The Prince and The Marriage Pact. Valerie Parv
count as all right? Aftereffects of her misadventure, Annegret assured herself. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that would justify fantasizing about Maxim.
“I’ll be fine after I’ve showered and changed,” she said, levering herself gingerly off the bed. Picking up her bag, she moved toward a doorway that she could see opened onto an adjoining bathroom.
Half an hour later, greatly refreshed and wearing a white three-quarter-sleeve top and a black lace skirt, she emerged to find the bed tidied and the chart gone. On the pillow lay a single, long-stemmed red rose and a card bearing the royal crest. With her heart beating ridiculously fast, she picked up the card. “When you’re ready, you’ll be escorted to my apartment, although I believe you already know the way.”
No signature. She held the rose to her face, breathing in the heady fragrance. If Maxim was trying to make a favorable impression, he was succeeding. It wouldn’t influence how she portrayed him in her program, but she had to grant that His Royal Highness had style.
The corridors the uniformed footman led her along were steeped in shadows. Air-conditioning kept the temperature constant, so she must be imagining a chill from the thick stone walls, she told herself as she followed the servant. “What is Prince Maxim really like?” she asked the man.
“He is the prince.”
The same answer the nurse had given her in the infirmary, as if it explained everything about him. “How does he spend his time?” she tried again.
“Administering the Merrisand Trust demands most of His Highness’s time.”
She knew that the trust raised millions of dollars to help children in need. “Surely the prince’s staff do most of the work?” she prompted.
“The prince involves himself directly in the day-to-day running of the trust,” the man said a little stiffly.
So he wasn’t a figurehead. “But what is he really like?” she persisted, not sure that research was her only motivation. “What are his hobbies?”
The man hesitated, as if unsure how much to reveal. Evidently deciding it wouldn’t undermine the stability of the crown, he said, “His Highness has a passion for cartography—old maps.”
Her irritation rose. “I know what cartography is.”
“He is also a master astronomer. The Mount Granet Observatory he founded is one of the largest privately owned facilities in the southern hemisphere.”
The prince as a stargazer? The idea was almost too romantic—and unsettling. Because it doesn’t fit your preconceived notion of him? she asked herself. Surely she wasn’t so prejudiced against royalty that she couldn’t deal with Maxim as a human being?
They had reached the royal apartments, so she was about to find out.
The footman announced her as formally as if she was making an entrance at a ball, but as soon as he bowed his way out, Maxim came to her side, looking relaxed and, she was forced to admit, devastatingly attractive.
In contrast to his appearance at the wedding that morning, he was casually dressed in charcoal pants and an olive-green, open-necked shirt. The faintest shadow darkened his chin, and light from the wall sconces shot his ebony hair with silver glints. He was going to age handsomely, she thought, gulping in air.
Not that he didn’t look compelling enough now as he took her hand and inspected the dressing covering her palm. “How do you feel?”
“Refreshed after my rest, thank you, Your Highness.” It had been the truth until he touched her. Now she felt a shiver grip her. When he released her, she realized she had been holding her breath.
“Call me Maxim.” He led the way through the apartment to a brightly lit kitchen. “Hungry?”
She looked around. “You’re cooking?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“But I thought…”
“That I’d have servants bring us food on silver salvers? I do that, too. But occasionally I enjoy preparing something for myself. My sister says it keeps me humble.”
Annegret rested her forearms on a countertop, glad of the barrier between them. She had been introduced to his sister, Princess Giselle, at the wedding. Both Maxim and his sister seemed unexpectedly approachable, but Annegret thought humble was stretching things. “Now, that I definitely have trouble picturing,” she said.
His eyes sparkled. “Giselle agrees with you. Will ordinary do?”
He couldn’t be that, either. Confusing messages assailed her. As a prince he was far more down-to-earth than she had expected. But neither could she deny the luxuriousness of their surroundings. He might be tossing ingredients into a soufflé dish, but he was doing it in state-of-the-art conditions in a castle. And the servants were a bellpull away in case the novelty wore off.
He left the cooking long enough to uncork a bottle of Pinot Noir. Her heightened senses made her acutely aware of the sound of the cork popping and the splash of the wine into crystal glasses. Aware of how deftly he handled the masculine chore. How strong his fingers looked wrapped around the delicate glass he handed to her.
When their fingers brushed, fire shot along her veins. Blaming the aftereffects of the Janus lily didn’t quite work. Wine spattered onto the countertop as her hand shook.
“Still feeling some pain?” he asked in concern.
“A little,” she lied, not wanting to admit the source of her discomfort, even to herself.
Maxim berated himself for keeping her standing in the kitchen while he indulged himself cooking for her. Showing off, he conceded. He had wanted to counter some of her prejudices with a demonstration of normality.
Who was he kidding? It wasn’t hard to conjure up an impressive meal when the finest ingredients were provided and someone else did the cleaning up.
He wanted to believe he was teaching her a lesson. Instead, he was learning one. That to a point, she was right. He couldn’t change who and what he was. So why not stop trying?
“Come through to the morning room,” he said, taking her arm. He was reminded again of how slightly built she was for a woman who almost matched him in height.
“What about the soufflé?”
“It’s almost ready for the oven. I’ll ring for someone to take over here. You need to relax.”
She didn’t argue, proving his point. The morning room was his favorite room in the apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped around a table in the center. Presently the table was set for two. With the drapes drawn back to reveal the night sky in all its splendor, she would feel as if she was dining among the stars.
He heard her catch her breath, and shared a smile with her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He wasn’t sure he only meant the view.
“It’s amazing. Do the stars always seem close enough to touch in Carramer?”
“Always.” Pressing a hand to the small of her back, he moved her closer to the window. “The clarity of the air enables us to see far out into the universe.”
Gesturing with his free hand, he said, “The reddish star blazing in the northeast is Arcturus. And that one is Regulus, the brightest star in the constellation Leo.”
“It looks more like a sickle than a lion,” she said to distract herself from the warmth of his hand against her back. “Your Regulus looks like the handle, with the blade hanging below it.”
“Very perceptive,” he agreed. “Our ancestors used to think the stars were holes in the night to let the light of heaven pass through.”
She’d been told that the prince was a keen astronomer. She hadn’t expected him to be a poet, as well. “It’s a beautiful thought, however unscientific,” she observed.
He