She saved his life...

Now he can’t resist her!

In this Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies story, Lord Stanton’s stay on the island of Illiakos is shrouded in memories of fever and his mysterious nurse. Years later, an Illiakan royal visit to Stanton Hall reveals the princess’s chaperone, Christina James, is the woman who saved his life! Alexander is a master of control, but Christina makes him long to unleash the sinful side he’s buried...and unlock her passionate nature, too!

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Book 1—Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Book 2—Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Book 3—Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

“The second book in the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies trilogy will thrill Regency fans.”

—RT Book Reviews on Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

“Temple has a delightful gift with words that is sure to have readers smiling as the story of blossoming love and Gothic mystery unfolds.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Also by Lara Temple

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07378-3

LORD STANTON’S LAST MISTRESS

© 2018 Ilana Treston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Omer and Maya,

I am so lucky you are part of my home and my heart.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Island kingdom of Illiakos, the Mediterranean —1817

‘Fools! Shooting into the fog like that. Two more minutes and they would have seen the Maltese colours! And if they must actually shoot someone, why not a Maltese? Why an Englishman? Now that Napoleon is finished the English navy rules the sea, which means it would be very inconvenient for me if he died.’

‘I am sorry for that, your Majesty,’ Christina said as she continued sorting through the herbs she and little Princess Ariadne had collected from the Palace Gardens.

‘Is he going to die, Papa?’ Ari asked, her hand sneaking into Christina’s.

From the first night the King had sent Christina to the royal nursery, the four-year-old Princess had struggled into her bed and curled into her heat, her soft plump cheek resting on Christina’s palm. That moment Christina had fallen in love, as thirsty for affection as the little girl had been. Each time Ari still reached for her hand, Christina’s heart would squeeze at this remnant of their shared childhood. She stroked Ari’s curls and handed her another bundle of herbs to sort.

‘I don’t know.’ The King gave a huff of frustration. ‘I don’t trust that fool of a doctor. He says the bullet is out, but he doesn’t think the man will survive the fever. The poltroon sent for a priest. I want you to see to him, Athena.’

‘See to him?’

‘Yes. You always helped your father with patients. Use those herbs the women come to you for. I don’t like this. I’ve seen the man—everything about him says wealth and privilege and yet he carries nothing on him but gold, not even a letter. The Maltese captain says he paid above the asking price to be taken from Venice and that he saw him in the company of one of the Khedive’s top men in Alexandria. Someone like that, the English will come looking for. If he must die I would rather he does so elsewhere, so make him well enough to travel, Athena.’

The note of worry in the King’s voice distracted Christina from the enormity of the task and the knowledge she was wholly inadequate. She would do anything in her power for the King and Ari. She owed them more than her gratitude; she owed them her loyalty and her love.

‘You know I will do anything I can to help, your Majesty.’

‘I know that. You can be as stubborn as the Cliffs of Illiakos when you set your mind to something. So go and set it to getting this Englishman on his feet. Off with you now.’

‘Can I go and swoon over him, too, Papa?’ Ariadne said hopefully.

‘What in the name of Zeus do you mean by swoon, Ari?’ Usually people quaked when confronted head-on with the King’s anger, but twelve-year-old Ari clearly knew as well as Christina that her father’s bark was worse than his bite.

‘I heard the maids say he is as handsome as a god and they take peeks and swoon over him. So may I?’

‘No, you may not. There will be no swooning. But you have a good point. When your father died, Athena, I swore on Zeus’s head I would protect you just as I would my own daughter and that applies as much to your modesty as to your life. You will don veils while you attend to him and I will have Yannis stand guard. We know nothing of him, after all.’

‘But, King Darius, tending to a patient in veils is not very—’

‘And take some of my English newspapers to read to him.’

‘If he is unconscious, reading to him is hardly likely to—’

‘Must you argue with me over everything, Athena?’ the King interrupted, throwing his hands to the sky. ‘Perhaps hearing his mother tongue will remind him of his duties and revive him. Now go and see what is to be done, do you hear me?’

‘Half the castle can hear you, your Majesty,’ Christina replied as she brushed the remains of the herbs from her hands. ‘I will return soon, Ari.’

‘And tell me if he is really beautiful?’

Christina smiled at the King’s growl as she pushed back the tumble of dark curls from Ari’s forehead.

‘It isn’t a man’s beauty that matters, Ari, but his heart,’ she said, a little pedantically, and added for good measure as she went towards the door, ‘Not to mention his good nature and even temper.’

She didn’t wait to hear the King’s response to her mild impudence, but went directly to the prisoner’s room. She had no real expectation of being able to oblige the King by reviving the Englishman. She might share the King’s disdain for the doctor who took her father’s place, but she didn’t presume she could do better.

‘Hello, Yannis, the King sent me to see if there is anything that can be done for the Englishman.’

Yannis, one of the King’s most trusted guards, raised his brows.

‘Kyrie Sofianopoulos says he won’t survive the fever.’

‘Then I am not likely to do any harm, am I?’

‘Not much good, either. But if the King told you then of course he knows best.’

Christina smiled at the blind acceptance of the King’s infallibility and entered the room, preparing for the worst. As she approached the sickbed her mind did something it had never done before—it split in two. Sensible Christina assessed the hectic colour in the Englishman’s cheeks and all along the left side of his bare chest. The wound was just below the ribcage and was covered with a linen bandage stained orange and brown with dried blood. But even as she set to work removing bandages and cleaning the wound, a part of her that was utterly foreign raised its head and offered an opinion.

The maids were right. He might be dying, but he was the handsomest man she had ever seen.

She had sometimes watched the fishermen in the port stripped to the waist and though they, too, might possess impressive musculature, this man was on a different scale. Tall and lean, but with shoulders and arms that looked fit to topple a temple, and a whole landscape of hard planes and slopes, marred here and there by scars, several of which looked suspiciously like old knife wounds, including two rather deep gashes to his forearm. Aside from these imperfections he looked like a northern version of Apollo, with silky, light brown hair, like a field of wheat seen from afar. Even in his fever there was a tightness of action in his expression—his features were chiselled into spare lines, with no excess of flesh on the strong angles of his cheekbones and chin and the carved lines of his lips. His mouth was bracketed by two deep lines that put the final touch on a face that was more that of a statue of what Apollo might look like on a rather aggravating day of dragging the sun across the sky than an actual person.

But it wasn’t his looks that held her immobile. For a moment, as she stood over him, his eyes opened and latched on to hers. They were an ominous deep grey, shot with silver like clouds poised the moment before succumbing to a storm. His voice was rough thunder, a warning ending on a plea.

‘The snow...it’s freezing... Morrow shouldn’t have left her. Too late.’

He was looking through her, but she grasped his hand to answer that plea.

‘It’s not too late.’

‘Too late,’ he repeated, and this time his eyes did fix on hers and she smiled reassuringly because even if he was dying, he shouldn’t do so without hope.

‘No, it isn’t too late, I promise. Trust me.’

His gaze became clearer for a moment, moving over her, his pupils contracting until she could see the sharp edge of silver about them. But then his lids sank again and his restlessness returned, his hand pulling at the bandage, and she dragged her attention away from his face and focused on her duty.

A look at the ragged and inflamed state of the wound and the sickly tint of his skin under the heat of his fever told her the doctor was not unjustified in his gloom. It would take more than a newspaper to revive this man.

‘He’s in bad shape, isn’t he?’ Yannis asked conversationally over her shoulder. ‘Told you. I told the King to put him on the next boat to Athens. Let him die there. We don’t need trouble with the English.’

She unlocked her jaw. There was no point in being angry at Yannis.

