his world was waiting.

‘I believe there are women waiting to dance with the Crown Prince of Cepheus,’ she murmured. ‘We both need to move on, so thank you, Ramón. Thank you for the fantasy.’

‘Thank you, Gianetta,’ he murmured, and he raised his hand and touched her cheek, a feather touch that seemed a gesture of regret and loss and farewell. ‘It’s been my honour. I will see you before you leave.’

‘Do you think…?’

‘It’s unwise? Of course it’s unwise,’ he finished for her. ‘But it’s tonight only. Tomorrow I need to be wise for the rest of my life.’

‘Then maybe tomorrow needs to start now,’ she said unsteadily and she managed a smile, her very best peasant to royalty smile, and turned and walked away. Leaving the Crown Prince of Cepheus looking after her.

What had he said? ‘We can’t take it further…’

Of course they couldn’t. What was she thinking of? But still she felt like sobbing. What was she doing here? Why had she ever come? She’d slip away like Gordon, she thought, just as soon as the next dance started, just as soon as everyone stopped watching her.

But someone was stepping into her path. Another prince? The man was dark and bold and so good-looking that if she hadn’t met Ramón first she would have been stunned. As it was, she hardly saw him.

‘May I request the honour of this dance?’ he said, and it wasn’t a question. His hand took hers before she could argue, autocratic as Ramón. Where did they learn this? Autocracy school?

It seemed no wasn’t a word in these men’s vocabularies. She was being led back onto the dance floor, like it or not.

‘What’s needed is a bit of spine,’ she told herself and somehow she tilted her chin, fixed her smile and accepted partner after partner.

Most of these men were seriously good dancers. Many of these men were seriously good-looking men. She thought briefly of Cathy back in Seaport-‘Jenny, get a life!’ If Cathy could see her now…

The thought was almost enough to make her smile real. If only she wasn’t so aware of the eyes watching her. If only she wasn’t so aware of Ramón’s presence. He was dancing with beautiful woman after beautiful woman, and a couple of truly impressive royal matriarchs as well.

He was smiling into each of his partner’s eyes, and each one of them was responding exactly the same.

They melted.

Why would they not? Anyone would melt in Ramón’s arms.

And suddenly, inexplicably, she was thinking of Matty, of her little son, and she wondered what she was doing here. This strange creature in fancy clothes had nothing to do with who she really was, and all at once what she was doing seemed a betrayal.

‘It’s okay,’ she told herself, feeling suddenly desperate. ‘This is simply an unbelievable moment out of my life. After tonight I’ll return to being who I truly am. This is for one night only,’ she promised Matty. ‘One night and then I’m back where I belong.’

Her partner was holding her closer than was appropriate. Sadly for him, she was so caught up in her thoughts she hardly noticed.

Ramón was dancing so close that she could almost reach out and touch him. He whirled his partner round, his gaze caught hers and he smiled, and her partner had no chance at all.

That smile was so dangerous. That smile sucked you in.

‘So who are your parents?’ her partner asked, and she had to blink a few times to try and get her world moving again.

‘My parents are dead,’ she managed. ‘And yours?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who are your parents?’

‘My father is the King of Morotatia,’ her partner said in stilted English. ‘My mother was a princess in her own right before she married. And I am Prince Marcelo Pietros Cornelieus Maximus, heir to the throne of Morotatia.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ she murmured. ‘I guess you don’t need to work for a living then?’

‘Work?’

‘I didn’t think so,’ she said sadly. ‘But you guys must need muffins. I wonder if there’s an opening around here for a kitchen maid.’

But, even as she said it, she knew even that wasn’t possible. She had no place here. This was the fairy tale and she had to go home.