Cinderella’s fling...

...with the prince!

In this Fairytale Brides story, party planner Emilia Clayton once believed meeting handsome strangers in secret palace gardens happened only in fairy tales. Until her latest job leads her to embark on a fling with mysterious Ren. Unbeknownst to her, Ren’s actually Archduke Laurent, ruler of Armaria! They’re from different worlds, but their connection’s undeniable... After years of estrangement from her family, has Emilia finally found where she belongs—by Laurent’s side?

A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York, England. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes!

Also by Jessica Gilmore

Her New Year Baby Secret

A Proposal from the Crown Prince

The Sheikh’s Pregnant Bride

Baby Surprise for the Spanish Billionaire

Summer Romance with the Italian Tycoon

Fairytale Brides miniseries

Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

Cinderella’s Secret Royal Fling

And look out for the next story

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Cinderella’s Secret Royal Fling

Jessica Gilmore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09141-1

CINDERELLA’S SECRET ROYAL FLING

© 2019 Jessica Gilmore

Published in Great Britain 2019

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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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‘We’ve had a beautiful friendship, Diana.

We’ve never marred it by one quarrel or coolness

or unkind word.…’

—Anne of the Island

To Sam, a true kindred spirit,

thank you for a beautiful friendship.

I’ve been so lucky to have you in my life xxx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

The Royal House of Armaria invites you

to a Midsummer Ball

June 21

Time: 7 p.m. until late

Place: Armaria Castle

Dress code: Black tie

RSVP

LAURENT PICKED UP the sample cream and gold heavily embossed card and turned it over. The other side was blank, awaiting a name. Strange to think that in less than a week this card would be one of the hottest tickets in town. No, not just in town, in Europe.

After all, it had been over twenty years since Armaria had hosted one of their famous Midsummer Balls, enough time for the opulent occasions to become part of myth and legend; rumour whispered that anything might happen to those lucky enough to attend. Film stars fell in love with royalty, maids married dukes and unhappy countesses ran away with stable boys. Every Midsummer Ball was filled with wonder, with seduction, with magic.

At least, if you believed the stories they were. The reality was probably a lot more prosaic. After all, if Laurent’s plans came to fruition, one day stories might be told about this year’s ball, a tale of a midnight proposal and a fairy tale romance. His clasp tightened on the card. Luckily he was too old to believe in fairy tales and he had never dreamt of romance. All a man in his position could do was hope for compatibility and liking.

He turned as the library door opened and his mother entered the book-lined room, relief on her face as she spotted him. Replacing the card onto his desk, he covered it hastily with a blank piece of paper and walked out to meet her in the middle of the vast room.

She held out a regal hand towards him. ‘Laurent, I haven’t seen you since you returned from England. So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.’

‘Hardly hiding, Maman,’ he protested as he bent to kiss her still unlined cheek. ‘My aide knew I was in here. As did the maid who brought me my coffee.’ He gestured to the small table set with a coffee service pulled up to one of the sofas dotted around the room. ‘It’s still hot. May I pour you a cup?’

‘Thank you, dear.’ The dowager Archduchess took a seat on the antique sofa with her usual unhurried elegance, her feet crossing at the ankle, back ramrod-straight and head tilted. Even when it was just the two of them she didn’t allow herself to relax. Her hair was always perfectly styled, her make-up fresh, her clothes smart. The message had been drilled into him since he was a small boy; as a member of the Armarian ruling family—the most prominent and important member—he was always on display, always representing his country, and even when alone he could not, must not, forget it.

Pouring his mother a cup of the fragrant coffee, Laurent handed it to her and she accepted it with a gracious nod of thanks. ‘Thank you, Laurent. But you must know, it’s no time to be hiding in the library. The Prime Minister has been looking for you. He’s hoping for an answer...’

‘No, he’s hoping for a different answer. And he won’t get one.’ With practised effort Laurent kept the anger out of his voice. ‘I will not allow him to turn Armaria into some kind of grubby little tax haven. My grandfather and father managed without taking that step; you managed without taking that step. I won’t be the one to sell the country out. Our people deserve better.’

‘Our people deserve new roads and houses, better hospitals, more schools...’

‘Which is why we need a long-term strategy.’ It was as if they were two actors rehearsing well known lines. Lines they had been repeating for the three years since Laurent had finished his MBA and his mother had formally ceded her regency of Armaria to him.

‘And you have one?’ Hope brightened her voice. ‘How was your trip to England? Did he say yes?’

She didn’t need to specify who he was; she knew full well that Laurent had been paying a second under-the-radar visit to Mike Clayton, the tech entrepreneur whose robotic gadgets could be found in households all over the globe. Mike Clayton who was looking for a more sustainable form of energy to manufacture said robots. Energy a small country with a long coastline, windswept hills and mountains and long hours of sunshine could provide...

Laurent walked over to the tall thin windows, staring out at the famous castle gardens full of tourists and sightseers. Tourism was a valuable resource for the small country, but it wasn’t enough to make it as prosperous as it needed to be. ‘Not exactly. But he didn’t say no either and he’s coming out to take a second look at the proposed site and to meet with the university.’

‘That’s promising. But is it enough? I know the Prime Minister is hoping to have a plan approved by Parliament before the summer break. You need something more concrete than a second visit to offer him.’