‘And what did King Darius say?’

‘Nothing I can repeat to you, little nurse.’ Yannis grinned. ‘My punishment is to stand guard and help you see he doesn’t die. So. What do we do first?’

‘First you send for a large pot of water while I fetch my father’s bag and those foolish veils.’ There was no point in hoping the King would forget his stipulation.

‘Veils?’

‘The King said I must wear veils while I see to the Englishman.’

‘Good idea,’ Yannis approved. ‘Can’t trust a man without a name. Who knows what he’s running from?’

She didn’t answer. Not because it was foolish to see ghosts where there were none, but because there was something in the Englishman’s eyes and voice that gave too much credence to Yannis’s half-joking words. It didn’t matter—all that mattered was that a man might be dying and perhaps she could save him and thereby repay some of the debt she owed to her adoptive family.

* * *

Thus began of one of the strangest weeks of Christina’s life. She came several times a day to tend to the Englishman while Yannis helped ensure he drank the broths she prepared. She even, though she felt rather foolish, did the King’s bidding and read the English newspapers to him every day. Within two days what she had thought would be an irksome task took on an almost superstitious weight. It was imperative he survive, not just for the King, but because it just was. She fought for his life with the same fervour as she would for Ari or the King had they been ill, which made no sense at all.

The veils were a nuisance, but soon she found they had a peculiar freeing effect. Like a toddler who is convinced they can’t be seen when covering their eyes, Christina found herself free to truly watch the Englishman without worrying about being pierced again by his icy gaze. In the darkness imposed by the cloth, she didn’t have to avert her eyes from his face or magnificent physique, despite the shame of finding herself doing covertly what the female servants did overtly every time they brought provisions or tidied the room.

‘Isn’t he as handsome as Apollo? And look at those shoulders...’ they would sigh in Greek as Christina tried hard to ignore their raptures and her own internal upheaval.

After a week, his pulse steadied and she noticed his expression change when she read the newspapers, his sharply carved mouth shifting as if in internal conversation with the topic. Politics would be accompanied by a frown and news of London society with a faint curl of his thin upper lip. But his face became most expressive when she indulged in her own fascination—the advertisements in the agony columns. She had never read these before, but when she exhausted the more respectable pages of the two newspapers she became completely enthralled in reading them. There was something so touching and perplexing about them—little snippets of drama and romance that would remain unexplained for ever. Without even noticing it she began discussing them with her unconscious patient.

‘Here, listen to this,’ she informed him. ‘This is a very passionate fellow. ‘“To M-A”—which I presume is Maria, or could it be Margarita? That would add an exotic touch. Anyway, he writes: “Do I deserve this?” In capital letters, too. I wonder if that costs more? Then he continues: “Is it generous? Is it equitable? If I hear not from you by Wednesday hence I will strike thy graven memory from my heart and endeavour to efface thy sweet smile from my soul. Orlando.” This was three weeks ago, so Wednesday has come and gone and I shall never know if Orlando has been blessed by his Maria or whether she has chosen someone rather more sensible. I think living life in capital letters might be a little tiring. Oh, no—here, this one is even worse! “To P. If you could conceive of the sorrow and despair into which I am plunged, you would not raise your head. With you I could suffer every privation. Alone I am all misery. A hint of kindness could obliterate all pain. S.B.” Goodness. Well, I think it is very brave to put such pain on paper, but I cannot imagine ever writing something so...’

‘Maudlin.’

The paper scrunched between her hands. The word was faint but decisive and for a moment she searched the room for its source until she realised it came from the Englishman. He was awake, not the brief surfacing of the past few days, but truly awake and inspecting her. Lucid, his eyes were even more dramatic—as sharp and steely as a sword.

‘Where the devil am I?’ he asked as she remained tongue-tied, her pulse as fast as his had been at the height of his fever.

‘Illiakos.’

‘Illi... Hell. I remember. The storm. They shot at us.’

‘They thought you were pirates.’ She tried to be conciliating, thinking of the King.

‘We were flying Maltese colours. Clear as day.’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t. A clear day, that is.’

He groaned as he tried to shift on the bed.

‘I remember. The blasted fog. We rode up on the shoals. Why are you reading the agony columns? Out loud, too, for pity’s sake.’

‘King Darius requested that I read the English newspapers to you. He thought it would help you recover.’

‘That mawkish pap is more likely to send me into a decline. I had no idea people wrote such drivel.’

‘It is not drivel to them. Anyone willing to bare his or her soul like that deserves some sympathy, whether you approve or not.’

His mouth relaxed slightly in what might have been the beginning of a smile. It was the first time she had seen that expression on his face and her pulse, which had begun to calm, went into another gallop.

‘You didn’t sound very approving yourself just now, so I don’t think you can claim the moral high ground.’

Christina flushed, wondering how on earth they had reached the middle of an argument when she should really be summoning the doctor or doing something sensible, but the taunting glimmer of amusement in his eyes kept her in her seat and she groped for something to say.

‘For your information, I have already read you the political pages from end to end. Twice. And those are equally as depressing. More so.’

He frowned.

‘I remember now—you were reading something about the Tsar and the Sultan. But that news was well over a month old.’

‘The mail takes a while to reach us. The pirates have made trade difficult so the ships travel in convoys. Hopefully next week we will receive new newspapers from Athens.’

‘We... Who are you and why are you wearing a tent? You sound like you’re underwater.’

‘It is a bridal veil,’ she replied, with as much dignity as possible. ‘Brides on Illiakos wear them in public for the first month of marriage. It symbolises the period during which the married couple is dedicated wholly to one another.’

‘Good God, more sentimental drivel. I don’t envy you or your groom your wedding night.’ His laugh ended in a gasp of pain as he tried to sit up and she dropped the newspaper.

‘Please lie down, the doctor removed the bullet, but you lost a great deal of blood.’

She sat on the side of the bed and pressed him back gently as she had during the throes of his fever. Except it was different now. His skin was no longer burning, but hers was. The moment her palms flattened on his shoulders she froze. She tried to reason that he was merely a sick man she was tending, but that wasn’t what it felt like. Her fingers were trying to curve over the velvet surface that covered the rock-hard ridges of his shoulders. Sitting like that, if she just leaned towards him a little, raised her head... Took off her veils...

She removed her hands, but couldn’t gather any more resolution to rise. So she sat there with her hands clutched in her lap, waiting.

He froze, too, and there was a confused frown in his ice-grey eyes now, as if he was struggling to remember a word.

‘You were here before, weren’t you? I remember...’

He reached for the veils and she surged to her feet, which was a mistake because she tripped on the awkward yards of cloth and stumbled backwards.

‘Careful!’ His arm shot out to right her and with a groan of pain he turned chalk white and fell back.

‘Don’t move.’ Christina’s concern overcame her confusion and she gently pressed back the bandages, sighing with relief at the unbroken scab beneath. ‘That was foolish.’

‘I wasn’t the one leaping like a scalded cat,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘You made your point; I won’t touch the veils. That blasted doctor may have extracted the bullet, but I think he left a sheave of knives inside me instead.’

Despite her discomfort, her mouth curved upwards at his quintessential Englishness.

‘Not a sheave, just one. It is considered good luck.’

‘You are jesting, right?’ His eyes widened and she smiled at the apprehension in his voice.

‘Of course I am. He is merely terrified of the King which makes him a little clumsy. Please lean back while I apply some salve, it will soothe the inflammation and the pain.’

‘I don’t need any more ministering. That fool of a doctor did enough damage already by the look of it, and I’m damned if I will let you smear some noxious folk remedies on an open wound. What I need is to get off this island.’

