Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (6 page)

‘You sound angry,' he said. But what her father's parents had done was something
his
parents had done when he and his brother were younger. They would have paid any amount of money to rid the family of an unsuitable woman. Someone who might reflect badly on the throne. A commoner.
Someone like Gemma.

His parents' actions had slammed home the fact that marriage for a Montovian prince had nothing to do with love or passion. It was about tradition and duty and strategic alliance. When he had discovered the deep hypocrisy of his parents' relationship, his cynicism about the institution of marriage—or at least how it existed in Montovia—had been born.

That cynicism had only been reinforced by his brother's marriage to the daughter of a duke. The castle had trumpeted it as a ‘love match'. Indeed, Carl had been grateful to have found such a pretty, vivacious bride as Sylvie. Only after the splendid wedding in the cathedral had she revealed her true self—venal and avaricious and greedy for the wealth and status that came with being a Montovian princess. She'd cared more for extravagant jewellery than she had for his brother.

Consequently, Tristan had avoided marriage and any attempts to get him to the altar.

He schooled his face to appear neutral, not to give Gemma any indication of what he was thinking. Her flushed face made it very clear that she would
not
be sympathetic to those kind of regal machinations.

‘You're darn right. I get angry on behalf of my poor mother—young and grieving,' she said. ‘She wanted to throw the money in their faces, but she was carrying me. She swallowed her pride and took the money—for my sake. I was born in London, then she brought me home to Sydney. She said her biggest revenge for their treatment of her was that they never knew they had a grandchild.'

Tristan frowned. He was part of a royal family with a lineage that stretched back hundreds of years. Blood meant everything. ‘How did you feel about that?'

Gemma toyed with the remainder of the grapes. He noticed her hands were nicked with little scars and her nails were cut short and unpolished. There were risks in everything—even cooking.

‘Of course, I've always felt curious about my English family,' she said. ‘I look nothing like my mother or her side of the family. When I was having disagreements with my stepfather, I'd dream of running away to find my other family. I know who they are. But out of loyalty to my mother I've never made any attempt to contact my Clifford relatives.'

‘So your name is really Gemma Clifford?'

She shook her head. ‘My stepfather adopted me. Legally I bear his name. And that's okay. For all his faults, he gave me a home and supported me.'

‘Until you went to university in Newcastle?'

‘Whatever his other faults, he's not mean. He kept on paying me an allowance. But I wanted to be independent—free of him and of having to pretend to be someone I was not simply to please him. I talked my way into a part-time kitchen hand's job at the best restaurant in the area. As luck would have it, the head chef was an incredibly talented young guy. He became a culinary superstar in Europe in the years that followed. Somehow he saw talent in me and offered me an apprenticeship as a chef. I didn't hesitate to ditch my degree and accept—much to my parents' horror. But it was what I really wanted to do.'

‘Have you ever regretted it?'

‘Not for a minute.'

‘It seems a big jump from chef to co-owning Party Queens,' Tristan said.

Gemma offered the remaining grapes to him. When he refused, she popped some more into her mouth. He waited for her to finish them.

‘It's a roundabout story. When my boss left for grander culinary pastures, his replacement wasn't so encouraging of me. I left the Newcastle restaurant and went back to Sydney.'

‘To work in restaurants?'

‘Yes—some very good ones. But it's still a very male-dominated industry. Most of the top chefs are men. Females like me only too often get relegated to being pastry chefs and are passed over for promotion. I got sick of the bullying in the kitchen. The sexist behaviour. I got the opportunity to work on a glossy women's magazine as an assistant to the food editor and grabbed it. In time I became a food editor myself, and my career took off.'

‘That still doesn't explain Party Queens,' he said. ‘Seems to me there's a gap there.' He'd trained as a lawyer. He was used to seeing what was missing from an argument, what lay beneath a story.

She leaned across the table and rested on her elbows. ‘Are you interviewing me?' Her words were playful, but her eyes were serious.

‘Of course not. I'm just interested. You're very successful. I want to know how you got there.'

‘I've worked hard—be in no doubt about that. But luck plays a part in it, too.'

‘It always does,' he said.

Lucky he had walked in on her in her kitchen. Lucky he'd been born into a royal family. And yet there were days when he resented that lucky accident of birth. Like right here, right now, spending time with this woman, knowing that he could not take this attraction, which to his intense gratification appeared to be mutual,
anywhere
. Because duty to his country required sacrificing his own desires.