‘I need nothing. Parliament is merely advisory and the Prime Minister would do very well to remember that.’ Laurent inhaled slowly as he turned to face his mother. ‘You know that my father was determined not to go down the tax haven route, nor did he want to turn the country into a giant theme park of romanticism and cod medievalism. You worked hard to keep his vision alive and I won’t betray his legacy. If we can attract one thriving tech company like Clay Industries then others will be sure to follow. We can turn Armaria into the tech capital of Europe, a Silicon Valley of the north. Create jobs and prosperity without losing our integrity.’ He stopped abruptly, aware he sounded like he was giving a prepared speech to Parliament, and his mother smiled with understanding. After all, she had heard variations on the speech many times before.

‘It’s not me you have to convince, Laurent.’

‘No, just Parliament.’ Advisory they might be, but life was infinitely easier with them on side. ‘If Clay Industries bite then Parliament will capitulate on the tax haven bill, I know it. I just need that first investment...’

‘So you’ll find a way to make it happen.’ His mother was matter-of-fact. This was what they did. Through ten centuries the Archdukes of Armaria had done whatever they had to, to protect their people from invaders and plagues, wars and famine, bankruptcy and poverty. He would not be the first to fail.

‘Yes. I will. Which is why I have suggested that the Claytons are our guests of honour for the newly revived Midsummer Ball. Mike Clayton’s sixtieth birthday falls on the same day, and they have yet to decide on the best way to mark it. What better way than for him to celebrate here in Armaria on one of the most iconic nights of the year?’

‘Midsummer is always special, but it’s less than a month away. And it’s been years since we held a grand ball. Not since your father...’ Her voice faltered, as it still did whenever she spoke of her late husband. Twenty-one years of widowhood hadn’t lessened her grief. Things might have been different if she had been able to move on, but instead Laurent was all too aware that his mother’s life had stilled at the moment of her husband’s death and she had been trapped into a regency she had neither asked for nor wanted, preserving the small country to hand on to her son. ‘There is so much to do, to plan and arrange. The ballroom could do with a lick of paint and a polish, as could half that wing and some of our staterooms.’

‘It’s a good thing we have a castle full of staff, isn’t it? I know the timing is tight, Maman, but our Midsummer Balls were legendary; reviving them is the kind of gesture we need to show we have faith in Armaria, in our past and traditions as well as in our future. It’s the ideal opportunity to make the Claytons fall in love with Armaria, with everything we have to offer. Let Mike Clayton use his heart as well as his head when he chooses us. Speaking of which...’ He hesitated. Once he’d said the next words, there would be no going back. He steeled himself. ‘I think it’s time I got married.’

‘Married?’ His mother’s surprise was almost comical. After all, she had been hinting at this very thing for two years now, drawing up lists of eligible and connected young ladies on a regular basis.

‘I am twenty-eight, as you keep reminding me. And, as you know, Alex is next in line—how cross would he be if I died without an heir and he had to become Archduke?’

‘Dear Alex,’ his mother murmured. ‘He loves that hospital so much.’

‘Which is why I need to settle down and have an heir or two so he doesn’t have to worry about hanging up his stethoscope and putting on a crown.’

The dowager Archduchess’s eyes narrowed as she assessed her son. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.’ And, her tone implied, if she didn’t know about it, then how could it be happening? ‘And you know how it is. You are Armaria and you have to do what is right for the whole country, and that includes your marriage. You can’t just marry anyone.’

‘I wasn’t planning on marrying just anyone.’ He took a deep breath. Once the words were said there was no going back. ‘Mike Clayton has a daughter. Bella. I’m sure you’ll like her. I am considering asking her to be my Archduchess. To strengthen the ties between Armaria and Clay Industries on every level.’

‘I see.’ His mother blinked and for one moment the formidable regent disappeared, to be replaced with a tearful mother who only wanted her son’s happiness. Another blink and the regent returned as if she had never left. ‘Oh, Laurent. I do see. And of course it makes sense. The days when we needed to ally ourselves with one of our neighbours through marriage may have gone, but there’s always a new generation of buccaneers in town.’

‘I haven’t said anything to Bella or her parents,’ Laurent warned his mother. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you first. Obviously, she might have plans for her life that don’t include a draughty old castle and living in a strange country.’

‘Tell me about her. What makes her laugh? What are her dreams?’

Laurent shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with the whimsical question. He was an Archduke. He didn’t deal with dreams and laughter; he dealt with facts and figures and if he decided to propose to Bella Clayton and if she accepted then it would be the oldest trade in the book. He had a country in need of investment and her family had that investment to make. A title and a throne for money or influence or protection, just as his forebears had done time and time again.

‘As you know, I’ve stayed with her family twice now and she seems nice enough.’ He didn’t need to see his mother wince to realise how far short those words fell. ‘She’s pretty, possibly even beautiful,’ he tried again. ‘She loves dogs and horses; we spent most of our time together discussing them.’ A mutual love of animals was surely as good a place to start a marriage as any. Many royal couples had less.

‘Where was she educated?’

‘Nothing to worry about there; she went to an exclusive boarding school and then spent a couple of years at a Swiss finishing school. Since then she has worked for Clay Industries, helping run their charity trust.’ Not that she seemed over-burdened with a nine-to-five; her role there seemed more titular, but the charity angle would go down well with the press and was good preparation for many of the duties necessary for an Archduchess.

His mother raised an eyebrow. ‘No university? That’s a shame. I do think in these uncertain times a girl needs a good education beyond correct knives and the right curtsey—she never knows when she might end up Regent in an absolute monarchy. A good grasp of mathematics and economics can be essential.’

