sheer folly.’
‘But I did it! And with room to spare!’
‘And one day you might just not.’
‘Oh, you can’t live your life thinking like that!’ said Millie airily. ‘Wrapped up in cotton wool and worrying about what might happen. Timidity isn’t living—it’s existing.’
Something about her unaffectedness made him feel almost wistful. As did the sentiment. How long since he had allowed himself the luxury of thinking that way? ‘That’s because you’re young,’ he said, almost sadly.
‘While you’re a grand old man, I suppose!’ she teased.
He laughed, and then stilled, the laughter dying on his lips, and something crept into the enclosed space of the stable—something intangible, which crackled in the air like the sound of the fresh, hot flames of a new fire bursting into life.
And as they stared at each other, another debilitating wave of weakness passed over her. Millie was brave and fearless on horseback, but now she prickled with a feeling very like fear, and the sweat cooled on her skin, making her clammy and shivery. As if she had suddenly caught a fever.
‘I’d better finish up here,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Who are you?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘One of the grooms?’
Some self-protective instinct made her unsure what to say. If he thought she was just one of the hands he would be out of here like a shot. And I will be safe, she thought. Safe from that dark, dangerous look and that unashamedly sexual aura which seemed to shimmer off his olive skin.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’
For a moment a cold, hard gleam entered his eyes—a sense of the condemned man being offered one final meal before his fate was sealed. Her lips were curved, slightly open, and he could see the moist pinkness of her mouth. He longed to kiss her as he had never kissed a woman before, nor ever would again.
And Millie saw it all played out in that one, lingering look. She was almost completely innocent of men, but she had observed enough of nature to know what passed between the sexes. She knew exactly what was going on in the mind of the Prince, and for a moment her heart went out to her sister. What if he turned out to be the kind of man who played away? Serially unfaithful—just as their own father had been?
But Lulu would handle it; she always did. She had had men eating out of her hand for years, and why should this man be any different? But this man was different—and not just because he was a prince. He was…
Millie swallowed.
He was fantasy come true—virile and strong and masculine—even she could sense that. And women would always gravitate towards him, in the way that a mare always went for the most robust of the stallions. Her feelings did a rapid turnaround, and for a moment Millie almost envied her sister.
She stared for a second at the arrogant thrust of his hips and found herself blushing—terrified that he might be able to guess what she had been thinking. ‘I…I’d better go,’ she stammered.
He laughed again, but this time the laugh was regretful, and tinged with something else which he couldn’t identify. ‘Yes, run along, little girl,’ he said softly.
‘But I’m nineteen!’ she defended, stung.
‘Better run along anyway,’ came the silky response.
She stared into the dark glitter of his eyes and did exactly what he said—rushing from the stable as if he was chasing her, out into the spring day which had been transformed by the mercurial April weather. Where before there had been bright sunshine now the clouds had suddenly split open, and rain was cascading down. But at least the droplets cooled her hectic colour and flushed cheeks as she dazedly made her way back to the Hall.
Wet through, she leaned against the wall of the kitchen-garden as she steadied her breathing. But her mouth felt as dry as summer dust, and her heart was still pounding as if it wanted to burst out of her chest.
She felt as if she was a cauldron, and he had reached inside and stirred up all her feelings, so that she was left feeling not like Millie at all, but some trembling stranger to herself.
And she still had lunch to get through.
‘MILLIE, you’re late!’
Above the hubbub of chatter, Millie heard the irritation in her mother’s voice. It was a voice which had been trained to rarely express emotion, but under circumstances such as these, with one daughter poised to marry into such an exalted family, it was easy to see her customary composure vanish when the other turned up unacceptably late.
Millie had tried to slip unnoticed into the Blue Room, where everyone had gathered before lunch, but the majority of the guests were thronged around the tall, imposing figure of the Prince. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her eyes looking down at the priceless Persian carpet because she did not dare to look anywhere else, terrified to look into those dangerous, dark eyes…because…
Because what? Because in the time it had taken her to wash the mud and grime and sweat from her body and to dress in something halfway suitable she had been able to think of nothing other than the shockingly handsome man who would one day become her brother-in-law? Trying not to imagine what it would have been like if he had kissed her.
‘Millie, it’s just not done to keep Royalty waiting,’ scolded her mother, and then added in an aside, ‘And couldn’t you have worn some lipstick or something, darling? You can look so pretty if you put your mind to it!’
The implication being that she didn’t look at all pretty at the moment. Well, that was a good thing. She wanted to fade away into the background. She didn’t want him looking at her that way. Making her feel those things. Making her ache. Making her wonder…
‘But I’d have been even later if I’d stopped to do that,’ Millie protested, and then a dark shadow fell over her, and she didn’t need to look up into that hard and handsome face to know whose shadow it was. She found herself having to suppress a shiver of excitement as he came to stand beside them and hoped that her mother hadn’t noticed.
‘Prince Gianferro,’ said Countess de Vere, with the biggest smile Millie had ever seen her give, ‘I’d like you to meet my younger daughter, Millicent.’
Millie risked glancing up then—it would have been sheer rudeness to do otherwise—and she found herself staring up into his face, all aristocratic cheekbones and dark, mocking eyes. Say you’ve met me, she silently beseeched him. Say that and everything will be okay.
But he didn’t. Just lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips and made the slightest pressure with his mouth, and Millie felt a whisper of longing trickle its way down her spine.
‘Contentissimo,’ he murmured. ‘Millicent.’
‘Millie,’ she corrected immediately as she dragged her hand away from the temptation of his touch and met his eyes in silent rebuke, some of her fearlessness returning to rescue her. ‘Should I curtsey?’
His mouth curved. ‘Do you want to?’
Was she imagining things, or was that a loaded question and—oh, heavens—why was she even thinking this way? He was Lulu’s, not hers—and by no stretch of the imagination could he ever be hers—even if Lulu wasn’t in the picture.
She nodded her head as she dipped into a graceful and effortless bob, hoping that the formal greeting would put proper distance between them.
‘Perfetto,’ he murmured.
‘Yes, it was an excellent curtsey, darling,’ said her mother, with a glow of slightly bemused satisfaction. ‘Now, please apologise to the Prince for your lateness!’
‘I—’
His