LITMIR.BIZ

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an array of footmen watched impassively.

      Philippe had let go of her hand by then, but his eyes had been warm and alight with laughter and that dark, sardonic look had disappeared altogether. Caro’s heart had stumbled for a moment when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs and she’d looked into his face. It had been like looking at an entirely different man, one whose brother hadn’t died, one whose father didn’t blame him.

      Shaking the memory away, she went back to her email.

      So, I’ve survived my first encounter with the Dowager Blanche. It wasn’t a complete disaster. For some reason her little pug—Apollo?—took a shine to me. He sure is one ugly dog! Difficult to know which end of him is less attractive. I was worried he was about to have a heart attack with all that wheezing, but he came to sit on my foot while your grandmother was lecturing Philippe in French about something, and I made the mistake of patting him. After that, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I said I’d take him for a walk sometimes, which Philippe thought was heroic of me, but he was quite cute really, I suppose, and besides, what else am I going to do with myself? Philippe seems to be lined up for royal duties, but there isn’t a lot for me to do except sit on the balcony and look at that beautiful lake (which isn’t such a bad plan, now I come to think of it.)

      It’s beautiful here, Lotty. I don’t think I’ll ever find my way round the palace or get to grips with all the formality, but the setting is magical. Like being in a fairy tale kingdom, where nothing feels quite real.

      I’d better stop. Philippe had to go to some reception for financiers, so I’ve had the evening to myself, and I thought it would be a good chance to drop you a line—or quite a few lines, as it’s turned out. It’s all so new to me, and there’s so much I’d love to talk to you about. Can’t wait to catch up properly when all this is over and compare notes!

      Hope you’re having a fab time out there in reality, Lotty. Let me know, OK?

      Lots +++++++++ of love

      Caro

      When Philippe came back later that night, Caro was already in bed. She was sitting up against the pillows, a book in her hands and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her face was scrubbed, the cloud of chestnut hair tucked behind her ears, and she was buttoned up to the throat in a pair of old-fashioned pyjamas, patterned with sprigged rosebuds so faded they were almost invisible.

      No sheer negligees for Caro, Philippe realised. No wispy lace or dainty straps designed to slide seductively over a shoulder. He ought to be glad that she had so little interest in attracting him, so why did the sight of her make him feel so grouchy?

      ‘Don’t tell me, they’re vintage pyjamas?’ he said, loosening his tie and trying to roll the irritation from his shoulders.

      ‘As a matter of fact, I bought them when they were new.’

      ‘What, when you were twelve?’

      ‘I’ve had them a long time,’ she admitted with a defiant look over her glasses. ‘They’re comfortable.’

      ‘There couldn’t be any other reason for wearing them,’ said Philippe sardonically. She certainly hadn’t bought them with seduction in mind!

      So it was annoying to realise how appealing she looked, there in bed. The modest pyjamas only drew attention to her lush curves, and the glow from the bedside lamp picked out golden lights in her hair. Seduction was clearly the last thing on Caro’s mind, but she looked warm and soft and inexplicably inviting all the same.

      Philippe jerked his tie free from his collar with unnecessary force.

      ‘How was your evening?’ Caro asked.

      ‘Tedious. I shook hands, smiled, pretended to listen intelligently to someone droning on about financial forecasts. Welcome to the exciting world of royalty.’

      Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tugged off first one shoe, then the other and tossed them aside. ‘And that was just one evening! I’m not sure I can stand the thought of another six months of this. I’m going to expire of boredom by the end of the week!’

      ‘Lots of people have to put up with boring jobs,’ Caro pointed out as his socks followed the shoes.

      ‘Very true. But give me a night flight through a thunderstorm any day!’ Philippe swung his legs up onto the bed and made himself comfortable against the pillows, linking his arms behind his head.

      Coming home to someone felt strange. Not as uncomfortable as he’d thought it would be. In fact, he’d even found his steps quickening as he said goodnight to Yan and approached the apartments, and he’d been glad to see the light on in the bedroom and to know that Caro was still awake.

      He’d been surprised at how pleased he was to have her with him that afternoon too. Grimly enduring his great aunt’s tongue-lashing, he’d watched her tussling with that stupid dog and felt a smile quivering at the corners of his mouth. Once or twice she had met his eyes with a speaking look, or the tiniest roll of her eyes.

      Funny how the Dowager’s lecture hadn’t seemed nearly so bad when there was someone there to sympathise, to be an ally. To escape with and run laughing down the great palace staircases.

      Philippe rolled onto his side to face Caro and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘What about you? What have you been doing?’

      ‘I emailed Lotty.’ Abandoning the pretence of reading, she put her book on the bedside table and took off her glasses. ‘I’d feel better if I knew she was OK. Wherever she is, it’s going to be very different from here.’

      ‘She’ll be all right. Lotty’s tougher than she looks.’

      Philippe stretched, yawned and rubbed the back of his head. It felt surprisingly comfortable to be lying here, chatting to Caro at the end of a long day. He’d never done this with a woman before. They’d been lovers, or he’d been leaving. They’d never been friends.

      ‘Did you have anything to eat?’ he asked her.

      Caro laughed, that husky, faintly suggestive laugh that crisped every nerve and sinew in Philippe’s body. ‘Have you ever heard that expression involving bears and woods?’ she said. ‘Of course I did! I felt really lazy ringing the kitchen and asking them to send something up the way you told me. I can’t get used to not doing everything myself.

      ‘It’s weird with all these servants around,’ she said, pulling up her knees and shifting a little so that she could look at Philippe. ‘You must have half the population of Montluce working here!’

      ‘Hardly that.’ Aware of the swing of her breasts, her scent, Philippe was horrified to hear that his voice sounded hoarse.

      ‘They asked me what I wanted to eat, so I said could they let me try some Montlucian specialities? They sent up these amazing quenelles of trout from the lake, and the most wonderful tart made with apricots.’

      Caro chattered on about food, and Philippe kept his gaze firmly fixed on her face so that he wouldn’t think about how close she was, or how it might feel to undo the buttons on her pyjama top very, very slowly, to slide his hands beneath the soft material, to roll her beneath him and press his lips to her throat and let them drift lower and lower until she stopped talking about food and what the head chef said and—

      ‘What?’ He sat up, tuning in belatedly. ‘You went to the kitchens?’

      ‘That’s what I’m telling you. I took the tray back so that I could ask the chef for the tart recipe and he was so nice. Jean-Michel … do you know him?’

      ‘No,’ said Philippe, who had never been to the kitchens in his life.

      ‘He wrote it out for me, but it’s in French, of course. I might have to get you to translate it. I can get the gist of it, I think, but—’

      ‘Caro,’ he interrupted her, clutching his hair, ‘what were you doing wandering around in the kitchens? The footman is supposed to take the tray away.’

      ‘Laurent?’

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