A wave of sympathy swept over Laurent for the young Archduchess his mother had once been, barely thirty, widowed and thrust into a position of responsibility on behalf of her young son. ‘Hopefully, it won’t come to that. I’m not planning on leaving her to manage alone.’

She glanced up, startled, betrayed into an answering smile when she realised he was teasing her. ‘Of course not. But an Archduchess does need a lot of common sense and a thick skin as well as brains. It’s not an easy job.’

‘No. It’s not. But she does seem fully aware of the burdens of her privilege as well as the blessings. And her mother made sure I knew that Bella is descended from the Normans on both sides of her family tree—Mike Clayton informally adopted her when he married her mother, but her natural father was a baron, so her background is good enough for those people who care about such things.’

‘Yes, it does sound as if her birth and education will do. Laurent, is this idea yours, or have her parents hinted that the two of you might make a suitable union?’

‘All my idea. There has been no pressure from Mike Clayton, no hints that his investment is conditional on such a move. But he is extremely fond of his stepdaughter and very family-orientated. I believe he would welcome our marriage and would want to do his best for the place she eventually calls home.’ Bella’s mother, Simone, was a different story; she had made several comments linking Laurent and her daughter during his two visits to the family estate and taken every opportunity to throw them together. Laurent had no doubt that she was hoping for exactly this outcome—and that with a proposal would come her complete backing for Clay Industries’ investment in Armaria.

‘And the young lady herself. Does she seem to like you, Laurent? Will she welcome a proposal after so short an acquaintance? Can you be happy with her?’

They were three very different questions.

‘I will be happy watching Armaria prosper,’ he said at last. ‘As for Bella Clayton... I do not believe a proposal will be either a surprise, or unwelcome. She’s twenty-seven and has been raised with an expectation of a place in society. Life here would not be the kind of shock it might be for someone from a different kind of background.’

‘Well, then,’ his mother said after a pause. ‘In that case I look forward to meeting her—and her family. When are you hoping that they will arrive?’

‘A few days before the ball.’ Walking over to the desk, he unearthed the invitation he had been looking at earlier and handed it to his mother. ‘I had this mocked up earlier. Once we’re happy with the design we’ll get them sent out, so get your secretary to send mine the list of everyone you would like to invite by the end of the week. I know the timing is tight, but this is the first royal ball held at the castle for two decades. I don’t think any guests will worry too much about prior plans, do you? And, hopefully, by the end of the summer Armaria will have both new investment and a new Archduchess.’

His mother looked around the library, lips pursed. ‘I’ll also make a list of all the work that needs doing between now and then. It will have to be all hands on deck if we are going to open the castle up to hundreds of guests.’

‘I’m happy to wield a paintbrush if it gets the job done. Thank you. Don’t worry about the ball itself, Maman. Simone Clayton has recommended an events planner and, all being well, she should be starting at the weekend.’ He hesitated. ‘Obviously, I expect to cover all costs, as the host, but the Claytons do have some additions they’d like to make to the traditional plans—and of course they have their own list of guests to invite. As a result, they are insisting on paying for the event planner, their guests and for the cost of any of their extra requirements. I did my best to dissuade them, as you can imagine, but they were adamant.’ Laurent’s mouth thinned. His country, his castle, his responsibility. But he was supposed to be wooing Mike Clayton—and his daughter—not arguing with them, and in the end gracious capitulation was the only option.

‘I see. Are you sure, Laurent? Sure that this girl will make you happy?’

Laurent merely bowed in answer. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, both for myself and for Armaria.’

For Laurent knew there was no real difference. He was the Archduke and with the title came responsibility for every man, woman and child, every meadow and mountain. He had never wasted any time wishing things were different; what was the point? His focus had to be on the future—and now his plans were finally coming to fruition. What was the point of might-have-beens and if-onlys? Bella Clayton was attractive, pleasant, well brought up and well connected—and the heir to a company with the capacity to change Armaria’s fortunes. If she was prepared to grant him those assets in return for a title then he was a fortunate man indeed.

* * *

Emilia Clayton leaned back in her chair and managed to summon up a professional almost-smile as she regarded her stepmother across the vintage desk.

‘You didn’t have to make an appointment to see me, Simone.’ Only both women knew that was a lie. Emilia did everything she could to avoid her father’s family. She was sure they were as relieved as she was when she excused herself from dinners and birthdays. Which was why Simone’s presence in her office was such a surprise, and not one of the pleasant variety. Just the sight of her stepmother made it hard for Emilia to be the quiet, controlled professional woman she had grown into, the memory of the rebellious teen with more anger than she could control shuddering through every nerve and vein. She shoved the memories back and maintained her smile.

Simone’s almost-smile was as faux genuine as Emilia’s own. ‘You didn’t reply to your father’s last texts. An official appointment seemed like the only way to actually guarantee getting hold of you.’

‘If I’d known it was so urgent I would have made the time. But I’ve been busy. As you can see.’ Emilia kept her tone light but something in her chest twisted as she spoke. Was her father ill? His texts had been so non-committal, the usual wishy-washy hopes that she was well and that he would see her at some unspecified point soon. The same messages he’d been sending her for the last decade—when he remembered. Nondescript, impersonal, a salve to his conscience.

Probably exactly what she deserved.