‘It is merely some boiled herbs, including witch hazel and vinegar which are excellent for preventing putridity in wounds. I promise there are no bat wings and ears of newts. If you wish to recover swiftly, I suggest you let me apply the salve.’

His mouth held firm for a moment at her scold, and then with a curse worthy of a sailor he leaned back and closed his eyes.

His skin was hot and velvety beneath her fingers as she spread the salve. She worked slowly, smoothing it as gently as possible over the reddened area around the wound, her fingers just a butterfly’s flutter on the wound itself. He didn’t wince, but she could feel the tension in his muscles and see it in the way his hands fisted by his sides. She had an almost overwhelming urge to bend down and press a kiss to his bare chest, to ease that control, to reassure, explore... She knew she should draw back, but her fingers kept up their soothing strokes, until she exhausted her excuse and had no choice but to stop.

For several heartbeats the room was utterly silent. His chest rose and fell slowly and his eyes opened, pinning her.

‘You have dangerous hands, little nurse.’

She curled her fingers into fists and looked down.

‘I don’t think they qualify as dangerous. Not next to whoever did these to you.’ She indicated the scars on his arm and shoulder, but tried not to look further. He raised his arm, inspecting the scars as if surprised to see them.

‘These are just useful reminders not to wander around the bazaars of Constantinople after a night of heavy drinking when you are not welcome in that town.’

‘Someone tried to kill you?’

‘Not everyone finds me charming.’

‘I can understand that, but it is hardly a reason to try to kill you.’

‘Thank you. Foolish of me to expect a disavowal.’

‘Besides, not all these scars are from the same event or weapon,’ she added, ignoring his unconvincing attempt to look offended.

He glanced down at his torso with a frown.

‘No. I’m afraid I carry a diary of my follies on my person. This new one will be a particularly inglorious chapter; I didn’t even do anything to merit it but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. How demeaning.’

‘The others were merited?’

‘Except for this one.’ He turned over his left hand to show a white patch along the root of his palm. ‘This was from trying to save a friend from his folly when he climbed back into our room at school in the middle of the night during a storm and almost ended up an ornament on the bushes below.’

‘Folly appears to be contagious. Are your friends as foolish as you?’

He smiled.

‘No, Raven was like that before I met him. I was still deep in my obedient phase and very determined not to succumb to the family curse of depravity. I held out quite a while, too.’

She frowned at his tone. ‘I don’t believe in curses.’

‘Of course not, nurses must be sensible, right? I’m not fond of the notion myself. Too Greek. I accept full responsibility for choosing which side of my family tree I emulate. I made every effort to behave like the proper half of that tree for almost two decades and found it not only stultifying, but also unappreciated. So for the past five years I have been enjoying a grand tour of the other half. Aside from these...’ he indicated the scarred topography of his body ‘...I am finding it suits me very well.’

‘I am glad, because I would hate to think you derived no pleasure from trying to kill yourself.’

She hadn’t meant to speak quite that sharply. He smiled, a slow wolfish smile, and her legs pressed together, readying herself to move.

‘I’m deriving a great deal of pleasure at the moment from being resurrected. I’d derive even greater pleasure from seeing what my little saviour looks like under those veils, but don’t worry, I don’t need to be slapped more than once to learn not to steal cakes from cook’s table. I will just have to exert my imagination; it is very creative. Shall I tell you what it is weaving?’

‘No, thank you. I have little doubt it is an improvement on the reality. Now, you might be accustomed to injury, but you are still very weak and what you need most is rest. If you need help, call for Yannis. He is outside. The King is a good man and has every interest in seeing you in good health so I suggest you not try anything foolish.’

‘You are a fiery little thing, aren’t you? You don’t sound as terrified of this King as the doctor appears to be.’

‘I have no reason to fear him. I owe him everything and he has always been kind to me. However, he does have a temper and I suggest you don’t provoke it if you wish to have your way.’

He smiled, his eyes lightening with laughter.

‘That is excellent advice, darling. I promise not to provoke him, but I don’t know if I can promise the same to you, as it is too much of a pleasure to watch, or rather listen, to you rise to the fly. I do promise to keep my hands to myself, but for your information, the best way to put a man’s fantasies to rest is to confront him with reality. Perhaps these veils have more merit for newlyweds than I gave them credit. Marriage is a tedious business and anything that introduces a touch of mystery is welcome.’

‘Are you married then?’ The words were out before she could stop them, her skin still tingling from his casual endearment.

‘No, thank God. I’ve watched too many disasters on that front. When I do marry, in the very, very distant future, it will be to someone whose expectations can be measured in worldly goods and who knows her limits and mine.’

It had nothing to do with her, but it hurt like a personal rejection.

‘I will return later with a tisane for the pain, but you should rest now. If you need anything, summon Yannis and he can send for me if there is a need.’

‘And pull you from your husband’s arms? Tempting but not very chivalrous, my dear. I shall make do with this Yannis.’

The lingering falsity of her marriage stuck in her throat. It wasn’t like her to lie. Not that she had actually said she was married, but she had certainly not corrected him and that was bad enough, wasn’t it? All she had to do was tell him—I’m not married; the veils were the King’s idea. Then he would laugh and tell her to take them off, that she stood in no danger from him.

And that would be a lie, too. Even if he meant it. He might poke fun at her, but somehow she knew the moment he knew she was unmarried even that taunting freedom in her presence would cease. She might not know him, but she knew that. Still, the next time he said anything about her married state she promised she would tell the truth. However uncomfortable.

She glanced back—he looked weary, but his smile lingered as he watched her, part warmth and part mockery. She was so tempted to stay so she left.

* * *

If she had an ounce of sense she would have stayed away from that point forward, but she didn’t. The first week of his illness was unsettling, but the second exhausted all her reserves of self-control. She found all forms of excuses to visit the Englishman, though any servant could have delivered the tisanes she prepared and she was gaining no favours with the doctor by insisting on applying her salves to the wound. She drank in every moment in his company like the Illiakan plains drank in rainwater after the long dry summer. He never demanded she remove the veils again, and thankfully he never again referred to her marriage, so she could at least continue to shove away her guilt at perpetuating the lie and enjoy the pleasures of his company, from the unsettling effect of touching him as she nursed him to the more innocent pleasure of reading to him. She loved lingering over the agony columns just so he would tease her and then she could berate him for his insensitivity and watch the laughter light up his austere face.

‘Enough. That one was by far the most pathetic,’ he stated after she found a particularly tearful advertisement. ‘What is wrong with people? One would think with all of human history at our fingertips we would have realised this love nonsense is a waste of energy. Imagine how much could be achieved if only we applied all that energy to something productive.’

‘I think love can be a great force for good, perhaps the greatest. I do know that love changed my life. My parents didn’t really know how to love me, they were too busy with their concerns, but when I came to live with the Princess when I was ten and she four, I discovered what it was to love and be loved and my life changed utterly. I can’t imagine who I might be today if I hadn’t been so lucky.’

‘I’m glad for you, but that kind of love is different.’

‘How? Love is just love. It is caring for another person, sometimes more than you do for yourself. It is wanting that person to be happy, feeling their pain, wanting to understand them and wanting them to understand you. How is it different?’

‘Because what you are describing is not what people mistake for love between men and women, but affection between siblings or a mother’s love for her child. At least I presume it is. My own parents were sadly deficient on that front, though to give my father credit he meant well—he was just so sanctimonious. But I think I can understand a little of what you described—when I was ten my father remarried a lovely woman who did her best to make up for both my parents’ deficiencies.’

‘Did she succeed?’

