Which was good.

Except…did he want her to see him as family? Even that was too close. She’d bulldozed him into staying here for a month and that was a month too long.

He should telephone his mother and let her know what was happening.

Not yet, he thought. He needed to get things sorted first.

What sorted?

It was his thoughts that needed sorting, he decided. His normally razor-sharp intellect was fogged with one sprite of a red-headed woman in soggy jeans and with a bare midriff.

A red-headed woman…

‘Excuse me, sir.’ He’d been walking up the vast steps to the castle entrance, but as soon as he walked through the doors he found a deputation waiting. Two footmen, carrying boxes. One ancient retainer in topcoat and tails. ‘Can you spare a moment?’

He stopped and frowned. ‘You are?’

‘I’m Blake, sir,’ the man said, in the country’s mix of French and Italian but with a heavy English accent. ‘I was valet to the last prince, and to his father before him.’

‘The devil you are.’ Max’s eyebrows rose. ‘They really had valets?’

‘Yes, Your Highness. I knew your mother,’ he added gently. ‘And your father.’

‘Right.’ Max had his measure now and he’d recalled information he’d read just that afternoon. The castle was full of people like Blake. Blake had been on the castle payroll for sixty years, but the death of the last prince had left no provision for retirement. Long-serving staff had been paid peanuts for years. Unless they stayed working here they’d be destitute.

He’d get reparation under way tomorrow, he thought, watching the old man take one of the parcels from the footman. His hands were shaking as if he had early Parkinson’s.

‘This is your dress regalia,’ the old man said, handling the box with reverence. ‘When you flew in before going to Australia you left some clothes behind and we took the liberty of taking measurements and having this made. It would mean a lot to the staff if you were to wear it tonight, the first night of the new order in this Court. Your Highness.’

He lifted the lid with reverence and held it out.

Max stared at Blake. Then he stared down at the box as if he’d just been handed a box of scorpions.

‘Dress regalia.’

‘As befits the Prince…Regent. You know, we were concerned that the monarchy would disintegrate,’ Blake explained. ‘But today there’s been children’s laughter on the lawn and it’s not just the staff who are deeply thankful. It’s all of the country. But this little prince is only eight years old. We’re not so foolish that we think he can possibly rule. You’ve agreed to be Prince Regent and that means for the next thirteen years you’re the country’s ruler.’ He hesitated. ‘As you should be,’ he added softly. ‘Starting tonight.’

‘No, I-’

‘Levout says you’ll be a puppet ruler,’ the old man said, more softly this time, so softly that the two footmen behind him couldn’t hear. ‘We desperately don’t want that to happen.’

‘I’ll stay in control from a distance.’

‘From France?’

‘Yes.’

The man’s rheumy old eyes misted. ‘Sir, that won’t work.’

‘Of course it will work.’

‘This country needs you. For measures to be put in place…well, the people in charge here have been in charge for a very long time.’

‘I’ll be in close contact.’

‘Your Highness…’ The man fell silent. There was laughter from outside. Max looked out to where Pippa and the kids were collecting their clothes in readiness to come inside. The children were playing some sort of keepings-off game, and clothes were going everywhere. Pippa was dodging about on the grass, barefooted, laughing, grabbing Marc and hauling him up to whiz him round and round until he shrieked with delight, then setting him down and chasing a chortling twin.

They’d been here for less than a day. They’d changed the castle.

Could he walk away?

‘She’ll love it,’ he said softly and the old man followed his gaze.

‘She has enough responsibility in looking after the children.’ It was almost reproof.

‘There are people here who’ll help her.’

‘Are you saying you want her to take over the administration?’

‘There’s not that much administration.’

‘If you please, Your Highness-’

‘Don’t call me Your Highness. And he’ll gain a crown.’ Max was watching Marc duck away from Pippa with a shriek of laughter. ‘It’s not as if he’s getting nothing.’

‘No, sir. Marc will gain a crown. The little girls will be princesses. What will your position be?And what will Miss Pippa get?’

Max’s gaze swivelled to stare at him. He’d never met this man until tonight. ‘You know nothing of this,’ he snapped.

‘No, sir,’ the man agreed. ‘I’m only…your valet. And an old friend to your mother. But you do need to make a statement tonight to the castle and to the press. We’re suggesting a photo opportunity in the great hall after dinner.’

‘A photo opportunity?’

‘Mr Levout said we need no such thing,’ he said. ‘But we need…the country needs a statement that things are changing.’ He motioned to the magnificent clothes. ‘We need an official prince.’

