PHILIPPE might say Montluce didn’t mean much to him, but a subtle change came over him as they drove up into the hills. Caro puzzled over what it was, until she realised that he looked at home. Perhaps it had been hearing him speak French. His English was so flawless that it was easy to forget that he wasn’t British, but here he looked more Gallic than usual, his gestures more Continental.
It was a beautiful country, with wooded hills soaring into mountains whose bare tops glared in the sun. The smell of pines filled the drowsy air as they drove through picturesque villages, past rushing rivers and up winding roads dappled with the light through the trees. Caro felt as if she were driving into a magical kingdom, and she was sure of it when they came over the range and saw the valley spread out below them. A large lake gleamed silver between the mountains and the city of Montvivennes on the other. Caro could see the palace, a fairy tale confection with turrets and terraces made of pale elegant stone, and she couldn’t prevent a gasp.
From a distance, it could have been made of spun sugar, mirrored serenely in the lake. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see princesses leaning out of the towers, goblins guarding the gate and princes hacking their way through rose thickets. There would be wicked stepmothers and fairy godmothers, pumpkins that turned into coaches, wolves that climbed into bed and licked their lips when Little Red Riding Hood knocked at the door.
‘Please tell me there’s a tame dragon,’ she said.
‘Well, there’s my great-aunt,’ Philippe said, ‘but I wouldn’t call her tame.’
Montvivennes was an attractive city with the same timeless air as the palace. It seemed almost drowsy in the sunshine, the only jarring note being a group of protestors with placards clustered beside the main road that led up to the palace.
Caro tried to read the placards as they passed. ‘What are they protesting about?’
‘There’s a proposal to put a gas line through Montluce,’ said Philippe. ‘They’re worried about the environmental impact.’
A few moments later, they drove through the palace gates to more saluting and presenting of arms and came to a halt with a satisfying crunch of gravel in a huge courtyard.
‘Wow,’ said Caro.
Close to, the palace was less whimsical but much more impressive. The imposing front opened onto a square with plane trees. Behind, long windows opened onto terraces and formal gardens leading down to the lake, beyond which the hills piled up in the distance to the mountains.
Philippe switched off the engine and there was a moment of utter stillness. Caro saw two ornately dressed footmen standing rigidly at the top of the steps. It all felt unreal. Any minute now she was going to wake up. She wasn’t really here with a prince, about to walk into his palace.
And then the footmen were coming down the steps, opening the car doors, and somehow Caro found herself standing on the gravel looking up at the elaborate doorway.
‘Ready?’ Philippe muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he came round to take her arm.
‘Oh, my God.’ Caro was frozen by a sudden surge of panic. ‘Do you think we can really do this?’
Philippe put a smile on his face and urged her towards the steps. ‘We’re about to find out,’ he said.
It wasn’t your usual homecoming, that was for sure. No family members hurried out to greet them with a hug. Instead, they passed through serried ranks of servants, all dressed in knee breeches and coats with vast quantities of gold braid. Caro was all for vintage clothes, but that was ridiculous.
Philippe greeted all of them easily, not at all daunted by the formality. Caro’s French wasn’t up to much, but she caught her name and it was obvious that he was introducing her, so she smiled brightly and tried to look as if she might conceivably be the kind of girl Philippe would fall madly in love with.
She trotted along behind Philippe as they were led ceremonially to his apartments, trying hard not to be intimidated by the palace. It was decorated with the extravagant splendour which, like the footmen’s livery, had been all the rage in the eighteenth century. There were sweeping staircases, vast glittering chandeliers, marble floors, massive oil paintings and lot of gilded and uncomfortable-looking Baroque furniture.
There were an awful lot of long corridors, too. ‘It’s like being in an airport,’ Caro whispered to Philippe, ‘and having to walk miles to the gate. You should think about having one of those moving walkways put in.’
Of course, airports didn’t have footmen placed outside every room, presumably so that no member of the royal family would have to go to the effort of opening a door for themselves. As Philippe appeared, they would get to their feet and stand to attention, only to sink back onto their chairs when he had passed with a nod of acknowledgement. It was like a very slow Mexican wave.
Philippe’s apartments were on the second floor of one of the palace wings. They were airy, gracious rooms, most with views out over the lake to the mountains beyond, but impersonally decorated.
‘Home, sweet temporary home,’ said Philippe, looking around him without enthusiasm.
‘It’s not exactly cosy, is it?’ Caro was wandering around the room, touching things and feeling ridiculously self-conscious. The rooms were huge, but knowing that there were all those servants outside the door made it feel as if she and Philippe had been shut away together.
Just you and me.
They certainly weren’t going to be cramped. There was a large sitting room, a dining room with a beautifully equipped but untouched kitchen behind a breakfast bar, a study and three bedrooms, each with a luxurious en suite bathroom.
‘And this is our love nest,’ said Philippe and opened the last door with a mock flourish.
‘Oh.’ Caro made an effort of unconcern but all she could see was the huge bed. The bed where she was going to sleep with Philippe tonight. The fluttering started again in the pit of her stomach.
‘Plenty of pillows, as you can see.’ Philippe’s voice was Martini dry. ‘And the bed is wide enough to put one down the middle if you’re feeling twitchy.’
She was, but no power on earth would have made her admit it.
I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself.
‘You said yourself that won’t be necessary,’ she managed. ‘I’m sure you have more experience than I do of these situations.’
‘I don’t know about that. The pillow question hasn’t come up very often before, I must admit.’
No, because the women Philippe took to bed would be sexy, sophisticated and size six at the most. They wouldn’t have to worry about holding in their tummies. Their legs would always be waxed, their nail polish unchipped, their skin perfect. Caro was prepared to bet they never, ever dribbled into their pillows or woke up with mascara rings under their eyes.
‘But then, you don’t usually sleep with someone like me, do you?’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’
It was odd seeing her here, in her father’s old jacket. She was completely out of place in all the baroque splendour, but her eyes were a deep blue and the sun through the window cast a halo of gold around the cloud of hair that tumbled to her shoulders. The formal apartments were warmer and more welcoming with Caro in them.
Philippe remembered quite clearly dismissing the idea that he might want to sleep with Caro. But that was before he’d kissed her. It didn’t seem nearly so unlikely now.
She had wandered over to the window and stood there looking out, hugging the jacket around her so that he could see the flare of her hips. Her legs were strong and straight in the jeans. There was nothing special about her, not really. Other girls had