He smiled and warmth spilled through her. Love. Perhaps this was an answer, too. It was different.

‘Up to a point. From that point she did something even better, she gave birth to my sisters. I was also ten when this happened and it changed my life, so I think I can understand what you mean. What was wrong with your parents?’

‘Perhaps there was nothing wrong with them. Perhaps the fault was in me.’

‘Good God, no. Trust me on that. What were they like?’

‘My father was a doctor and my mother was very ill and couldn’t tend to me. So I was sent to stay with my uncle and aunt against their will until my mother died and my father came to work at the castle. Coming here saved me. Are your sisters like you?’

His mouth quirked at her change of subject and for a moment she thought he would persist, but then the mocking smile returned.

‘That sounds suspicious. What is like me?’

‘Are they also convinced they are cursed or are they more sensible?’

‘Oh, much more sensible. And since my mother’s side is the bearer of the curse, they don’t have to carry that particular burden. They aren’t like me in the least; they both take after their mother, thank goodness.’

‘Do they share your belief that you are cursed?’

He hesitated.

‘For the moment they are too young and sheltered to think I am anything but their big brother. Hopefully they won’t despise me too much when the scales fall from their eyes. I admit I resolved to despise them when they were born, but I held out for about three minutes from the moment I set eyes on them. I would certainly do anything for them. On most matters I am distinctly on the sinful side of my joint family tree, but my sisters and my two best friends still manage to bring to the surface whatever of my finer principles remain intact.’

She sighed.

‘I’m envious. I always wished for an older brother. My cousins were brutes so they don’t count and the King is more like an uncle.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘I’d volunteer for the post, but that wouldn’t be quite honest since brotherly feelings aren’t what you evoke in me. Which brings me back to the distinction between the love you described for the Princess and what you might think exists between men and women. Those two are very different in both quantity and quality, believe me.’

Under the veils, the now familiar heat gathered, like steam in a tent. She wanted to rip everything off and bare herself, lies, dreams and everything. She prayed he wouldn’t say the words that would force her to honour her promise to tell the truth. She didn’t want this to end yet, not yet.

The sting of her need made her voice hard. ‘You may be as cynical as you wish, but you don’t know everything.’

‘Hardly, but I have a little more experience on that front than you and your young love.’ His eyes had become stormy grey again, a transformation which always marked the point she felt she was trespassing on something personal.

‘How can you have more experience in something you don’t believe exists?’ she countered and his mouth curved into a reluctant smile.

‘In its fallacy I do. Certainly in the varied shades of relations between men and women. On the strength of that advantage may I give you some advice?’

‘I don’t think I will appreciate it, will I?’

He laughed and the storm grey turned warm and inviting again, sinking her further.

‘Good point. I have had reams of advice flung at me by my father and appreciated none of it. Still, you can do what I do and ignore it. For what it is worth I suggest you never depend on your husband to fulfil all, or even most, of your needs. That is a recipe for disaster. Men are rather useless fellows and tend to buckle under pressure, especially when that pressure is applied by women. Especially by someone like you who is far too strong for their own good and as argumentative as one of those philosophers who lived in a cave or a barrel or wherever. Learn to row your own boat. There, if only you listen to my advice I’d consider my debt paid in full.’

She took a deep breath. She had made a promise after all.

‘I am not married.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m not married. You assumed I was because of the veils.’

‘I assumed... But you said...’

‘I said the veils are bridal veils and they are. The King ordered me to wear them while I tend to you, for my protection. After all, we did not know anything about you. Well, we still don’t since you won’t even tell us your name, but... But I am not married.’

Her hands were clenched so tightly together they hurt. She unclenched and flexed them. There was no need to feel so horrid and guilty and...exposed.

The silence stretched and stretched and stretched and she leapt into that yawning pit.

‘I didn’t mean to lie. Well, I didn’t lie. I just... It seemed easier. Safer. Men respect married women. I can see that on the island. I mean, they wouldn’t go into someone else’s house without being invited and it is just that way with women, right? We are considered property, aren’t we? So even with Yannis outside it seemed safer to allow you to think...’

‘I see. And for some reason you now think it is safe to tell me the truth?’

Her heartbeat thundered like a horse down a mountain, far too fast and stumbling over rocks. She didn’t feel safe. She felt terrified. But not of him.

‘I don’t know, but I promised myself if you mentioned marriage again I would tell the truth. I don’t enjoy lying, not even by omission.’

‘For someone who doesn’t enjoy lying you are very adept at it. Are you quite certain the only reason you didn’t share this minor little detail is because you wished to remain...safe?’

His anger was as cold and hard as a steel rapier being shoved slowly through her lungs.

‘What other reason could there be?’

‘Precisely what I am asking myself. Athena. Is that your name or is that a lie as well?’

‘That is what the King calls me. The Princess calls me Tina for short.’

‘I see how this works. Not a lie, but not quite the truth—rather you offer with one hand while you hide something with the other. You would make a fine cardsharp, or perhaps I should introduce you to Oswald, he would appreciate your skill.’

‘Who is Oswald?’

‘Leading me off the trail again, Athena? If you wish. Oswald is my uncle and the man who sends me on the errands which have left the trail of scars you were admiring.’

‘Was he why you were in Alexandria and why you won’t tell us your name?’

‘If you wished to know my name you only had to ask. My name is Alexander, but my friends call me Alex.’

She knew he was doing precisely what he had accused her of doing—distracting her from her quarry and with an offer empty of any real value, but it worked. Her mind wrapped itself about the sound and colour of his name, her mind filling with its fire. Alex.

‘Alex.’

He breathed in, deep and sharp, and for a moment she surfaced from her internal fog, worrying something had jogged his wound, but as she reached forward instinctively he caught her hand and they froze.

She waited for him to release her wrist, but his hand slid under hers, raising it. A lock of his hair, touched with gold from the afternoon sun streaming in the narrow castle windows, fell over his brow as he leaned forward. It was like a picture from a book—the gallant knight bowing over a maiden’s hand. Until his lips skimmed over the back of her hand and came to rest just above her knuckles. She had once scalded her hand boiling herbs and it had also taken her a shocked second to realise she was in agony and snatch her hand away. She tried to do so now, but he just tightened his clasp.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice wavered a little and he looked up and she saw danger in his eyes, an intent concentration, like a hawk hovering over a field mouse, wondering whether it was worth the plunge. But his words were almost casual.

‘Thanking you. Is showing gratitude not acceptable on Illiakos?’

‘Not like that.’

‘That’s a pity. Perhaps you should have let the lie lie. You were right your married status was an effective barrier to flirtation. Now there is nothing to stop me from telling you I find myself fantasising about what you look like under that curtain, is there?’

‘You would only be disappointed. I am not in the least remarkable.’

‘I have had a little experience with women, my dear, and though I don’t know what you look like, believe me when I say that you underestimate yourself. And if I were your brother I wouldn’t make do with that lug Yannis napping on a bench outside the room.’

The humour that did so much damage to her resolve transformed his eyes from ice to the colour of thunderclouds, but even though his hold softened, she was no longer trying to escape it. His hand encompassed her wrist, his fingers marking her thudding pulse. She knew he couldn’t see her, but she felt he saw right through her, not merely through the veils, but through her skin, to the flow of blood in her veins, to her very thoughts, chaotic and forbidden.

She tried desperately to regain her advantage as his nurse.

‘I will have you know I do not need Yannis to see to my welfare. I can see to it myself, so you had best tread carefully.’

A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes and his hand tucked hers into his as if it was the most natural thing in the world to sit there, hands clasped.

‘Or what?’

‘Or...’

