New Year Wedding For The Crown Prince. Meredith Webber
dark and handsome indeed.
All this was flashing through her head as she led him through the kitchen to the minuscule bathroom beyond.
‘Servants obviously didn’t get many luxuries,’ she said as she waved him through the door and watched him duck his head to get in.
Which was when she recovered enough common sense to realise she had no idea who the man was!
Or why he was here!
Well, she could hardly ask now, as he’d shut the door between them, and she was not going to open it when he was doubtless undressing.
Or think about him undressing...
She didn’t do men—not any more, not seriously...
She shook away painful memories of that long-ago time when a man had betrayed her in the worst possible way.
Had being pregnant brought those memories back more often?
Think of this man. The stranger. The here and now.
She’d ask his name later.
The growling noise of the stair lift descending told her Dottie had tired of waiting for an answer and was coming to see what was going on for herself.
Jo hurried back through the kitchen, meeting Dottie in the hall.
‘Who is it? What’s going on?’ the old lady demanded.
‘It’s a man,’ Jo explained. ‘He was on the doorstep and I didn’t see him as I emptied the bucket. He was soaking wet so I’ve put him in the downstairs bathroom to dry off.’
‘You invited him in?’
Incredulous didn’t cut it. The words indicated total disbelief.
‘Dottie, he was wet. I’d thrown a bucket of water over him, on top of whatever rain he’d caught getting to the house.’
‘He had an umbrella!’ Dottie retorted, pointing to where the large black umbrella stood in a pool of water in a corner of the hall.
Jo took a very deep breath and changed the subject.
‘I need to check the buckets upstairs,’ she said. ‘According to the radio reports, the weather is going to get worse.’
Better not to mention that the road to the village was likely to be cut, and the man, whoever he was, might have to stay the night.
Would have to stay the night most probably!
‘You can’t leave me down here with your stranger,’ Dottie told her.
He’s hardly my stranger, Jo thought, but said, ‘Well, come back upstairs with me. I’ve just emptied the one down here.’
She waved her hand towards the bucket responsible for all the trouble.
Dottie glared at her for a moment, five feet one of determined old lady, then gave a huff and stalked into the living room, which was bucket-free as there were bedrooms or bathrooms above most of the downstairs rooms.
‘I won’t be long,’ Jo promised, taking the stairs two at a time, glad she’d continued her long walks up and down the hills around the village right through the pregnancy.
There were six buckets upstairs and she emptied them all into the bath before replacing them under the leaks. How Dottie slept through the constant drip, drip, drip she didn’t know. For herself, too uncomfortable to sleep much anyway, the noise was an almost welcome distraction through the long nights.
She was back downstairs when their visitor returned to the hall.
‘I left my wet clothes over the shower, if that’s all right,’ he said, his beautiful, well-bred, English accent sending shivers down Jo’s spine.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, ‘although I could put them in a plastic bag for you if you like, because you really should be going. The road to the village will be cut off any minute. The weather bureau’s warning that the place will flood at high tide.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ the stranger said with a smile that made Jo’s toes tingle.
But Dottie was made of sterner stuff. Ensconced in her high-backed armchair in the living room, she made her presence known with an abrupt, ‘Fiddle-faddle! Stop flirting with the man, Joanna, and bring him in here. If he had any manners he’d have introduced himself before he came through the door.’
Jo shrugged and waved her hand towards the inner door.
‘After you,’ she said, smiling at the thought of the diminutive Dottie coming up against the stranger.
‘Who are you?’ Dottie demanded, and Jo watched as the man pulled a chair up close to Dottie and sat down in it, so he was on a level with her, before replying.
‘I’m Charles,’ he said. ‘And I believe I’m your grandson.’
His voice was gentle, so hesitant Jo felt a rush of emotion that brought a wetness to her eyes. Pregnancy sentimentality!
She held her hand to her mouth to stop her gasp escaping, and waited for Dottie to erupt.
She didn’t have to wait long.
‘Are you just?’ Dottie retorted. ‘And I’m supposed to believe you, am I? You turn up here with your fancy voice and good shoes and expect what? That I’ll leave you my house?’
Trust Dottie to have checked his shoes, Jo thought. Dottie was a firm believer that you could judge a person by his or her shoes...
‘No,’ Charles was saying politely. ‘I wanted to know more about my mother and her family—my family—and you seemed like the best person to tell me.’
‘You can’t ask her?’
Not a demand this time, but a question asked through quivering lips, as if the answer was already known.
The stranger hesitated, frowning as if trying to make sense of the question, or perhaps trying to frame an answer.
Maybe the latter, for he leant a little closer.
‘I’m so very sorry but I thought you’d been told. She died when I was born.’
The words were softly spoken, the stranger bowing his head as he said them, but Jo was more concerned with Dottie, who was as white as the lace collar on her dress.
But even as Jo reached her side, Dottie rallied.
‘So, who’s your father? No doubt that lying vagabond she ran away with. I suppose you’ve proof of this!’
If the man was disturbed by having his father labelled this way, he didn’t show it.
‘My father is Prince Edouard Alesandro Cinzetti. We are from a tiny principality in Europe, a place even many Europeans do not know. It is called—’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Dottie held up her hand. ‘I’ve heard it all before. Some place with liver in the name, or maybe the vagabond’s name had liver in it.’
‘Liver?’ Jo repeated faintly, totally gobsmacked by what was going on before her eyes.
The stranger glanced up and smiled.
‘Livaroche,’ he said, imbuing the word with all the magic of a fairy-tale.
But Jo’s attention was back on Dottie, who seemed to have shrunk back into the chair.
‘Go away, I don’t want you here,’ she said, so feebly that Jo bent to take her arm, feeling for a pulse that fluttered beneath her fingertips.
‘Perhaps if you could wait in the kitchen. This has been a shock for Dottie. I’ll settle her back in bed and make us all some supper.’
Dottie flung off Jo’s hand and glared at the visitor.
‘You can’t