Neither could break the momentâbreak the contact. It was too precious. Too infinitely valuable.
It was as unexpected as it was magical.
Then Penny-Rose broke away. For one long moment the prince still held her, his hands on her arms and his gaze locked with hers. Their eyes reflected mutual confusionâmutual need.
âIâmâIâm sorry,â he managed, and Penny-Rose shook her head.
âDonât be. I had no business to kiss you.â
âI never meantââ
âDonât explain things to me, Alastair,â she said gently. Because he couldnât. And she had to let him off the hook. He was confused and angry with himself. She could see that. Heâd broken his unwritten ruleâ¦.
Marion Lennox was born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved onâmostly because the cows werenât interested in her stories!
In her nonwriting life Marion cares (haphazardly) for her husband, teenagers, dogs, cats, chickens and anyone else who lines up at her dinner table. She fights her rampant garden (sheâs losing) and her house dust (sheâs lost). She also travels, which she finds seriously addictive.
As a teenager Marion was told sheâd never get anywhere reading romance. Now romance is the basis of her stories. Her stories allow her to travel, and if ever there was an advertisement for following your dream, sheâd be it!
âALASTAIR, I know you and Belle are planning to marry, but you must marry Penny-Rose first.â
Silence. Marguerite de Castaliae looked as unruffled as if sheâd just talked of the weather, but Alastair and Belle were staring at her as if sheâd dropped a bomb.
âWhat are you saying?â It was Alastair who first found his voice. His Serene Highness, Alastair, Prince de Castaliae dug his hands deep into the pockets of his faded jeans. His dark eyes closed. What now? He didnât need his mother making crazy propositions. Not when he had so much else to think ofâ¦
If this inheritance didnât go through, the village faced ruin. After months of effort, heâd found no way to save it. His own fortune couldnât save this place. Nothing could.
Today heâd reached a final, joyless decision. Heâd been up since dawn inspecting the cattle with stock agents, working out how much theyâd make at market. Heâd come in to make a final bleak phone call to his accountants. Theyâd given him their verdict and it was all looking futile.
The banks would never finance such a venture. The estate would have to be sold.
So Alastair was exhausted, and he didnât need this.
âMarry someone else? Thatâs ridiculous.â
âItâs not ridiculous.â His mother was wearing her Iâm-about-to-solve-all-your-problems smile. âMy dear, you do want to be a prince?â She was probing, fishing for a reaction.
She found it. âNo!â Alastair turned to stare out the window, over the castleâs lush gardens to the river beyond. âNo,â he said again. His voice was surer still, and there was revulsion in his tone. âIt was Louis who was supposed to inherit all this. Not me.â
âBut Louis is dead, dear,â Marguerite reminded him. âAnd I wonât even pretend Iâm sorry, because he would have made a very bad prince. If heâd inheritedâ¦â
âIt was his right to inherit.â
âHe drank that right away,â his mother retorted. âHe was a wastrel and a fool, and now heâs dead. So now the title is yours. And the responsibilities.â
âI never wanted it.â
âBut itâs yours for the taking.â Margueriteâs gaze shifted from her son to her future daughter-in-law, and her probing eyes were thoughtful. âIf you want it badly enough,â she said gently. âAnd if Belle wants it.â Her voice became questioning again. âIâd imagine Belle would rather like to own this castle and be your princess?â
âBelle doesnât care about titles,â Alastair said shortly. âJust as I donât.â
Marguerite wasnât as sure of that as her son was, but she kept her face deliberately expressionless. This tiny Castaliae principality, tucked between France and the rest of Europe, might be a very small player on the world stage, but it was a lovely place to liveâand maybe a wonderful place to rule?
Wealth and position might very well appeal to Belle, she thought, but sheâd have to use other ways to persuade her son.
âAlastair, the people here need you,â she told him. âThe country is depending on you.â
âWeâve been over this.â
âYes, dear, but youâre not listening. If you donât inherit, thereâs no one else to take it on.â These were hard facts to be faced, and the sooner her son faced them the better.
âIf you donât accept it, the estate will be carved up and the title will disappear,â she told him. âMost of the people whoâve lived here all their lives will face losing their own homes. Then the village houses will be bought by holidaymakers whoâll only live here for three or four weekends a year.â