She couldn’t think of anything. Not just a reasonable punishment, but of anything but the surprisingly sweet mischief in his eyes and that sense of rightness in sitting there with him, his fingers caressing the core of her palm and sending shivers of heat up her arm, her body aligning, readying to be his.

‘I don’t think I would mind any retribution you could deliver, you know.’ His voice rasped over nerves that were already dancing. The mere thought that he might feel the same attraction was as intoxicating as his touch. He was probably just playing with her as he no doubt played with all the women he claimed to have experienced. But in her mind a common bond of need had snared them both, inescapable.

‘I would never wish to hurt you,’ she replied, her own voice just as hoarse at the depth of that truth. The mischief in his eyes doused immediately, the shadows under his cheekbones becoming even more pronounced. When he spoke now his voice scared her, it was deep and raw, as compelling as an edict from the gods.

‘Take off the veil. I need to see you.’

She shook her head—it wasn’t just that he would see plump and drab Christina James, the daughter of an English doctor, but that he would see her thoughts in her eyes as clear as spring water. This was a game to him, but it wasn’t for her. He was clever and watchful and she would not be able to hide her feelings and then she would see not just disappointment but pity.

‘No.’

‘Damn it, take them off. I won’t do anything, I promise. I just want to see you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can. This is madness. Someone like you shouldn’t even be here, locked into a servant’s life. Look, I am almost well enough to leave. Come with me.’

‘What?’

‘There is a whole world outside these walls and those veils. It’s obvious in everything you say that you are fascinated by it. I’m asking you to come discover it with me.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Probably. A little. Well, more than a little. But I mean it. I know some of the things I do are dangerous, but I would arrange it so that you are never at risk and if anything happened to me you would have everything you need; you would never have to depend on anyone ever again. If anyone is unsuited to be at someone else’s beck and call all their lives, it is you. All that passion in you will bubble over one day and burn everything in sight. I can show you how to set it free. Take off your veils, Athena.’

She dragged her hands away and stood, stumbling backwards. Waves of heat and ice rolled through her and her lungs felt as tight as if a boulder was pinning her down.

‘Stop it. This is my home! My family!’

He struggled to his feet, his hand braced against his side, and she felt tears burning on her cheeks at the clashing currents of fear and concern and need.

‘You would rather remain a servant here?’ he demanded and she clasped her hands together.

‘I am not merely a servant. I would never leave the King and Ari; they are all that matter in my life.’

He looked away, the heat disappearing in a flash from his mouth and eyes as if it had never been. Like this he looked more than ever like a statue and it was hard to reconcile this stony façade with the appealing charm and that almost boyish need of just a moment ago. One of them had to be a lie, didn’t it?

‘It hardly matters,’ he said after a moment. ‘Fantasy is so much more rewarding than reality, anyway. But if you wish men to respect your boundaries, I suggest you refrain from flirting with them.’

‘I don’t flirt.’

‘More fantasy, darling. A dangerous one, too. Someone with your temper would do better to face your flaws or one day that meek little handmaiden act will go up in a ball of fire and then all hell will break loose.’

‘You don’t know me!’

His mouth flattened.

‘I know your kind.’

‘My kind?’

‘Yes. Clever, quiet, with everything tucked in tight until it explodes and takes everyone with it without thought of the consequences.’

The maelstrom of unfamiliar emotions gathered round a single core of fury and she clung to it with savage relief.

‘You are arrogant and presumptuous and annoying, and I am tired of sitting here in these horrible veils while you taunt me. I will tell the King you are perfectly able to travel and I hope he puts you on the very first ship off the island.’ She switched to Greek, stalking towards the door. ‘Yannis, open the door, I am coming out!’

‘Wait!’

But she was already through the door, shoving a surprised Yannis aside. She stripped off the veils and left them in a heap in the corridor.

* * *

It took two more days for Alex to be dispatched. She knew the King had visited him, a chessboard under his arm, and once he even took Princess Ariadne, who came back bouncing with delight at how funny Apollo was.

Though she held firm in her resolve not to see him again, she couldn’t prevent her disappointment that he never sent for her. His offer, offhand though it had been, burned like a lanced boil on her soul, but whether she hoped for it to be repeated or not, there was nothing but silence. Clearly he had had his fun, but now that he was to be on his way she was no longer instrumental. It was all for the better, she told herself, but it took every ounce of her resolve not to go and tell him precisely what she thought of his ingratitude and his stupidity and his insensitivity, just so she could see him one last time.

The day he was escorted down to the King’s own frigate to be transported to Venice, she and Ariadne watched the procession from the Princess’s rooms. The dismal winter weather had burst into a benediction of sunshine in a transition typical of the Mediterranean, transforming the bay into a crystalline sparkle of sapphires and emeralds. Even leaning on a cane he stood almost a head taller than the men around him, the sun striking his hair with silver and gold as he boarded the white-sailed vessel.

‘Apollo is taking the sun with him.’ Ariadne sighed, her chin propped on her arms.

Christina’s heart squeezed and shrivelled. Ariadne’s words were soppily sentimental, but that was precisely what it felt like. Ridiculous, she told herself. Just like the agony columns—absurd, mawkish, silly, stupid. Pathetic. Perhaps if she threw enough insults at this pain it would shrivel as well.

The next day the rainclouds returned and life went on.

Chapter One

London—1822

‘You cannot be serious!’ Alex, Lord Stanton, paused with his glass halfway to his lips.

‘I am always serious,’ Sir Oswald Sinclair replied.

‘That is the gospel truth.’ Lord Hunter raised his own glass with a complicit grin at Alex and Lord Ravenscar, but Alex was in no mood to appreciate his friend’s sense of humour.

‘Hell, Uncle. The man had me shot and imprisoned. I still have a nasty scar to show for it. I have no intention whatsoever of inviting them to Stanton Hall, negotiations or no negotiations.’

Sir Oswald’s expression rarely changed. Rather he used his quizzing glass as a way to communicate human emotion. It went up now, a faint but definite rebuke.

‘While you are indeed heir to the Marquessate and the Stanton estate, your father is still Marquess of Wentworth and as such he decides who is welcome at Stanton Hall and he and your delightful stepmother have expressed their willingness to allow me to bring guests to the hall for a few weeks while they are away.’

‘Don’t split hairs with me, Uncle. Why the devil can’t the discussions be held in London? And if not in London, why at Stanton?’

‘Because he asked. You might have put aside your past as agent for the War Office these five years for a more respectable post in the Foreign Office, but surely you are still aware how important it is that we secure Illiakos as a naval base in the Mediterranean.’

‘I am fully aware of its importance. The last thing we need is another bone of contention between the Turks and Greeks setting off the squabbling between Russia and Austria. I just spent a week with Razumov and Von Haas convincing them it is in everyone’s best interests to allow the English to take this particular piece off the board—for a price, of course. Just because I no longer run dubious errands for you around the world doesn’t mean I have become witless, Uncle.’

‘I am well aware of that, Alexander. But it might interest you to hear that Lucas sent word from Russia that though Count Nesselrode is on board and has convinced the Tsar of its wisdom, not all the powers in Russia are happy with this move since it might weaken the Greek position should they proceed with their resistance to Turkish rule. I prefer to have the King and his daughter where I...where we can control their surroundings and ensure they remain focused on the prize. We all want the same thing in the end.’

‘Not quite in the same way. So, my delightful Sinclair cousins still work for you?’

Oswald’s mouth almost bowed into a smile.

‘They haven’t yet wearied of me as you did.’

‘I don’t think “wearied” is the right choice of word. Grew up might be closer to the mark.’