‘I’d heard you started your own business. This is all very quaint.’ Her stepmother looked around the spacious office space, with its soothing tones of white and grey and vibrant pictures and soft furnishings, with an air that strongly hinted that quaint was the most neutral word she could come up with. ‘I have to say, Emilia, I was very surprised to hear that you were living in Chelsea.’ The slight emphasis on ‘you’ conveyed myriad meanings, each one suggesting that Emilia was not the kind of person who belonged in the once bohemian, now rarefied borough.

‘No one was more surprised than me, but this is where our agency is based.’ The truth was, Chelsea was the last place Emilia would have chosen if she had had a choice. She hadn’t ventured to this part of West London since finally leaving home for good at just sixteen; it was far too close to her father’s Kensington apartment and there were unwelcome memories around every corner. But when her colleague and friend, Alexandra, had inherited an old townhouse in a beautiful tree-lined street in the heart of the old Chelsea village, it had been the catalyst for the two of them, along with their friends Amber and Harriet, to quit their day jobs and leave their rented rooms in far flung parts of London for the heart of West London.

‘Yes, the Happy Ever After Agency. How whimsical.’

‘We guarantee happy clients. Speaking of which, is this a business appointment, Simone, or did you just want to catch up? Only we are rather busy.’

Simone raised one eyebrow ever so slightly, her only comment on Emilia’s manners. Emilia had never been able to rile her stepmother, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. Truth was, Simone had never cared enough about her for her behaviour to really matter, each act of bad behaviour and rudeness an inconvenience rather than a shock. ‘Lady Jane Winspear was highly complimentary about the party you organised for her.’

Emilia kept the half-smile in place to hide her confusion. The party in question had been for a pair of particularly spoiled twins. In her opinion, Bella, her stepsister, was equally spoiled but somewhat past the age of unicorn rides and carousels. ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘So when I needed an event planner with immediate effect, I of course thought of you. My way of helping out your little enterprise. I know you’re too proud to accept help but I hope you wouldn’t be silly enough to turn down paying work.’

Emilia curled her hands into fists under the desk. She had made it clear years ago that she neither wanted or needed anything from her father or his new family. But, although the Happy Ever After Agency was doing well, turning down work would be a foolish move, especially from people as well connected as her father and stepmother. ‘You want to hire me?’

‘That’s why I am here. I would like you to organise your father’s sixtieth birthday ball.’

‘My father’s...’ Emilia swallowed. Of course she was aware that her father’s sixtieth was less than a month away. How could she not be when his fiftieth had been the occasion when she had packed her bags and walked out of his family and his life, vowing that this time it was for ever? She had planned to spend his sixtieth as she had every one of his birthdays since then: in denial.

‘As I said, we’re very busy and it’s very short notice. And I can’t afford any freebies; this is a new business.’ She stopped, slightly appalled by herself as the excuses spilled from her mouth. How did Simone always have this effect on her? It was as if she expected the worst from Emilia and Emilia simply had to oblige her. And the only loser was Emilia herself.

‘I’m aware of the short notice. The truth is your father was planning a quiet family birthday.’ A family birthday which obviously didn’t include Emilia. And that might be partly her choice but it still stung. ‘However, he’s been invited to be guest of honour at the first Armarian Midsummer Ball to be held in over twenty years.’

This was obviously very impressive news indeed and Emilia did her best to look awed whilst trying to work out where Armaria was. Was it the small country between France and Italy or the small country between Switzerland and Italy? Or was it in the Balkans? ‘Congratulations to Dad,’ she said and Simone threw her a hard glance.

‘Finally your father is getting the recognition he deserves. Of course he will want his friends, family and business partners to attend the ball, and so I offered to supply an event planner to make sure every detail is just how he likes it.’ Simone steepled her hands and looked at Emilia, her grey-eyed gaze as hard and piercing as it usually was where her stepdaughter was involved. ‘Will you be able to find the time to organise the event of the year or will I need to find another planner? One who isn’t too busy to accommodate me?’

Emilia’s mind whirled as thoughts of palaces and royalty and all the delicious publicity such a job would generate passed swiftly through her mind. How could she turn an opportunity like this down? ‘Why me?’ she asked bluntly.

Simone’s mouth thinned. ‘Believe me, Emilia, I thought long and hard about coming here today. I want this ball to be perfect and I haven’t forgotten your behaviour at your father’s fiftieth—and nor has he. But your reputation as an event planner is very good and I can’t believe you’d endanger it because of some long-held teen angst. And, whether you like it or not, you know your father better than any stranger ever could. If you put your mind to it then you can make sure this ball is as special as he is.’

Emilia’s fists tightened. ‘I see.’

‘There’s a lot riding on the evening. Not only is it your father’s birthday but he is considering moving his European headquarters and new factory to Armaria. We have got to know the Archduke very well over the last few months and he and Bella... Well, I don’t want to say too much but I have hopes of a much, much closer tie with the royal family. Nothing can go wrong. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘So, you’ll do it?’

No. Both Emilia’s head and heart spoke in unison. Emilia might be twenty-six now, all grown up with her own business and a family of friends she’d assembled herself, but where her father was concerned she was still a hurt, lonely child. And when it came to Simone she was a hurt, angry child. She kept an emotional and a physical distance from them for a reason; she didn’t like who she had been when she lived with them, the way she had acted, her desperate bids for attention, each one more extreme than the one before, how out of control she had been. Better to stay far away. It was self-preservation and it had worked over the last few years.

