The Virgin and His Majesty. Robyn Donald
at a dowager wearing a serious dress in satin and more pearls than was decent. Taking refuge in flippancy from the aching emptiness that threatened her, Rosie decided the only thing missing was a lorgnette.
She went on, ‘It’s been a truly amazing week. And the coronation ceremony was…’ She searched for the right words, finally settling on, ‘Truly awe-inspiring. Hugely impressive.’ And profoundly moving.
‘I’m glad you found it so,’ he said, his neutral tone revealing nothing. ‘You’re leaving the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She’d like to ask him what he’d planned for tomorrow night, but no doubt he had better things to do than entertain a nobody from New Zealand.
Kiss Princess Serina, perhaps?
When they reached the others they talked pleasantries for a few minutes until Gerd walked away, and at last Rosie could draw breath.
All she wanted to do was skulk up to her bedroom and hide there until she felt more…well, more herself.
But it was almost over. If she organised her life with care and some cunning she need never exchange words or glances with Gerd again. And when the wedding invitation arrived she’d produce a very good excuse for not attending—a broken leg should do.
Even if she had to break it herself.
From the corner of her eye she saw Gerd talking to the princess, and stiffened her spine. OK, so exorcising this unwanted hunger would take willpower and a rigorous refusal to indulge in daydreams, but she could manage that—she’d had a lot of practice.
The evening wore on. Resolutely keeping her gaze away from the person who held her attention, Rosie danced and laughed and talked and flirted with several interested men. By midnight her rigid self-control was beginning to take its toll and she allowed herself another longing thought of the bed waiting for her in the private apartments of the palace.
But when the ball ended, Alex told her casually, ‘Gerd’s asked us to his quarters for a nightcap. Just the family.’
No princess? Rosie banished a treacherous needle of excitement. ‘How kind of him.’
He lifted a brow and after an uncertain look at his handsome face she began to chatter. She loved her brother, but they had never known each other well enough to develop the sort of relationship that made for confidences.
It was definitely a family gathering—although Gerd seemed to be related to a lot of European royalty.
But no Princess Serina. Stifling an ignoble relief, Rosie refused a glass of champagne and accepted one of mineral water, then glanced around. The private drawing room was big, furnished with more than a salute to Victorian taste. It wasn’t all heavy furniture, however. Her gaze travelled to the large painting in a place of honour on one wall.
‘Kelt’s and my New Zealand grandfather,’ Gerd said from behind her. ‘Alex’s great-great-uncle.’
‘He’s very handsome,’ she said inanely. ‘More like Kelt than you.’
‘You’re intimating that I’m not handsome?’ he drawled lazily.
Colour burned along her cheekbones. Keeping her eyes on the portrait, she returned in her most limpid tone, ‘I’m forever being told that it’s only women who need constant reassurance about their attractiveness.’
His low laugh held a sardonic note. ‘Well avoided.’
‘All I meant was that your grandfather and Kelt have that northern-European look, whereas you show your Mediterranean heritage.’ And a drop-dead gorgeous set of genes he’d inherited—a strong-boned face emphasised by those raptor’s eyes and his powerful, longlegged physique.
‘Like most ruling families, the Crysander-Gillans have a very mixed heritage. The original founder of my house was a Norseman who arrived here with a group of Vikings via Russia some time in the tenth century. They stayed, and imported princesses from almost every country in Europe and the occasional one from considerably further away.’
Well, Princess Serina wouldn’t have far to come! Her family lived in exile on the French Riviera. Rosie’s heart contracted. ‘I like this portrait,’ she said swiftly. ‘He looks…utterly dependable, yet dangerous.’
Gerd smiled and said something in a language Rosie recognised as being Carathian. ‘That’s an old Carathian proverb—A man should be a tiger in bed, a lion in battle, and wise and cunning as a fox in counsel. The Carathians believe that my grandfather met that standard.’
Rosie kept her attention religiously fixed on the painted face. ‘He looks all that and more. How did the ancient Carathians know about tigers and lions?’
He drawled, ‘There used to be lions in southern Europe, and people from the Mediterranean got around—remember, Alexander the Great marched as far as India. I imagine those who made it back arrived home with stories about tigers.’
‘Was Carathia part of Greece originally?’
‘No, although as a state it began with a band of Greek soldiers who lost a battle a thousand years or so before the Christian era and fled this way. They found this valley, and helped the local tribespeople against an attacking force sent to control the pass. For their endeavours they were rewarded with Carathian brides.’
‘I hope the brides approved,’ Rosie observed tartly.
‘Who knows?’ He sounded amused.
Rosie’s heart did a ridiculous flip. If those ancient Greeks had been anything like Gerd their brides had probably been delirious with excitement.
Gerd went on, ‘Over the years various of my ancestors acquired the coastal region and its offshore islands.’
‘How?’ she asked, intrigued by the long history of the small country.
‘Usually by conquest, sometimes by marriage.’
She asked curiously, ‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘Kelt and I grew up speaking both English and Carathian as first languages. We’ve learned a couple more along the way.’
‘I’m very impressed by the way people here switch from language to language without any effort. It makes me feel very much like a country cousin.’
‘Languages can be learnt. Besides, you know the one everyone understands.’
Startled, she swivelled her head to survey his face.
His eyes were half-closed, his chiselled mouth curved in a smile that hit Rosie like a charge of electricity. ‘Your smile speaks the most fundamental language—that of the heart.’
‘Thank you for such a pretty compliment,’ Rosie said hastily, furious because her hot cheeks revealed her astonishment. ‘I don’t think it’s true, but I’d love it to be.’
Brows raised, Gerd said, ‘You’re embarrassed. Why? I can’t believe no other man has told you that your smile is a most potent weapon.’
More than a little wary, she said, ‘Actually, no.’
Men tended to concentrate on her more physical attributes.
Relief seeped through her when a manservant came up. Gerd looked down at him and the servant said something in a low voice. After Gerd’s nod the man went across to the windows and drew back the heavy drapes to reveal the starry burst of a swarm of skyrockets.
Charmed, Rosie joined in the soft murmur of appreciation around the room.
‘The Carathians enjoy firework displays and have organised this,’ Gerd said as the wide French windows were opened.
Everyone trooped out into the warm night onto a stone terrace. ‘Come here, Rosemary,’ Gerd said, making a space for her so she could see easily.
Sheer pleasure seeped through Rosie