‘You really want me to dress up?’

‘Do you have a choice, sir?’

‘Of course I-’

‘Do you want the press agreeing with Levout that nothing will change?’

‘Dammit…We can’t have a photo session without warning Pippa.’

‘Shall we make it tomorrow?’

‘Three or four days,’ he snapped. ‘Maybe Thursday.’

‘Very well, Your Highness,’ the old man said, smiling. ‘I’ll let the appropriate people know that there’ll be an official photograph session on Thursday. But meanwhile I hope you’ll wear this uniform tonight, to give Levout the appropriate message.’

‘I-’

‘He’ll be in ceremonial dress,’ Blake said smoothly. ‘I imagine he’ll want to put you on the back step.’

‘Dammit…’

‘I’ll be in your room in an hour to help you dress,’ Blake said gently. ‘It will be an honour. Your Highness.’

This wasn’t right.

She stared at the vast dressing room mirror. Her reflection came back at her from six directions.

Freckles. Coppery curls but short. Snub nose and freckles. Black skirt to her knees. Pink twin-set that had seen better days. Sensible shoes.

Yuk.

She dusted her freckles until they disappeared, stared at herself some more, wiped off too much face powder and saw her freckles emerge again. She grimaced and went into the bedroom.

Beatrice was there. The oldest housemaid. House-matron, Pippa thought. Calling her a housemaid was ridiculous.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed. The kids were curled up under sumptuous covers, waiting to be told a story.

‘I should stay,’ she said. ‘The kids are still awake.’

‘We’re good,’ Sophie said cheerfully. ‘Dolores is asleep under the bed and Beattie’s going to tell us a story.’

‘Just like our grandma did,’ Marc added shyly.

‘I know a lot of stories,’ Beatrice said and smiled at her. ‘Go on with you. We know where you are if we need you.’

‘In the dining room.’

‘The state dining room,’ Beatrice corrected her. ‘There are six dining rooms.’

‘And the state dining room…’

‘Is the biggest?’

Pippa took a deep breath. ‘Why the biggest? Why tonight?’

‘We’re all wanting to make a statement to Mr Levout,’ she said simply. ‘That there’s a new royal family in this palace.’ She checked Pippa’s dress out and her nose wrinkled. ‘My dear, have you nothing more…formal?’

‘No,’ Pippa said bluntly. ‘But I’m not actually family. It doesn’t matter.’

‘No,’ Beatrice said doubtfully. ‘But the Prince Maxsim-’

‘Won’t be dressed up,’ Pippa said. ‘He knows the limitations of my wardrobe. He wouldn’t dare.’

She was just a little bit…wrong?

Pippa came down the vast stone staircase, her exploration with the kids holding her in good stead. An ancient butler-the average age of these retainers must be about ninety!-was waiting for her. He swept open the huge double doors into the state dining room. She trod over the threshold and she stopped dead.

Tassles. Sword. Medallions.

Max.

She forgot to breathe.

She’d never seen anything more gorgeous. His Royal Highness, Maxsim de Gautier, Prince Regent of Alp d’Estella.

His suit was jet-black, and it fitted him like a glove. There was a touch of white at his throat and at his wrists, accentuating his tan, the darkness of his eyes and his deep black hair. A vast array of medals and insignia was arranged across his breast. A purple sash slashed across his chest. There were gold tassels on his shoulder-epaulets? There was a braided gold cord on the opposite shoulder to his sash, and another tassel at his hip.

He was wearing a sword.

She had to breathe. She told herself that. Okay, breathe. You can do this.

He took a step towards her and smiled and she forgot to breathe all over again.

‘Phillippa…’

It was a couple of moments before she figured out how her voice worked. He was waiting for her to respond. He’d called her Phillippa.

He’d set this up. This formal situation, this amazing dress…

For a girl in a pink twin-set.

‘You rat,’ she managed at last. ‘You bottom-feeding pond scum.’

He blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘I’m wearing my church clothes,’ she wailed. ‘My Sunday best for Tanbarook. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Phillippa, here’s Mr Levout.’

They weren’t alone. For the first time she realised there was another man present-Carver Levout. Like Max, Levout was also in ceremonial regalia. He looked a lot less impressive than Max, but a million times more impressive than Pippa.

One of the buttons had fallen off her cardigan during transit. Pippa had decided since she couldn’t find it she’d leave her cardigan open and hope no one would notice. Levout noticed. He stared pointedly at the gap where the button should be, and it was all Pippa could do not to run.