“Congratulations, Dottie,” he said ironically. “You're beginning to acquire the tone of lofty command. It's a pity you have such a poor idea of when to use it.”

“Are you telling me how to behave?”

“On the evidence of my eyes I think somebody needs to.”

“Oh stop being so stuffy. Mike's seen me in less than this-”

“I don't want the details.”

“-when I stayed with his family once, and we all had to fight over the bathroom.” She met his eyes innocently. “Everyone saw everyone in everything…or rather in nothing. Or anyway, not much.” Seeing no yielding in his face she said coaxingly, “Can't you see the funny side?”

“I suppose I might have expected that from you,” he said bitterly. “The funny side. Always the funny side. You're incurably frivolous.”

“Rubbish. I can be serious when the situation is serious. But this one isn't.”

“You're the queen. If you let a man see you wearing only a slip and-” he stopped, feeling his breath coming unevenly.

Dottie looked down at herself, following his gaze. “Yes, I'm not wearing a bra,” she said. She couldn't resist adding, “Have you only just noticed?”

He'd been trying not to. The top of her slip was lacy and full of little holes, giving tantalizing glimpses of her otherwise bare breasts. They were as firm and uptilted as he recalled from that first morning when he'd been granted a brief, forbidden glimpse of her lovely nakedness. His brow was damp.

“Are you so shameless that you don't cover yourself?” he demanded coldly.

Dottie herself couldn't have explained what had gotten into her to make her goad him like this, but the little devil that was urging her on gave another prod with his trident.

“Why should I? It's only you.”

“Meaning that I'm some kind of eunuch?” he demanded dangerously.

“I was thinking more of a father figure. And what's a eunuch?”

“A eunuch would be a man who could see a woman dressed as you are and feel no response,” he snapped. “A eunuch would observe you half-naked and see the funny side.”

“But you don't?”

A pit yawned at his feet. Just in time he saw it and swerved.

“I cannot be amused,” he said bitingly, “when a woman to whom I must swear allegiance as my queen behaves in a way unsuitable to her station.”

The effect of these words on Dottie was so swift and dramatic that it took Randolph aback. He couldn't know that any reference to his lowered position cut her to the heart. He only knew that the fun drained out of her face, leaving only a sad dignity behind.

“Perhaps you're right,” she said, pulling on a robe and turning away from him.

“Dottie, I was only-”

“It's a rotten situation for you. I should have remembered.”

“Let's not discuss that.”

“No, we don't need to discuss anything. I'll go and get dressed now.”

She hurried away, leaving Randolph displeased with himself. He'd acted correctly and it had been a disaster. She was no longer joyous, therefore no longer Dottie.

And that was all wrong.

The rules stated that royalty arrived last and departed first. So on the night of the great ball Dottie stood, with Randolph, behind the huge mirrored double doors that led into the ballroom, knowing that on the other side were gathered two thousand people.

She would have liked to grasp his hand, but although he was beside her she couldn't make herself do it. Everything was wrong between them now.

The moment came. From behind the doors she could hear the orchestra play the national anthem. The doors opened on the glittering scene and they stepped forward.

At once she was engulfed in a wave of applause. Everywhere people were smiling at her. She knew a stab of pleasure, but hard on its heels came indignation. Why didn't they hate her for displacing the man whose life was dedicated to their service? Why didn't they spare a thought for his suffering? Burning with pity for him, she failed to notice her progress until she found herself at the foot of the stairs leading to her dais.

Randolph led her to the top, inclined his head and withdrew. The Master of Ceremonies caught her eye. She nodded, he signaled to the orchestra conductor, her partner presented himself and the ball began.

Deep in the crowd, Mike had watched Dottie's arrival with fond admiration, glad to see that she didn't seem to need his help. Then a footman approached him, but the words weren't the ones he'd expected. “Would you like the honor of dancing with the Countess Sophie Bekendorf?”

Mike looked around wildly at some of his officer friends, but they slapped him on the back and urged him on. Sophie was magnificent in dark red velvet, her shoulders bare but for the famous Bekendorf rubies. Feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter Mike followed the footman toward her, not in the least comforted by her brilliant smile.

