The Blackmail Marriage. PENNY JORDAN

told her coolly. ‘My press secretary is already preparing the announcement of our betrothal.’

      

      Carrie gave a small sigh of satisfaction as she studied her reflection in the huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the dressing room of her suite.

      Her classic tailored suit was perfect for such an occasion, if perhaps a little bit on the formal side.

      A wide grin curled her lips and made her look like a naughty urchin.

      And that was why the suit was still hanging in the closet whilst she was wearing a pair of clean but very old and very faded narrow-fitting jeans topped with a tee shirt cropped just above her waist to display a couple of taut, creamy, warm inches of bare female skin.

      A much heavier application of mascara than she would ever have normally worn, combined with a very pale pink lipstick and enough product in her hair to glue wallpaper, had transformed her from her normal sleek, soignée self into a very passable replica of the kind of hip-swinging, head-turning modern and feisty ladette currently so much in vogue on the celebrity circuit.

      It was the kind of look she would never normally have adopted, and Luc was bound to loathe it, she decided gleefully.

      Twenty-five past eleven. She had timed it perfectly!

      Grinning to herself, she opened the door to her suite and stepped into the corridor.

      The Green Salon was one of the less formal of the palace’s state rooms, if such a description could be applied to a room decorated with enough gilt rococo and plasterwork to make one’s jaw drop. The carpets had been made at the famous Aubusson factory, especially to match the design of the plasterwork ceiling, and the room had two sets of double French doors which opened out onto an elegant balcony which in turn overlooked the beautiful private gardens enclosed by the walls of the castle. On formal occasions liveried footmen were posted either side the elegant double doors, as with the other formal state rooms.

      Carrie was relishing the impact her appearance was likely to have on Luc. Her behaviour might be childish, but it was the only way she had of demonstrating how she felt about what he was doing—the only way she had of rebelling against it and him without hurting her brother.

      She had almost reached the bottom of the flight of stairs that swept down to the impressive oval hall when the double doors to the Green Salon were thrust open and Luc strode out, coming to an abrupt halt as he saw her.

      For a moment neither of them moved. Carrie could see the fury in Luc’s eyes, and a tiny quiver of triumph shot through her.

      It was like watching a storm approach, she acknowledged, and a fine shiver galvanised her flesh. She had that same sense of smelling sulphur in the air, of feeling unmistakable threatening tension and brooding danger; feeling the tiny hairs lifting at the back of her neck.

      ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

      The question was delivered in tone so flat that it immediately increased the tension by several notches.

      ‘Excuse me?’ Carrie feigned innocent ignorance, but the light of battle was fierily visible in her eyes.

      ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Luc snapped icily. ‘Your clothes—!’

      ‘Are my clothes.’ Carrie stopped him sharply. ‘These are my clothes, Luc,’ she repeated, ‘and this is me. I don’t intend to change either to suit you. You can take me or leave me, as you wish. It was your choice to blackmail me into this abhorrent betrothal and marriage, but how I dress is my choice! Oh, and I still prefer Carrie to Catherine, Luc. It may not be as formal, but it’s a name I’m comfortable with.’

      Carrie watched at his mouth compressed.

      ‘I have seen the photograph accompanying your articles, Carrie, and I know perfectly well that this is not how you normally appear in public. Your hair…’

      Carrie frowned. He had seen her work…read it? Something unwanted and dangerous was trying to flower into painful life inside her. Fiercely she smothered it.

      ‘You don’t like it?’ She threw him a challenging look and tossed her head. ‘It’s the latest thing.’

      ‘It looks as though you’ve emptied a pot of wallpaper paste on it,’ Luc told her uncompromisingly, ‘and you certainly can’t appear in front of my people looking like that. They would be affronted…insulted…’

      ‘Luc…What are you doing? Luc, let go of me,’ Carrie demanded when he suddenly strode towards her and took hold of her arm, turning her round and almost marching her back up the stairs.

      ‘If you don’t stop it I shall pick you up and carry you bodily, Catherine,’ he warned her, when she continued to struggle.