‘Ah, but that had nothing to do with me,’ Oswald replied and Alex’s lungs constricted with remembered shame and self-contempt. Trust his uncle to go for the jugular without the slightest effort.

‘No. That had nothing to do with you,’ he admitted and his uncle had the grace to show a glimmer of remorse, but before he could speak, Lord Ravenscar intervened.

‘His daughter? There’s a princess in there, too?’

Hunter’s brow rose. ‘Shall I tell Lily you were asking?’

Ravenscar grinned and raised his glass. ‘I’d back Lily against any princess, or a queen for that matter. I was thinking of our stubbornly unwed friend here and his annoying tendency to look down upon us married mortals. It’s about time he fell off his high horse. Maybe a princess will do it. Have you met her, Sir Oswald? Is she pretty?’

‘I met her yesterday at their hotel. She is very pretty.’

‘There. It’s as good as done. Damned if I start calling you your Majesty, though.’

‘To Prince Alexander.’ Hunter raised a toast. ‘You will make a fine despot.’

Alex shook his head at his friends’ nonsense, but their attempt to dispel the tension Oswald’s comment introduced was welcome. There was no point in arguing, after all.

‘Why don’t you just tell me what is expected of me since it is apparently already arranged?’

‘Good. I will travel down with them from London to Berkshire tomorrow and see them settled. We will expect you the next day.’

‘Will you?’

‘Don’t scowl, Alexander. I am impervious to shows of temper. I am well aware you are otherwise occupied with Canning on the business of the Congress over the next couple of days, so I offered to escort the King and Princess to Stanton myself until you can join us. It will be an opportunity to keep our Russian and Austrian friends under my eye.’

The same eye was currently grotesquely magnified by the quizzing glass and Alex knew he had lost. It was damnable, but his uncle could always get his way without the slightest show of effort or emotion.

‘Lucky them. Very well, I will come as soon as Canning is done with me. But I draw the line at courting princesses.’

‘A pity. The island is most strategically located for our navy and a marriage would be more effective than a treaty. Never mind. I will bid you gentlemen good evening.’

Alex cursed and sat down in his armchair as the door closed.

‘One day I will walk out of a battle of wills with him the victor.’

‘I doubt it,’ Hunter said. ‘He’s a true cold fish, that man. You just act like one. Or at least you have for the past five years.’

‘Better a cold fish than a landed one like you two old married men.’

Ravenscar propped his boots on the grate and sighed.

‘Here we go again. Another smug lecture from the bachelor. We had best see him hitched soon, Hunter. Either that or take him round back and show him a thing or two.’

‘You could probably use the exercise, Raven,’ Alex taunted. ‘When was the last time you went to Jackson’s?’

‘Oh, we get plenty of exercise, Alex.’ Hunter grinned. ‘And not merely at Jackson’s.’

Ravenscar laughed. ‘Careful, Hunter, you’re embarrassing him.’

‘It’s a pity neither Nell nor Lily have sisters.’

‘Damn it, Hunter. If you dare take up matchmaking...’

Hunter raised his hands in surrender.

‘I’m not such a fool. Besides, I would rather watch you fail on your own. Perhaps we should put a wager on it, Raven? Think the Princess will do the trick?’

‘Don’t waste your blunt, Raven. When I do marry it will be to a biddable female who understands the rules just so I can finally put a stop to your crowing and my father’s unveiled hints. Until then I intend to continue to enjoy being the only one in the Wild Hunt Club who hasn’t been leg shackled and domesticated.’

‘Just you wait. When you fall from those icy heights, you’ll fall hard, King Alexander.’

‘You forget, I met the Princess some six years ago and though she was just a child, I hardly think she has grown into anything that might tempt me to change my state of unwedded bliss.’

Raven frowned.

‘I remember now. When you came back to London with that hole in your side, you mentioned a veiled nurse who brought you back from the dead. I always liked that touch of mystery. What was her name? Athena, right? Very romantic.’

‘Hardly romantic,’ he answered Ravenscar’s comment as lightly as possible. ‘If wearing those curtains is part of the wedding ceremony on Illiakos that is another incentive to stay away from the Princess. That poor nurse was about as unsuited to be a biddable bride as any I’ve come across.’

‘You are hardly an authority on who is suited to be a wife, my friend. You probably think you should marry someone like your stepmother.’

‘And why not? Sylvia is sweet, practical and undemanding. What more could one want in a wife? After almost ten years with my mother my father deserved someone who didn’t push him to the edge of insanity. I know you two have become disgustingly smug since you wed, but not everyone wants to be dangled over a ravine on a daily basis.’

‘I rather like the sensation,’ Ravenscar mused. ‘Lily is magnificent at both dangling and catching me before I hit the ground. An excellent combination.’

‘For you. When I have to finally account for the title I think I will choose someone a little more docile than your Lily and someone rather less subversive than Nell.’

Hunter laughed. ‘That is assuming the choice is yours, Alex.’

‘One always has a choice. That is what distinguishes us from animals. We might have urges, sometimes even powerful ones, I grant you, but in the end we choose how to act upon them. It is as simple as that.’

Ravenscar considered him over the rim of his glass.

‘Simple is never that simple. You might have thoroughly reformed yourself these past five years since what happened with Countess Vidanich, Alex, but you might be surprised to find there are areas outside even your control. Life has a way of turning us down new roads and we only realise we are there when it is too late to turn back.’

‘You make it sound like something mystical, Raven.’

‘Sometimes if feels like that. For example, I remember thinking at the time that you were rather unusually taken with that little nurse when you described your forced stay on Illiakos. Perhaps that Athena was a priestess in disguise and she cast a spell on you.’

‘Very creative, Ravenscar,’ Hunter approved. ‘I’m beginning to hope your veiled temptress will be accompanying the little Princess so you can thank her yourself. In person. That might be even more enjoyable than losing you to a kingdom. You could finally put that little mystery to bed. Literally.’

Alex shrugged. ‘It is hardly likely the nurse will accompany the King and Princess on a state visit. She is probably married now and with a full brood of children so I will have to remain with my fantasy of what lay beneath those voluminous veils. Now are we going to Cribb’s or are you two under curfew?’

Ravenscar stood and stretched.

‘Careful, Alex, your romantic petticoats are showing. Next you’ll be saying you don’t want to marry because you left your heart under some faceless chit’s veils.’

‘My what?’ Alex enquired politely and Hunter laughed.

‘You do have one, you know. One day you’ll stumble over it and fall flat on your face.’

Chapter Two

Berkshire

Christina leaned her forehead on the window and watched as the sun speared itself on the trees at the edge of the lawn. Like Ari, she was a little disappointed to leave London for Stanton Hall so soon after their arrival in England, but with each mile into the rolling green hills of Berkshire she had felt the rise of an unfamiliar mix of peace and homesickness. She had never expected to discover she actually missed the green and grey of England. No doubt after a couple of weeks of English autumn she would be pining for the sun, but for now she and Ari could enjoy the quiet of the countryside while the King was engaged in his negotiations.

She looked around their shared parlour. It was both large and cosy, a difficult combination but one a clever hand had succeeded in throughout Stanton Hall. Perhaps it was the choice of colours: deep-forest and light-grass greens with muted gold and a great deal of wood. It was like being in an ancient, dignified forest, dappled in sunlight. Most peculiarly it was a forest populated by a series of exquisite wooden figurines, mostly of people and animals. Ari had exclaimed over them with delight when they had arrived and, though Christina hadn’t been quite so vocal, she felt her eyes drawn to them again and again, almost expecting them to begin moving about the room or join the conversation.