But Sophie was charming. She greeted him warmly and was even understanding about his dancing. After a couple of turns around the floor she said sympathetically, “Why don't we sit this one out? I'm a little thirsty.”

Mike found himself in a small conservatory just off the ballroom, a drink in his hand, and Sophie's ardent eyes turned on him.

“I really only drink beer,” he protested.

“But this wine is practically our national drink,” she said, sounding hurt.

So he tried it, and had to admit that it wasn't bad after all.

“Everyone wants to talk to you,” Sophie said admiringly, “because nobody knows our new queen as well as you. We're all so glad to have her. She's refreshingly natural.”

“Aye, speaks her mind, does Dot,” Mike confirmed.

“So I've observed. Tell me, did her royal birth really come as a surprise to her?”

“Oh yes. She had no idea. Mind you, her grandpa always knew. Used to say all sorts when he'd had a few.”

Sophie gave a tinkling laugh and Mike began to feel that perhaps he was a heck of a fellow after all. He drained the second glass and a third appeared as if by magic. Or perhaps it was the fourth.

“But I don't suppose he knew very much,” she said.

“Well, he had some very strange stories. Nobody believed a word of them, mind.” Mike held out his glass to Dagbert, wondering why he'd ever been worried. A glow of content was settling over him.

Deep in the ballroom Dottie was beginning to feel relieved. So far she'd managed without mishap. Every foreign ambassador had to be honored with a dance in strict order of importance. Somewhere near the lower end of the list was Count Graff, the ambassador from Korburg, who danced correctly, spoke like a robot and barely bothered to conceal the fact that he was looking her over with mingled interest and contempt.

Sometimes she caught sight of Randolph, splendid in dress uniform. He too was doing duty dances, although her quick eyes never saw him in Sophie's arms. Why? she wondered. Had they made a pact to avoid each other in this public place? Or was Randolph simply too heartbroken to be near her?

Then she realized that he never looked at her. She'd dared to be pleased with her own appearance. She knew that she really looked like a princess. And for all the notice he took she might as well not have bothered.

At last her duty dances were done, and she could sit on the plush chair on her dais, and wiggle her toes. Randolph would approach her now, but he seemed deep in conversation with a general, so Dottie set her chin and summoned a footman.

“Inform my cousin that I would like to speak to him,” she said, sounding more imperious than she felt because she felt uneasy behaving like this.

After a moment Randolph approached her and bowed correctly. His air was polite but formal. He bowed again when she indicated the chair beside her, and took it.

“Is there some way I can be of use to you?” he asked.

“You can tell me how I've offended you.”

“Your Royal Highness has not offended me.”

“Oh stop that!” she said, letting her temper flare a little. “Why haven't you asked me to dance?”

“Because it's not my place. I've already explained that it's for you-”

“But surely that doesn't apply to you?”

“I'm afraid it does.”

“Then I'm asking you to dance with me.”

He rose and extended his arm. “As Your Royal Highness commands.”

She was about to speak to him crossly again but she noticed how sad his face was, and it silenced her. They danced together correctly for a few minutes, and Dottie became more depressed every minute. When had they ever been correct? Perhaps his misery over Sophie was more than he could conceal. Whatever the cause, he seemed to have become almost a stranger.

He saw her looking at him and smiled self-consciously. “I trust you're enjoying your first ball?” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm enjoying it extremely.” She thought that sounded about right.

Randolph heard the elegant phrasing and his heart sank. For some reason tonight he found himself remembering their first evening in London, when she'd laughed and talked outrageously. At first he'd been shocked, but shock had passed as he became charmed by her springlike freshness. And all the while he'd been deceiving her, and he knew that she'd never quite forgiven him.

Now a change had come over her. She was beginning to learn her role, to dress correctly and speak elegantly. But, inch by inch, she was ceasing to be Dottie, and he didn't like it.

He reminded himself that to her this was just a game, that she was looking forward to calling a halt and returning home to marry Mike, the man to whom her heart clung with a stubbornness that drove him wild. He thought of the secret action he'd taken to ensure that her dream would never come true. He was deceiving her again, and his guilt tormented him.

For a moment her attention was distracted, and he followed her gaze to where Sophie was floating by in the arms of the Korburg ambassador, the third time she'd danced with him.