But the event promised to be lucrative and generate a lot of publicity. This wasn’t just about her; there were four of them with a lot invested in the future of the agency. She couldn’t make a decision like this on her own.

‘I need to talk to my partners. The notice is short and there is a lot to do; I’ll have to leave for Armaria straight away and that means more work for everyone here. Look, I’ll let you know in the morning. Send me numbers and a rough outline of what you need tonight and if they agree then I’ll send through a quote first thing.’

‘There’s no need for a quote. I’ll pay whatever you charge.’ Simone got to her feet in one elegant movement. ‘My assistant will email through the guest list and let you know your contact at the palace. Remember, I expect you to be professional, Emilia. Do not embarrass your father or yourself. No, don’t get up. I can see myself out. I’ll see you in three weeks. I’m expecting perfection. Do not let me down.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, OF COURSE we’ll say no.’ Amber’s green eyes burned with indignation as she paced up and down the small sitting and dining room housed in a conservatory at the back of the house. The whole of the ground floor was given over to office space apart from the galley kitchen and this light, if slightly cramped, area. Upstairs, the first floor and attic floor each housed two bedrooms and a bathroom; Alexandra and Emilia had one floor, Amber and Harriet the other.

Emilia wasn’t sure what lucky star had been shining down on her the Christmas Eve she had decided to stay late at work rather than face her lonely rented room and ready meal for one. As she had finally left the modern South Bank building where she worked she had met first Harriet, then Alexandra and Amber, all, like her, in their early twenties and all with nowhere to go that Christmas. An impromptu drink had lengthened into a meal and, several years later, they were business partners, housemates and sisters, a bond even Harriet’s recent engagement to their former boss, Deangelo Santos, couldn’t break. Although Harriet officially now lived in Deangelo’s penthouse apartment while she and her fiancé looked for the perfect home, she still had her own room at the Chelsea townhouse and often stayed over when Deangelo was out of town. And not even a billionaire fiancé could tempt her to stop working. The Happy Ever After Agency was born of their hopes and dreams. It was far more than a job. Making it work was their top priority and, although they all knew that Deangelo would gladly bankroll them, their independence was too important to allow them to accept a penny.

‘Simone will pay whatever I quote, money no object. And think of the publicity, Amber.’

Alex nodded. ‘The Archduke of Armaria is notoriously private. A ball hosted by him, the first in the royal castle in twenty years, will be headlines in all the gossip magazines, headlines which will give us the kind of boost we need to really get ourselves ahead.’

‘We’re doing okay and we can get ahead another way. Amber’s right. You can’t be an employee at your own father’s birthday.’ Harriet squeezed her hand. ‘You should be there, dancing the night away, not worrying about missing musicians and whether there’s enough canapés.’

‘We all know the only way I’ll be there is if I can invoice for the privilege. Family gatherings are not my style and it’s easier for them to play happy, perfect families without me lurking in the background like the Ghost of Family Past. Look, if we consider this objectively then you know I would be mad to turn it down. It’s a great job.’ Part of her even believed what she was saying, another part, the bewildered little girl she tried hard to forget, just wanted to be at her dad’s birthday party. And the sensible part of her agreed with her friends. She would be much better off turning the event down.

But no way was she giving Simone the satisfaction.

‘Do you want any of us there as backup?’ Alexandra asked in her usual calm, cool way and Emilia seized onto the practical question gratefully.

‘No, thanks. There is plenty to do here; in fact I have another two birthday parties for the pampered Princelings and Princesses of Chelsea, a Golden Wedding and an engagement party in the next three weeks, plus a restaurant launch and a charity coffee morning. Amber, I know you have a lot of your own work on; will you be able to manage?’

‘With your notes and if you’re on the end of the phone, of course,’ Amber said stoutly.

Emilia smiled at her gratefully. ‘We always planned to be doing huge charity balls and corporate launches; it’s time we moved on from children’s games, even if Pass the Parcel has a real diamond bracelet inside. How nice if we got to employ someone to take care of the small events and I could concentrate on the big league. Look, Simone thinks she’s putting me down with this whole scheme, but she’s actually doing us a huge favour so let’s treat this like any other job. Who knows anything about Armaria?’

‘Isn’t it the smallest country in Europe?’ Amber asked, but Harriet shook her head.

‘Third, I think, or fourth. It’s a principality, but the ruling Prince is actually an Archduke for various historical reasons I can’t remember. Armaria is fiercely independent and proud, very patriotic, very beautiful. It’s in the sweet spot between France, Switzerland and Italy so gorgeous coastline, mountains and forests. Castles to die for; you couldn’t ask for a more picturesque location, Emilia.’

‘And how do you know so much about Armaria?’ Alex arched elegant eyebrows at her friend.

‘Deangelo considered investing there. The Archduke wants industry beyond tourism and farming without going down the tax haven route; it wasn’t right for him then but he’s been keeping an eye on the place to see how things change. The Archduke’s father died when he was just a little boy and his mother was regent for many years and she concentrated on stability not growth, which means the economy has stagnated. It’s still an absolute monarchy; there’s some agitating for more democracy, but the last referendum was pretty decisive in favour of the status quo.’

Harriet clearly hadn’t finished but she was interrupted by a squawk from Amber, who waved her phone in the air. ‘According to Your Royal Gossip the pressure is on the Archduke to marry. The next closest heir is an older, unmarried second cousin who runs the local hospital and has no interest in changing that. Rumour is that Prince Laurent d’Armaria is looking outside the usual pool of local aristocrats and European royalty for fresh blood and fresh money...’