‘What shall I wear for our dinner with the political emissaries?’ Ariadne looked up from inspecting the fashion plates in a copy of La Belle Assemblée. ‘I think the white-and-silver gauze Papa brought from Athens and the white peacock feathers with the gold clasp? What will you wear, Tina?’

Christina picked up the figurine on the windowsill, her favourite thus far. It was of a kneeling girl staring into the distance and though it did not show the exquisite skill of the others it continued to draw her, like a child begging to be picked up.

‘I shall wear my nightdress and be tucked into bed with a book and very thankful for it. I doubt I shall be invited to any of the formal dinners, Ari. We are no longer in Illiakos. Here in England companions aren’t treated as guests.’

Ariadne sighed.

‘England is much less enjoyable than I thought. First we leave London after only a few days and Lord Stanton and Papa will likely be all about politics and war and now you say they won’t even let me be with you which means I shall have to sit with Lady Albinia, who is interested in nothing but gardens. Well, if you remain in your room then I shall, too, and so I shall tell Papa!’

As if conjured by his daughter the King walked into the parlour.

‘Ready to come and see the gardens, little star?’

‘Papa! Tina said she will not be invited to dine with us, is this true?’

The King turned to Christina.

‘What nonsense is this, Athena? I have more important matters to see to here than your English pride. You might not be family by birth or law, but in all other respects that is precisely what you are and you will attend all events Ari does. There are bonds that transcend the accidents of nature. On Illiakos we understand this even if you English are slow to recognise what truly matters. Is Ari not dear as a sister to you?’

‘Papa,’ Ari protested, but Christina met his gaze and replied more fiercely than usual.

‘You know she is. You know I would do anything for her.’

‘Except come to dinner, apparently.’

She couldn’t help laughing.

‘If I must, I shall even do that.’

‘Good. Now, what is this, Ari? Hurry and change your dress. But not the blue dress I brought you from Athens, I want you to wear it when Lord Stanton arrives tomorrow.’

‘Oh, must I waste that lovely dress on a stuffy politician, Papa?’

‘You didn’t think him stuffy six years ago, little star. I seem to remember you called him Apollo at the time.’

The figurine fumbled from Christina’s hands, but she grabbed it before it bounced to the floor, her shocked gasp overshadowed by Ari’s squeal.

‘No! Apollo is our host? Why didn’t you tell me, Papa! How exciting. I wonder if he remembers me.’

‘I am certain he does, though at the time you were hardly the lovely young woman you are today. Now go and change, Sir Oswald and Lady Albinia are waiting.’

Ari rushed to her room and Christina sank into a chair. Alex. This made no sense.

‘But...that is the man your guards almost killed!’

‘Nonsense. A misunderstanding. He is a diplomat, he understands that, and Minister Canning assures me he bears no grudge. It was a long time ago, after all.’

‘It was only five years ago.’

‘Almost six. And much has happened since. Now I am squeezed like a nut between the fists of Russia and Austria as they play the Turks against the Greeks. I prefer to test my fate with the English and their navy. I like the English. My years as a student at Oxford were some of my finest.’

‘But he can’t possibly want you to stay here...in his home. You all but kidnapped him and held him prisoner.’

‘Only at first. Then when he was better, I treated him well, didn’t I? We played chess. He is one of the best opponents I have met, and his given name is Alexander, apparently. A fine name for a future King of Illiakos. King Alexander, it has a nice sound to it, yes? I think I wouldn’t mind if he married Ariadne.’

‘You wouldn’t mind...’

Christina waited out the sensation of still being on board the ship that had carried them to England. She should be used to the King by now, but sometimes he still took her breath away. Or perhaps that was the realisation of where they were. Or rather, whom they would see tomorrow. Oh, no, she couldn’t do it. Not again. She should insist on leaving to visit her cousins. They might not want her to come, but surely they wouldn’t turn her away?

‘Perhaps while you are occupied here I should visit my family for a few days.’

‘Nonsense. It is not at all convenient that you leave when Ari needs you most, Athena. This behaviour is not like you. Are you unwell?’

The combination of solicitude and the reminder of her duty crumbled her resistance.

‘I am well, your Majesty, but...’

‘Good.’ He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. ‘We are done here. Go and make certain my little star is in a good mood. She must make an excellent impression. My enquiries tell me Lord Stanton has had the most exquisite of women and his palate is no doubt jaded, so Ariadne must be polished to the finest shine if she is to capture and hold his attention. She is beautiful, yes, but she is still a little rough despite all your efforts to make her the perfect English girl. You should have tried harder.’

‘I...’ She almost let loose her frustration when she saw the expectant mischief in his eyes. He might be fifty, but sometimes he was no better than a little boy.

‘I shall endeavour to do so, your Majesty.’

He sighed.

‘One day you will lose your temper with me, Athena.’

‘I shall endeavour not to do so, your Majesty.’

‘A pity. I think it would do you a world of good. Meanwhile you are looking a little off colour. Why don’t you find yourself a book in that monstrous library you were admiring earlier? Reading always cheers you and you heard what Lady Albinia said, once Lord Stanton arrives, the library and the state room will be in use for the negotiations so take advantage of it being empty while you can. Ari and I will make your excuses. But now go and tell her if she isn’t downstairs in twenty minutes I will...well, do something or other.’

He strode out but Christina didn’t immediately go to do his bidding; she needed time to recover from his unwitting blow.

Lord Stanton. Alexander.

Alex.

What a fool she was. Almost six years had passed. One would think that was enough time for a foolish infatuation to fade, but her thudding pulse was proof the memory of those weeks was still alive inside her.

She couldn’t face him...

Of course you can, you silly girl. He won’t even recognise you. Why should he? He was delirious half the time and the rest of it those ridiculous veils covered you like a tent. Besides, you were just a girl and he was as handsome as a god and as charming as a devil. Of course you thought you were in love with him. But you are older now and quite a bit wiser.

Perhaps this will even do you good, you will see an Englishman all starched and trapped in cravats and waistcoats and bowing and scraping to the King like all the other officials come to pay court. It would be different now.

It had to be different. She didn’t want to have to nurse her way through another bruised heart in silence.

Chapter Three

Alex held his bay purebloods steady as he turned his curricle through the gates of Stanton Hall. It was usually at this point in the drive from London that his conflicted emotions reached their peak. He loved London and the excitement of his work at the Foreign Office, but there was something about coming to Berkshire and to his own wing at the Hall that calmed him, in particular when his father wasn’t in residence. It wasn’t that he disliked his sire and he certainly cared for Sylvia, his stepmother, and had a real and deep love for his two half-sisters, Anne and Olivia, but when they were away he revelled in having the Hall to himself. Then he could lower his guard and forget about duties and policies, Stantons and Sinclairs. Almost.

This particular return, however, was overshadowed by the unwelcome guests awaiting him.

‘Have my uncle and guests arrived yet, Watkins?’ he asked his butler as he came downstairs after changing out of his driving clothes.

‘Yes, my lord. You were not expected until tomorrow and Count Razumov and Graf Von Haas and their entourages recently arrived and are resting in their rooms, but I believe his Majesty and the Princess and her companion, Miss James, have gone with Sir Oswald and Lady Albinia to inspect the gardens. Apparently his Majesty also has an interest in horticulture.’

‘Oh, God help me.’

‘Indeed, my lord. I presume you will join them outside?’

‘Not for the prospect of world peace, Watkins. I have work to do. They will manage without me until dinner.’

He entered the library, a generously proportioned room overlooking the lawns and lake. He had his own study on the other side of the house, but he liked the combination of space and leather-bound warmth the library offered, with its deep, cushioned and curtained window seats overlooking the lake.