‘There's bad luck too, of course,' Gemma went on. ‘Andie was lifestyle editor on the magazine—she'd trained as an interior designer. Eliza was on the publishing side. We became friends. Then the magazine closed without warning and we were all suddenly without a job.'

‘That must have been a blow,' he said. He had never actually worked for an employer, apart from his time as a conscript in the Montovian military. His ‘job prospects'—short of an exceedingly unlikely revolution—were assured for life.

Again, Gemma shrugged one slender shoulder. ‘It happens in publishing. We rolled with it.'

‘I can see that,' he said. He realised how resilient she was. And independent. She got more appealing by the minute.

‘People asked us to organise parties for them while we were looking for other jobs—between us we had all the skills. The party bookings grew, and we began to see we had a viable business. That's how Party Queens was born. We never dreamed it would become as successful as it has.'

‘I'm impressed. With you and with your business. With all this.' He indicated the
Argus
, the harbour, the meal.

‘We aim to please,' she said with that bewitching smile.

He could imagine only too well how she might please him and he her.

But he was not here in Sydney to make impossible promises to a girl next door like Gemma. Nor did he want to seduce her with lies just for momentary physical thrills.

Or to put his own heart at any kind of risk.

This could be for only one day.

CHAPTER SIX

G
EMMA
COULDN
'
T
REMEMBER
when she'd last felt so at ease with a man. So utterly comfortable in his presence. Had she
ever
before felt like this?

But she didn't want to question the
why
of it. Just to enjoy his company while she had the chance.

After she'd polished off all the grapes, she and Tristan had moved back out onto the deck. He hadn't eaten much—no more cake and just some mango. She'd got the impression he was very disciplined in his eating habits—and probably everything else. But getting to know Tristan was still very much a guessing game.

The
Argus
had left the inner harbour behind and set course north for Manly and their lunchtime destination of Store Beach. The sun had moved around since they'd gone inside for coffee, and the crew had moved two vintage steamer-style wooden deckchairs into the shade, positioned to take advantage of the view.

She adjusted the cushions, which were printed with anchor motifs, and settled down into one of them. Tristan was to her right, with a small table between them. But as soon as she'd sat down, she moved to get up again.

‘My hat,' she explained. ‘I need to get it from my bag. Even though we're in the shade, I could get burned.'

Immediately, Tristan was on his feet. ‘Let me get it for you,' he said, ushering her to sit back down.

‘There's no need. Please... I can do it,' she protested.

‘I insist,' he said in a tone that brooked no further resistance.

Gemma went to protest again, then realised that would sound ungracious.
She wasn't used to being cared for by a man.
‘Thank you,' she conceded. ‘It's right at the top of the bag.'

‘Next to the rolling pins?' he said.

‘But no wooden spoons,' she said with a smile.

Not only would Alistair not have dreamed of fetching her hat for her, he would have demanded she get him a beer while she was up.
Good manners were very appealing in a man.

Tristan held himself with a mix of upright bearing and athletic grace as he headed back into the cabin. Gemma lay back and watched him through her sunglasses. His back view was every bit as pleasing as his front. Broad shoulders tapered to a wide back and then narrow hips.
There could be no doubt that a good butt was also an asset in a man.

He looked effortlessly classy in the white linen trousers and the loose white shirt. They were so perfectly cut she wondered if they'd been tailored to fit him. Could you get men's casual clothes made to measure? She knew you could have suits bespoke. Anything was possible if you had enough money, she supposed.

He returned with her hat—a favourite white panama. She reached out to take it from him, but he came to the side of her chair and bent down to put it on her head. His face was very close. She could almost imagine he was bending down to kiss her. If he did, she wouldn't stop him. No...she might even kiss him first. She was thankful her sunglasses masked her eyes, so her expression didn't give her away.

‘Nice hat,' he said as he placed it on her head. As he tugged it into place, his hands strayed lightly over her hair, her ears, her throat—just the merest touch, but it was enough to set her trembling.

She forced her voice to sound steady—not to betray how excitingly unnerving she found his nearness. ‘I've had this hat for years, and I would be greatly distressed if I lost it.'