‘Your stepsister is single, isn’t she?’ Harriet asked and Emilia nodded.

‘As far as I know. Simone was hoping for a duke or one of the Windsors but obviously that didn’t happen. I wonder if that’s what she meant by closer ties? What’s he like, the Archduke?’

‘Handsome in a cold, blond way. Said to be proud, standoffish.’ Amber held her phone out to Emilia but she waved it away. She’d see him for herself soon enough.

‘Okay, I think we’ve decided that we’re going for it, right? In that case I declare this meeting officially over. Let’s celebrate our new contract the usual way.’

‘Pyjamas, cheese on toast and mugs of hot chocolate?’ Harriet punched the air. ‘Bags me choose the film; Deangelo is on a nature documentary phase and it’s interesting but I am gasping for a good old-fashioned romcom.’

They all smiled in agreement, but Emilia knew her friends’ smiles all masked concern and that they would be watching her carefully all evening long to make sure she was okay. But as she watched Harriet start to slice the sourdough bread she’d brought over from Borough Market, and Amber grate the cheese while Alexandra began to heat the milk, Emilia also knew that she’d survive. She had before, and this time, thanks to the Agency and the girls who ran it, she wasn’t on her own.

* * *

Emilia was doubly glad of the optimism and support of her friends when, two days later, she found herself suspended over the famous Armarian royal castle. The helicopter engine was so loud she could barely form a sentence, even in her head, but if she could she was sure that sentence would be Help. Human beings were not meant to travel in tiny metal cages held up in the air only by rotating rods.

The helicopter hovered over the castle for a brief moment, giving Emilia a bird’s-eye view of the ancient building, all delicate spires and battlements, looking more like a child’s dream of a castle than a real-life building, home to the royal family of Armaria, seat of the small country’s Parliament and famous tourist attraction. Thanks to Harriet’s detailed briefings and Simone’s even more detailed notes, she knew that the Archdukes of Armaria had lived right here, in this very spot, for generations beyond memory, the original keep long since enfolded into the growing castle, the whole remodelled in the eighteenth century by an Archduke whose tastes had run to the gothic. The sun shone overhead and to one side the sea sparkled a deep blue, to the other the mountains rose up to meet the sky, the very furthest still topped with white. Even through her fear Emilia noted that she had never seen anything more idyllic in her entire life.

She sucked in a deep breath as the helicopter began to descend. She was here; there was no changing her mind now. And she didn’t know what was more terrifying: putting together an event for hundreds of people, an event that would be reported on by every gossip magazine and blog in the western world, in just three weeks—or facing her father and his family.

With a final sickening lurch the helicopter juddered to a stop and Emilia gingerly undid her seat belt and alighted, head bent as far down as she could get it even though the blades were far above her. Glad she had elected to wear sensible flats and trousers to travel, she pulled her light linen jacket down and smoothed her hair back, checking it was still in its smooth ponytail. She was here to work and she needed to make the right impression straight off. This she could do. She’d been working since she was sixteen years old and that was the way she liked it. She’d soon learned that the busier she was, the less time she had to think. Or to feel.

A tall, angular woman was waiting at the far end of the helipad and, after seeing that her bags were being collected by a young, uniformed man, Emilia made her way over to her. ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘I’m Emilia, the event planner.’ It was only as she spoke that she realised she had omitted her surname. Clayton was common enough a name but it might be easier not to be associated with the guest of honour or asked any difficult questions. Emilia only it would be then, unless anyone asked outright.

Her hand was ignored in favour of a condescending nod. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you to your office. You do not have much time so I hope you are ready to start straight away.’

‘That’s okay. I once organised a takeover announcement and launch of a whole new brand in just forty-eight hours. I thrive on pressure.’ Uncomfortably aware she was beginning to sound over eager and might break out into the crazy metaphors of a reality show contestant any second, Emilia hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It’s very beautiful here; what an amazing setting. I usually like to start off by walking around a venue, getting to know it properly. Will there be any issue here if I do the same? I’m aware that the building has several functions and that the royal family actually live here and the castle is home to Parliament as well.’

‘Your security clearance has been arranged.’ As the older lady spoke they arrived at a small side door, guarded by a perspiring man in an antiquated-looking uniform, all braid and gilt. ‘This is the door you will use to enter and exit the palace at all times. You need to show your pass here and then sign in once inside. No pass, no admittance, no exception.’

‘Understood.’ Emilia smiled at the guard, who stared woodenly back before she followed her guide into the long entrance hallway. It took a few moments for her details to be registered, her passport scrutinised and the all-important pass to be issued and she was then led down the corridor, rooms pointed out as they went.

‘That’s the main aides’ office, the housekeeper’s room and the garde de campe’s suite. You’ll find the kitchens along there, turn right and down the stairs; the staff dining room is next to it. Breakfast is available between six and eight, lunch between noon and two and dinner from eight. If you require anything in the meantime, ask a page and she or he will get it for you. You do not help yourself. Most people are fluent in English; the official language is French, but day-to-day we speak an Armarian dialect which is a mixture of Italian and French.’

‘I have passable Italian and my mother was French so I should be fine,’ Emilia reassured her and the confidence elicited a begrudging smile. This lady was a difficult audience, but she’d had worse.