Halfway to his desk he noticed a pair of pale yellow kid shoes on the carpeted floor by the curtains drawn over the far window seat. There was nothing peculiar about them except their very presence in the library when his sisters were away. He moved towards them but stopped when the curtains twitched and two stockinged feet peeped out below, moving slowly towards the discarded footwear, like a cat trying to escape detection. He remained silent, watching with appreciation the elegant line of foot and ankle, the slim calf, and with regret the appearance of the hem of a muslin skirt as the feet finally encountered the shoes and slid into them, sneaking back just as stealthily behind the curtains.

‘I’m afraid it is a bit late for concealment,’ he said, trying not to laugh. He had no wish to embarrass anyone, especially not if this was the Princess. ‘I am Lord Stanton. Will you please come out so we may introduce ourselves?’

There was a moment’s silence and then the curtain was pushed aside. A young woman stood up, shaking out her skirts, her finger still held between the pages of a book.

She was clearly embarrassed, her cheeks hot with colour, but she was just as clearly not the Princess. The Princess had been a child with black hair and brown eyes, not hair the shade of dark mahogany and eyes of a peculiar teal blue. His uncle had also claimed the Princess was exceedingly pretty and he was a stickler for accuracy. The woman facing him didn’t evoke the overused epithet ‘pretty’, but her features had a compelling harmony and her large, wide-set eyes were like staring into the distant shadowing of the ocean, the kind that fuelled travellers’ anticipation and fear. Then reality returned and he recalled Watkins’s words—this must be the Princess’s English companion.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, her voice low. ‘When I am reading, I forget myself. I hadn’t even realised I had taken off my shoes until I heard someone moving in the room.’

The silence stretched as he tried to focus on her words, but they faded away from him, like a vaguely familiar foreign language. All that reminiscing with Hunter and Raven was clearly having some ill effects on him—for a moment he had been dragged back in time to a very different room. He struggled to regain his footing.

‘There is no need to apologise. You are more than welcome to use the library, Miss...’ He groped for the memory of the name Watkins had mentioned. ‘Miss James?’

She smiled and her face transformed for a moment, solemnity disappearing under the weight of embarrassed amusement, quickly checked. It was a powerful transformation, like sun breaking through clouds above a stormy sea. He might have to reassess his initial impression—she might not be a beauty, but there was something about her features that went beyond classical features and made it difficult to look away.

‘I apologise, Lord Stanton. We were told you weren’t expected until tomorrow. I wouldn’t have come to the library if I had known you were arriving sooner.’

‘And why is that?’ he asked, moving closer. Surely if this was the girl who had nursed him she would say something, show some sign of recognition. But her eyes showed only embarrassment as she hugged the book to her.

‘Lady Albinia said the library is your domain when you are at the Hall. I meant to take a book upstairs with me, but then I saw the window seat and forgot. I don’t think I could have conjured a more perfect place.’

He glanced at the window seat, at the cushions arranged into a little nest in the corner, still bearing the outline of her body. She turned and began arranging the cushions, plumping them back into shape, her skirts falling forward to accentuate the soft curves of her hips and behind. There was nothing intentionally provocative about her actions, any more than the surreptitious manoeuvre with her shoes had been calculated, but his body wasn’t in the least concerned with intentions. It was focused on actions and on curves and was heading deep into unrealisable potential when she finally finished and turned, her cheeks flushed and the apology still in her eyes.

‘There, now you won’t even know I was here.’

He searched for an answer, something polite and non-committal and removed from the impressions his mind was struggling to master and the messages his suddenly rebellious body was sending.

The silence began to sag in the middle and then, thankfully, there was a movement in the window and he forced his gaze to the sight of his uncle and aunt coming up the path from the gardens with the King and Princess. He grasped at the opening they offered as he would at a rope in a stormy sea. It made no difference whether this was the veiled girl or not. She was the Princess’s companion and a guest. His guest. Everything else must be put aside to be dealt with later, if at all.

‘Your solitude is about to be interrupted anyway. Why didn’t you join them? Don’t you like gardens?’ he asked, more bluntly than he might have intended, but Miss James didn’t appear to find anything strange with his question. She answered it as given, glancing down guiltily at the book she held.

‘I do, but I love books more. Please don’t tell Lady Albinia, I know how she adores her gardens and I would hate to offend her.’

‘Of course not. You are more than welcome to use the window seat when you wish, whether I am at the Hall or not. The only time I am afraid the library is out of bounds is when we will be busy with the negotiations in the stateroom, which is through those doors. Other than that you are welcome here.’

He wondered what on earth he was doing, trying to make her comfortable when the last thing he wanted was to have his privacy invaded any more than absolutely necessary. As they watched, the group in the garden turned on to the lake path.

‘Well, you have just earned another half hour. My aunt is probably taking them to see what remains of the water lilies on the lake. So, what are you reading? Won’t you sit down?’

Embarrassment was often very useful. Now that he was overcoming his initial discomfort he resolved to make the most of hers. People revealed more when off balance and he wanted to know what he was dealing with here. He indicated the window seat again, using his superior height to press her back. She sat down but her eyes narrowed at the manoeuvre. She was a peculiar combination—her expression was cool and calm, but something in the blue depths contradicted that assessment. He stepped back and pulled over a chair, suddenly noticing she held Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile. The veiled nurse had had a preference for agony columns, he remembered.

‘This is a rather unusual choice of reading material. There are shelves of novels in my sisters’ parlour next to the conservatory, you know.’

‘I love novels, sometimes I think they are the anchors of my sanity. But I love tales by people who have seen the world and been stretched to their limits. I hadn’t even realised how much time had gone by.’

Her face had descended into a serious look, but then another smile dispelled it almost immediately. It was like light reflecting off conflicting currents in a lake, confusing hints of forces at work beneath the surface, shifting as soon as the eyes settled on them. Once again his concentration shattered, but the certainty that had struck him when she had first spoken was fading. Her voice was already her own and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if it resembled that young woman of six years ago or whether it had been a trick of his own memory. Perhaps he should just ask her...what? Were you the girl who saved my life? Remember? I’m the idiot who made a fool of himself and asked you to run off with me?

‘That has effectively stifled all conversational gambits, hasn’t it?’ she said into the silence, the amused self-mockery in her deep voice rousing him from another round of uncharacteristic stupor. He shook his head, trying to keep to the surface of the conversation. It should have been easy, but he felt himself struggling to find the anchor of polite patter that was second nature to him and usually took up no more than a tenth of his mental effort while the rest of his mind was engaged on more momentous matters.

‘Does the Princess share your interest in tales of adventure?’

‘No, she is much saner than I. We are currently reading Mrs Carmichael’s Hidden Heart. But you wouldn’t like her.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked. But his hope that the conviction in her statement might indicate an admission of familiarity faded with her next words.

‘Most men despise novels, don’t they?’

‘Just as most women love them? Isn’t that simplistic? I have very little time for fiction, unfortunately, but with two sisters I have been exposed to more novels than I can remember and I certainly don’t despise them. Hers haven’t come my way, though. Are they any good?’

‘I like them; they are almost as good as my dreams.’ Her words ended on a little surprised sound as if she had remembered something or merely realised that she was being a tad too honest. She stood up abruptly and handed him the book.

‘Thank you for the use of the library and your book.’

He stood up as well, taking the book automatically. Between his bulk and the chair he knew he was impeding her exit, but he wasn’t quite ready to conclude this conversation.

‘Formally it is my father’s library. Why are you convinced it is not his book as well?’

She had to look up at him, her head tilted back, accentuating a very stubborn chin. Then she smiled again.

‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

Damn Oswald.

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