‘I promise.’
But any woman who looked like she did tonight was making a statement, he thought, whether it was manipulative or not. And maybe his thoughts were transparent, because her smile gave way to a flash of anger.
‘Stop looking like that. I have the right to wear what I like.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘My husband bought this for me on our honeymoon,’ she said, still angry, and he stilled.
‘So it is a sort of statement.’
‘I guess it is.’
‘A statement that you’re available?’
The flash of anger stilled and her eyes were suddenly ice. ‘I don’t think I want to be married to you,’ she snapped. ‘Of all the boorish comments…If you wear a nice suit, is that an advertisement of availability as well?’
‘No,’ he said, horrified. He was suddenly way out of his depth. How could he have asked her such a question? As well as being insulting, he’d also hurt her. He could see it in the way she’d withdrawn.
‘Rose, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have no idea why I said that, but it was way out of line. Hell, marriage or not, we seem to have crossed some sort of barrier that’s launched me somewhere where I’m not sure of the rules any more. I know that’s no excuse. But please—I’m sorry.’
Her face softened—just a little. ‘It does seem crazy,’ she admitted. She glanced down at her dress ruefully. ‘But maybe this is some sort of a statement. Maybe that’s why you’ve made me angry. You know, this dress has sat in a camphor chest in my parents-in-law’s house for the last five years. It’s been like…well, I was locked up with it. Tonight I did wear it as a kind of declaration—not that I’m available, but that I’m free. If that makes sense.’ She shook her head. ‘No. It barely makes sense to me. But the last thing I want is more attachments. I’ve done family for life. I am free.’
‘Diving into the royal goldfish bowl of Alp de Montez is scarcely freeing yourself,’ he said cautiously.
‘It all depends on what your prison has been,’ she said. ‘Are you going to ask me to dance?’
‘I…’ What the hell? ‘Yes.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, and she smiled, rose and took his arm, altogether proprietary. It seemed as if he was forgiven. ‘If I’m going to get the camphor smell out of this dress then I need to swirl it round a bit.’
She didn’t smell of camphor.
Rose was an intuitive dancer, light and lovely on her feet. Nick had been taught the rudiments of dance by his determined little foster mother, and he’d always enjoyed it. With great music and a good partner one could almost lose oneself in dance.
But not tonight. He didn’t want to lose himself when he was dancing with Rose.
The Latin music gave way to a gentle waltz. Erhard had still not returned to their table so suddenly Nick was holding her close, steering her around the dance floor, feeling her body mould to his in perfect time with his steps, in perfect time with him.
And she didn’t smell of camphor. She smelled of Rose.
What was she doing? She’d brought this dress with her on a whim, walking out of the house feeling as if she’d betrayed everyone. She hadn’t been worried about what she was wearing. But as her mother-in-law’s weeping had increased, as her father-in-law had wrung his hands and said, ‘Rose, you can’t leave. We love you. You’re our daughter. What would Max think?’ she’d abandoned her distress as too hard and she’d let anger hold sway.
She’d lifted the lid of her camphor chest and had retrieved the dress and shoes that had lain there for what seemed almost a lifetime.
And then, before she’d closed the chest again, she’d taken Max’s photograph from her bedside table and put it where her dress had been.
And had closed the lid.
Then she’d walked out of the house. Free.
No, not free. Still guilt-ridden. Seemingly obligated in some weird way to a country she’d left with the royal family’s scorn following her.
But she wasn’t going back to Yorkshire except to finalise things. No family. No ties. Nick’s question as to her availability couldn’t have been more wrong. If ever anyone else told her they loved her then she’d run a mile.
But she was in this man’s arms.
Yes, and that was great, she told herself as she let him swirl her round the dance floor with an expertise that made her feel wonderful. Erhard’s long letter had filled her in on who Nick was. A loner who’d pulled himself up the hard way. A man whose intelligence was extraordinary. A man with an Aussie accent overlaying his smooth French-Italian native tongue, and a laid-back charm that could knock a girl sideways. Nick was a sophisticated international lawyer who’d come from a background even more dysfunctional than her own.
He was a man who knew where his boundaries were.
So it was fine. Yes, she could marry him to keep Alp de Montez safe, and she could keep her independence. It would finally make her free.
Please.
Five minutes later Erhard returned to the table. The musicians took a break. There was no reason to stay on the dance floor, but as Nick led her back to the table he was aware of a sharp stab of regret.
Only because he loved dancing, he thought. Only that.
Erhard was smiling, watching them weave their way through the tables to join him. The strain had eased from his face a little.
‘Two wonderful dancers,’ he said softly as they sat down again. ‘You see, this thing becomes possible.’ He settled back into his chair and took a long sip of water. ‘Well?’
Nick looked at Rose and found she was watching him. Intently.
It seemed a decision needed to be made. Now. Did that mean Rose had already decided?
‘You need to trust me,’ Erhard told him softly. ‘This is a big ask. We need to trust each other.’
‘It’s fine,’ Rose said, suddenly sounding impatient to move on. Sounding as if she was annoyed. ‘I’m willing to take a chance, so it’s up to you, Nick. If you don’t choose to take part, then say so now. Let Erhard go into damage control and see if there’s another solution.’
‘There’s no other solution,’ Erhard said flatly, and they both went back to watching him.
She’d flung her hat in the ring, just like that. She’d agreed to marry him after knowing him only a matter of hours.
His foundations were shaken, he thought, and it wasn’t just this crazy proposition that was shaking them. It was the way he’d felt, dancing with Rose. The way she’d felt…
He needed a cold shower, and then some good legal advice.
‘You’re holding a gun to my head,’ he snapped, and the old man shook his head.
‘That’s what we’re hoping to avoid. Guns.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I’m serious,’ Erhard whispered, and the grey look flooded back. How ill was he?
‘So tell us,’ Rose said to Nick directly, with a sideways glance of concern towards Erhard. ‘Are you in or are you out?’
‘I need to do a little more research…’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Research away. I spent a week on the internet myself. But if you come up with the conclusion I came up with—as you will—are you ready to have a go at fixing things?’
‘You’re seriously asking me to marry you?’