Again she caught his scent. She remembered how years ago in high school she'd dated a perfectly nice boy who'd had everything going for him, but she hadn't liked the way he'd smelled. Not that he'd been unclean or unwashed—it was just his natural scent that had turned her off. But Tristan's fresh scent sent her nerve endings into a flurry of awareness.

Was there
anything
about Tristan she didn't find appealing?

His underlying mystery, that sense of him holding back still had her guard up—but perhaps that mystery was part of his appeal. And it was in her power to find out what made Tristan tick.
Just ask him, Gemma.

There were many points of interest she could draw his attention to on their way to Manly. But she would not waste time on further guidebook lectures.
The only sight I want to see more of is you,
he'd said.

Did he have any idea of how good those words made her feel?

Her self-esteem had taken a terrible battering from Alistair. Six months had not been enough to fix it fully. Just hours in Tristan's company had her feeling better about herself than she had for a long time. The insistent twitching of her antennae told her that his charming words might be calculated to disarm and seduce. But her deeper instincts sensed sincerity—though for what purpose she was still at a loss.

Enjoy the moment
, she told herself,
because that's all you've got with him.

After Tristan had settled into his deckchair, she turned to him, slipped off her sunglasses. ‘Your interview technique is so good you know quite a lot about me. Now it's my turn to discover Tristan.'

He gestured with his hands to indicate emptiness. ‘There is not much I can tell you,' he said.

Did he mean that literally?

For all the instant intimacy of the situation, she still sensed those secrets. Her antennae waved gently, to remind her to be wary of men who were not what they seemed.

‘Ask me questions—I will see if I can answer them,' he said.

As in, he would see if he was
able
to answer her questions? Or
allowed
to answer them? Or he just plain didn't
want
to answer them?

She chose her first question with care. ‘What language do you speak in Montovia?' she asked. ‘French? German? I think I can detect both in your accent.'

‘We speak Montovian—our own language,' he said. ‘We are a small country and it is influenced by the other European countries that surround us.'

‘Say something to me in Montovian,' she said. ‘I'm interested in languages.'

‘I've been told it is not an attractive language, so I am warning you,' he said. ‘Even to my ears it sounds quite harsh.'

He turned to her and spoke a few sentences as he gazed into her eyes. She tried to ignore the way his proximity made her heart race.

‘I didn't understand a word of that, but your language is not unattractive.' And neither was his voice—deep, masculine, arresting. ‘What did you actually say to me?'

‘You really want to know?'

‘Yes.'

‘I said that the beauty of this magnificent harbour could not compare to the beauty of the woman sitting beside me.'

Spoken by anyone else, the words might have sounded corny, over the top. But spoken with Tristan's accent they were swoon worthy.

‘Oh,' she said, again lost for words. She felt herself blush—that was the problem with being a creamy-skinned redhead...there was no hiding her reactions. ‘Seriously?'

He smiled. ‘You'll never know, will you? Unless you learn Montovian—and no one outside of my country learns Montovian.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because it is only spoken in Montovia. I also speak German, French, Italian and Spanish,' he said.

‘I'm seriously impressed,' she said. ‘I studied French and Italian at school. Then German at night school before I went to Europe on a backpackers' bus tour. But I never use those languages here, and I fear I've lost what skills I had.'

‘You'd pick them up again in the right environment. I was out of the habit of speaking English, but I'm getting better at it every day.' His eyes narrowed in that intense way he had of looking at her, as if he were seeking answers—to what, she didn't know. ‘Especially talking to you, Gemma'.

‘You've inspired me to study some more so that—'

Only just in time she caught herself from saying,
So that next time I'll surprise you by speaking fluent French.
She was surprised at the sharp twist of pain at the reminder that there would be no next time for her and Tristan.

She finished her sentence, hoping he hadn't noticed the pause. ‘So that my skills don't just dwindle away. Did you learn English at school?'

‘Yes. I also had a tutor. My parents felt it was essential we spoke good English.'

‘“We”? You have brothers and sisters?'

Tristan stared out to sea. ‘I have a younger sister. I...I had an older brother. He...he died when his helicopter came down in the mountains a year ago.'

Gemma wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't be a cliché. ‘I...I'm so sorry to hear that,' was the best she could manage.

His jaw tightened. ‘It was...terrible. His wife and their little boy were with him. My family will never get over it.'