‘Your pass gives you access to everywhere you should need to go. If it’s locked then it’s a private area, accessible only to the royal family and their immediate staff. You are not to trespass. This side of the castle is the administrative and housekeeping wing and so the royal family are very unlikely to be seen back here, nor should you encounter any Members of Parliament; their offices and debating chambers are on the other side of the castle. If you should see the Archduke or his mother you curtsey and do not speak until spoken to. If you need to check anything with them, you ask me and I will arrange it.’

‘Great. And you are?’

The thin lips pursed even tighter. ‘Contessa Sophy D’Arbe. The Archduchess’s secretary.’

‘Got it.’ Emilia looked around her with interest. Although the windows were narrow and glazed with ancient-looking glass, the curved ceilings high and the stone underfoot uneven, grey and very old, the corridors were still impersonal and corporate, with nondescript watercolours on the walls and the painted, closed doors were numbered like in any work space.

‘Your office is on the floor below; it’s small and a little dark, but it was the only space we had available. It should have everything you need, including lists of all the palace suppliers. Your bedroom is in the attic. The key to your room and directions to all areas of the castle are on your desk and your belongings have already been taken to your room.’ The Contessa came to a stop by a narrow staircase and nodded to it. ‘Your security pass will unlock your office door. Down those stairs, turn right, room twelve. If you need any refreshments, ask a page. I’ll arrange a meeting with you tomorrow to see how you’ve got on. Oh, and welcome to Armaria.’ And with that the Contessa nodded one more time before sweeping away without a backward glance.

Emilia stood at the top of the stairs, torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to turn around and scamper back to the safety of her Chelsea home as fast as she could. ‘The Contessa and Simone seem destined to become BFFs,’ she muttered. ‘I must introduce them.’ Right. She took a deep breath. Time to find and check out the adequate office. Time to locate a page and order some much-needed coffee. Time to write out her first of what would be many to-do lists. And then time to familiarise herself with the castle and the grounds. She had all this wonderful, old, picturesque space to play with. The more she had to do, the less time she had to worry about actually seeing her father. It was time to get busy.

* * *

‘Ah, Your Highness...’

‘His Royal Highness will know the answer...’

Eyes forward, head up, Laurent silently repeated as he swept down the grand corridor, determinedly not looking left, right or up onto the gallery, where at least three people were trying to grab his attention. He slid his gaze slightly to the right to ensure his Armarian Spaniel, Pomme, was following him, then snapped them straight ahead, allowing one hand to briefly rest on the dog’s head as he marched on.

It came to something when a man couldn’t find any peace in his own castle. Laurent just wanted a corner to sit and read through the proposal his Chancellor had pressed upon him earlier that day, but every corner seemed to be full of cleaners or decorators or florists. There wasn’t an inch of the palace that wasn’t being buffed, polished, repainted or reupholstered and the air was thick with paint, dust and turpentine. Even his own suite of rooms wasn’t immune, although he had made it very clear to anyone who would listen that they at least were strictly off-limits to cameras, guests and onlookers. Even a prince needed a room of his own—or, in his case, five rooms including a study and a bathroom, his bedroom, dressing room and en suite bathroom, neatly housed in one of the four turrets which rounded off every wing of the castle. Although he would never admit it, Laurent was still secretly glad that he had his own turret room. It seemed like the least a boy growing up in a castle could expect, a small consolation against the lack of privacy and tourists around every corner. Against the role he had no choice but to occupy.

‘Just the man! Your Highness...’

But Laurent had long since learned the key to getting from A to B undisturbed. He simply strode fast, head high, eyes not focusing on a single face, not catching anyone’s gaze. And because it was considered bad manners—if not downright treasonous—to accost the Archduke without an explicit invitation, this tactic usually worked. But it was hard to walk purposefully when one had to keep dodging ladders, buckets and toolboxes and every now and then Laurent would accidentally catch someone’s eye and that would be considered the explicit permission that person needed to unburden themselves to their sovereign, as was their right and his duty. But when all they wanted was his view on paint colours or a ticket to this damn ball and he had a proposal to read, his patience was wearing thin fast. It was with a huge sense of relief that he finally reached the tiny side door to which only he owned a key and stepped out into the sunny courtyard beyond, the precious proposal a little more bent and dog-eared and still unread. He closed the door firmly behind him as Pomme made a dash for the nearest potted plant.

Laurent tightened his grip on the report. This was his chance: his chance to make Armaria truly independent and stable. Industry, jobs, investment... The Chancellor had gathered all the evidence, ready for Laurent to place it directly in Mike Clayton’s hands. He just needed to pick when to present it. Before the ball or after? Before he proposed to Mike Clayton’s beloved daughter or after...?

He’d always known he’d have to marry strategically; every Archduke did. Their title and position bartered carefully away for influence or money or hopefully both. Why should he be different just because some modern foreign princes and princesses had been allowed to follow their hearts? In a country where the monarch was more than a figurehead, hearts simply couldn’t rule over heads. He’d always known this.

And now the time had come. Proposing to Bella Clayton was the most sensible thing he could do. He’d be fulfilling his duty to the country and to the throne. She was well-bred, well-educated and brought with her the potential of a new beginning for Armaria. She was perfect.

