LITMIR.BIZ

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but every corner seemed to be full of cleaners or decorators or florists. There wasn’t an inch of the palace that wasn’t being buffed, polished, repainted or reupholstered and the air was thick with paint, dust and turpentine. Even his own suite of rooms wasn’t immune, although he had made it very clear to anyone who would listen that they at least were strictly off-limits to cameras, guests and onlookers. Even a prince needed a room of his own—or, in his case, five rooms including a study and a bathroom, his bedroom, dressing room and en suite bathroom, neatly housed in one of the four turrets which rounded off every wing of the castle. Although he would never admit it, Laurent was still secretly glad that he had his own turret room. It seemed like the least a boy growing up in a castle could expect, a small consolation against the lack of privacy and tourists around every corner. Against the role he had no choice but to occupy.

      ‘Just the man! Your Highness...’

      But Laurent had long since learned the key to getting from A to B undisturbed. He simply strode fast, head high, eyes not focusing on a single face, not catching anyone’s gaze. And because it was considered bad manners—if not downright treasonous—to accost the Archduke without an explicit invitation, this tactic usually worked. But it was hard to walk purposefully when one had to keep dodging ladders, buckets and toolboxes and every now and then Laurent would accidentally catch someone’s eye and that would be considered the explicit permission that person needed to unburden themselves to their sovereign, as was their right and his duty. But when all they wanted was his view on paint colours or a ticket to this damn ball and he had a proposal to read, his patience was wearing thin fast. It was with a huge sense of relief that he finally reached the tiny side door to which only he owned a key and stepped out into the sunny courtyard beyond, the precious proposal a little more bent and dog-eared and still unread. He closed the door firmly behind him as Pomme made a dash for the nearest potted plant.

      Laurent tightened his grip on the report. This was his chance: his chance to make Armaria truly independent and stable. Industry, jobs, investment... The Chancellor had gathered all the evidence, ready for Laurent to place it directly in Mike Clayton’s hands. He just needed to pick when to present it. Before the ball or after? Before he proposed to Mike Clayton’s beloved daughter or after...?

      He’d always known he’d have to marry strategically; every Archduke did. Their title and position bartered carefully away for influence or money or hopefully both. Why should he be different just because some modern foreign princes and princesses had been allowed to follow their hearts? In a country where the monarch was more than a figurehead, hearts simply couldn’t rule over heads. He’d always known this.

      And now the time had come. Proposing to Bella Clayton was the most sensible thing he could do. He’d be fulfilling his duty to the country and to the throne. She was well-bred, well-educated and brought with her the potential of a new beginning for Armaria. She was perfect.

      Whistling for Pomme to join him, Laurent walked across the shady courtyard, filled with tall plants in earthenware pots and brightly flowering climbing plants. An arched door led into a walled garden, half a flower-filled lawn, half a small tangled orchard of fruit trees. At the far end of the orchard, a small wrought iron arbour stood by the wall, a shady respite from the relentless noon sun, and Laurent’s favourite hiding place. Checking his phone—only eight missed calls, fifteen messages and thirty-three emails since he’d last looked half an hour ago—he headed straight there while Pomme, ecstatic to be freed from palace etiquette, made for the nearest tree. Laurent absentmindedly scrolled through the emails, deleting or forwarding as many as he could, flagging the rest to deal with later.

      Intent on his phone, he didn’t notice a leg lying in his path, not until he tripped right over it, recalled to his surroundings by an indignant, ‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going!’

      Regaining his balance, Laurent turned and looked down at a young, slim woman, lying under a tree, long legs sticking out in a most dangerous way. ‘I shouldn’t need to watch where I’m going,’ he said in his most repressive manner. ‘This garden is private.’

      It was only as he spoke that he realised the young woman had spoken and he had replied in English.

      Flushing to the roots of her honey-brown hair, the young woman immediately scrambled to her feet, notebook in one hand, pen in the other. ‘I did wonder,’ she confessed. ‘The door was so well concealed, but when it opened...’

      ‘You slipped inside and hoped no one would see you?’ It should have been locked. Only two gardeners had the key; one of them had slipped up.

      ‘That’s about the truth of it. They gave me an office, but it’s so noisy in the palace I couldn’t think so I rewarded myself for a solid afternoon’s work with an explore of the gardens. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found this place. Not that the rest of the gardens aren’t exquisite,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But they are so formal. I like a bit of wildness in my nature. I’m Emilia—’ she stuck the pen into a pocket and held out a hand ‘—the event organiser. I am so sorry. I promise not to trespass again.’

      Laurent was slow to take her hand, struck as he was by two things. One was the frank expression in her clear hazel eyes, an expression untinged by awe. The other was her surprising admission that she preferred this small, shady garden to the famous royal gardens of Armaria. He did, of course, but as far as he knew he was in a minority of one. ‘You don’t like the Royal Gardens?’

      She stepped back, hand dropping as she looked around at the orchard as if seriously considering his question. ‘Oh, no, they are beautiful and they will make a wonderful backdrop for the ball. But they’re very...’ she paused ‘...very grand. And perfect. I worry about crushing a blade of grass, or casting a shadow on a carefully cultivated scene. I’m much more of a throw myself on the ground and sprawl kind of girl, as you found out. Sorry again.’

      ‘In that case,’ Laurent said, ‘you must come here whenever you wish. I’ll order you a key.’

      ‘But this is obviously private; won’t the Archduke mind?’

      For a moment all Laurent could do was stand there with an expression he was sure was the most undignified one he’d worn since ascending to the Dukedom at the tender age of seven. ‘Mind?’

      ‘If it’s usually locked then isn’t it his? That’s what I was told—that all locked areas are private, for the royal family only.’

      And that was when he realised what was odd about this conversation. There was no awe in her expression, no hesitation in her manner because she had no idea who he was. Laurent could not remember the last time that had happened—if indeed it ever had. True, he’d been helping shift furniture in the throne room and hadn’t changed out of his oldest jeans, the ones that made his mother sigh on the rare occasion she saw him in them. His hair wasn’t neatly combed but falling into his face, and his short-sleeved shirt was covered with dust. No one expected to see an Archduke look like one of the many labourers working away to make the palace perfect for the ball of a potential billionaire fairy godfather. For one moment he was tempted to pretend that he was one of them, to enjoy this pomp and ceremony-free moment a little longer.

      He pushed the enticing thought aside. Surely she’d wonder how a palace workman could give her permission to be in a private place and, besides, such games were beneath him.

      He held out his hand with the straight-backed formality that had been drilled into him since before he could walk. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. I’m...’ But the words were thick in his throat. Oh, he had a few, a very few, handpicked friends, men he could trust, who he could be some semblance of normal with for a few precious hours a week, but even with them there was an unspoken acknowledgement of his rank. When had he last had a conversation this free and easy? He liked the frank way she chattered on, despite her embarrassment at having been caught trespassing. That would disappear in an instant once he revealed his identity. ‘I’m...’ But before he could complete the introduction Pomme came bounding over, his interest in the pretty stranger clear.

      ‘Hello, beautiful, who are you?’ Emilia bent over and found the exact spot behind Pomme’s ears where he loved to be scratched. Laurent grinned

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