Gemma was too shocked to speak. She went to reach out and put her hand on his arm but decided against it, not sure how welcome her touch would be in this moment of remembered tragedy.

‘I carry the loss of my brother with me in my heart. There is not a day that I do not think of him.'

‘I'm so sorry,' she said again. She wished she could give him comfort. But they were still essentially strangers.

He took a deep breath. ‘But enough of sadness,' he said. He turned to her. ‘I don't want to talk about tragic things, Gemma.'

There was a bleakness in his eyes, and his face seemed shadowed. She was an only child. She couldn't imagine how it would feel to lose a sibling—
and
his sibling's family. ‘No,' she agreed.

How lucky she'd been in her life not to have suffered tragedy. The loss of her birth father hadn't really touched her, though she suspected her mother still secretly grieved. Gemma
had
had her share of heartbreak, though. She had genuinely loved Alistair, and the way their relationship had ended had scarred her—perhaps irredeemably. It would be difficult to trust again.

A silence fell between them that Gemma didn't know quite how to fill. ‘Tell me more about Montovia,' she said eventually. ‘Are there magnificent old buildings? Do you have lots of winter sports? Do you have a national costume?'

‘Yes to all of that. Montovia is very beautiful and traditional. It has many medieval buildings. There is also a modern administrative capital, where the banks and financial services are situated.'

‘And the chocolate?'

‘The so-important chocolate? It is made in a charming old factory building near the lake, which is a tourist attraction in its own right.'

I'd love to go there some day.

Her words hung unspoken in the air between them. Never could she utter them. He was a tourist—just passing through before he went back to his own life. And she was a woman guarding her heart against falling for someone impossible.

‘That sounds delightful,' she said.

‘There is a wonderful chocolate shop and tea room near my home. I used to love to go there when I was a child. So...so did my brother and sister.'

Gemma wondered about his sister, but didn't want to ask. ‘Where do you live?' she said instead.

He took another deep breath. It seemed to Gemma that he needed to steady himself against unhappy thoughts. His brother must be entwined in Tristan's every childhood memory.

‘I live in the old capital of Montovia—which is also called Montovia.'

‘That could get confusing, couldn't it?'

‘Everyone knows it. The town of Montovia grew up around the medieval castle and the cathedral and sits on the edge of a lake.'

Gemma sat forward in her chair. ‘A castle? You live near a
castle
?'

‘But of course. Montovia is ruled by a hereditary monarchy.'

‘You mean a king and a queen?'

‘Yes.'

‘I wasn't expecting that. I assumed Montovia would be a republic—a democracy.'

‘It is... We have a hereditary monarchy, but also a representative democracy with an elected parliament—and a legal system, of course.'

‘So the king and queen are figureheads?'

He shook his head. ‘They are rulers, with the power to dissolve parliament. Although that has never happened.'

‘Castles and kings and queens—it sounds like something out of a fairytale.' She was too polite to say it sounded feudalistic. Not when he sounded so passionate, defending a way of life that didn't seem of this century.

‘On the contrary, it is very real. Our country is prosperous. Montovians are very patriotic. Each of our subjects—I...uh...I mean the people...would fight to the death to protect their way of life. We have compulsory military service to ensure we are ready in case they should ever have to.'

‘You mean conscription?'

‘Yes. For all males aged eighteen. Women can volunteer, and many do.'

She shuddered. ‘I don't think I would want to do that.'

‘They would probably welcome someone like you as a cook.'

He smiled. Was he teasing her?

‘But I'd still have to do the military training. I've seen what soldiers have to do—running with big packs on their back, obstacle courses, weapons...' Her voice dwindled away at the sheer horror of even contemplating it.

‘Sign up even as a cook and you'd have to do the training. And no wooden spoons as weapons.'

‘You'll never let me forget that, will you?'

‘Never,' he said, his smile widening into a grin.

Until he went on his way and never gave this girl in Sydney another thought.

Why were they even talking about this? She was unlikely to visit Montovia, let alone sign up for its military.

‘Did you serve?' she asked.

‘Of course. My time in the army was one of the best times of my life.'

Oh, yes. She could imagine him in uniform. With his broad shoulders and athletic build. That must be where his bearing came from. Tristan in uniform would be even hotter than Tristan in casual clothes. Or Tristan without any—