Whistling for Pomme to join him, Laurent walked across the shady courtyard, filled with tall plants in earthenware pots and brightly flowering climbing plants. An arched door led into a walled garden, half a flower-filled lawn, half a small tangled orchard of fruit trees. At the far end of the orchard, a small wrought iron arbour stood by the wall, a shady respite from the relentless noon sun, and Laurent’s favourite hiding place. Checking his phone—only eight missed calls, fifteen messages and thirty-three emails since he’d last looked half an hour ago—he headed straight there while Pomme, ecstatic to be freed from palace etiquette, made for the nearest tree. Laurent absentmindedly scrolled through the emails, deleting or forwarding as many as he could, flagging the rest to deal with later.

Intent on his phone, he didn’t notice a leg lying in his path, not until he tripped right over it, recalled to his surroundings by an indignant, ‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going!’

Regaining his balance, Laurent turned and looked down at a young, slim woman, lying under a tree, long legs sticking out in a most dangerous way. ‘I shouldn’t need to watch where I’m going,’ he said in his most repressive manner. ‘This garden is private.’

It was only as he spoke that he realised the young woman had spoken and he had replied in English.

Flushing to the roots of her honey-brown hair, the young woman immediately scrambled to her feet, notebook in one hand, pen in the other. ‘I did wonder,’ she confessed. ‘The door was so well concealed, but when it opened...’

‘You slipped inside and hoped no one would see you?’ It should have been locked. Only two gardeners had the key; one of them had slipped up.

‘That’s about the truth of it. They gave me an office, but it’s so noisy in the palace I couldn’t think so I rewarded myself for a solid afternoon’s work with an explore of the gardens. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found this place. Not that the rest of the gardens aren’t exquisite,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But they are so formal. I like a bit of wildness in my nature. I’m Emilia—’ she stuck the pen into a pocket and held out a hand ‘—the event organiser. I am so sorry. I promise not to trespass again.’

Laurent was slow to take her hand, struck as he was by two things. One was the frank expression in her clear hazel eyes, an expression untinged by awe. The other was her surprising admission that she preferred this small, shady garden to the famous royal gardens of Armaria. He did, of course, but as far as he knew he was in a minority of one. ‘You don’t like the Royal Gardens?’

She stepped back, hand dropping as she looked around at the orchard as if seriously considering his question. ‘Oh, no, they are beautiful and they will make a wonderful backdrop for the ball. But they’re very...’ she paused ‘...very grand. And perfect. I worry about crushing a blade of grass, or casting a shadow on a carefully cultivated scene. I’m much more of a throw myself on the ground and sprawl kind of girl, as you found out. Sorry again.’

‘In that case,’ Laurent said, ‘you must come here whenever you wish. I’ll order you a key.’

‘But this is obviously private; won’t the Archduke mind?’

For a moment all Laurent could do was stand there with an expression he was sure was the most undignified one he’d worn since ascending to the Dukedom at the tender age of seven. ‘Mind?’

‘If it’s usually locked then isn’t it his? That’s what I was told—that all locked areas are private, for the royal family only.’

And that was when he realised what was odd about this conversation. There was no awe in her expression, no hesitation in her manner because she had no idea who he was. Laurent could not remember the last time that had happened—if indeed it ever had. True, he’d been helping shift furniture in the throne room and hadn’t changed out of his oldest jeans, the ones that made his mother sigh on the rare occasion she saw him in them. His hair wasn’t neatly combed but falling into his face, and his short-sleeved shirt was covered with dust. No one expected to see an Archduke look like one of the many labourers working away to make the palace perfect for the ball of a potential billionaire fairy godfather. For one moment he was tempted to pretend that he was one of them, to enjoy this pomp and ceremony-free moment a little longer.

He pushed the enticing thought aside. Surely she’d wonder how a palace workman could give her permission to be in a private place and, besides, such games were beneath him.

He held out his hand with the straight-backed formality that had been drilled into him since before he could walk. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. I’m...’ But the words were thick in his throat. Oh, he had a few, a very few, handpicked friends, men he could trust, who he could be some semblance of normal with for a few precious hours a week, but even with them there was an unspoken acknowledgement of his rank. When had he last had a conversation this free and easy? He liked the frank way she chattered on, despite her embarrassment at having been caught trespassing. That would disappear in an instant once he revealed his identity. ‘I’m...’ But before he could complete the introduction Pomme came bounding over, his interest in the pretty stranger clear.

‘Hello, beautiful, who are you?’ Emilia bent over and found the exact spot behind Pomme’s ears where he loved to be scratched. Laurent grinned as he watched his dog writhe with no self-consciousness whatsoever. ‘What glorious colouring. Almost calico.’

‘Pomme is an Armarian Spaniel. Originally bred to be hunting dogs, but he’s a pampered pet, aren’t you, Pomme?’

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous. Does he belong to you?’

‘Yes. As you must have realised by now, he’s Pomme and I’m Ren...’ The diminutive came easily to his tongue. And it wasn’t a lie; a very few people shortened Laurent to Ren. But never in public.

‘Hi, Ren.’ She straightened, one hand still buried in the dog’s thick ruff. ‘It was nice meeting you but I’d better go before we both get into trouble. I get the feeling the Archduke wouldn’t be too happy if he caught me here.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

‘Maybe not. But I’d still better go. It was lovely meeting you. And thank you for not arresting me!’ And with one last pat for Pomme, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and a swish of her ponytail she turned and walked away. Laurent stood in the shadows and watched her walk out into the sunlight, the solitude he’d been craving suddenly not feeling as desirable as it usually did. ‘Emilia,’ he said softly, tasting her name, before heading over to the arbour to finally read the report that would help him save his country.

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