The Duke's Proposal. Sophie Weston

the room at large.

      But already everyone was back at work, adjusting the designer clothes, balancing on cruelly high heels, concentrating on hair and make-up. One or two of the women who’d used to be her friends before she was Queen smiled back. A new girl, fifteen if she was a day, was so awed that she looked as if she were going to cry. But nobody spoke.

      Although the room was a furnace, after the ice and hail in the streets, Jemima felt frozen from her fingertips to her heart’s core.

      Be careful what you wish for…

      Well, she had wished. And she had got it. And not a thing could she do about it, not any more. The die was cast.

      It had been cast years ago. She had been seventeen. She had believed Basil Blane when he’d said, ‘Babe, you’re a natural. I can make you a star.’

      And, of course, he had. She was a star, all right. Queen of the catwalk. Imperious priestess of the photo shoot. Basil had just never said what it would cost.

      For a moment she looked round this room of women who couldn’t even bring themselves to say hello to her and the amber eyes were bleak. Then she shrugged. The price of success, she told herself cynically. She lengthened her panther’s prowl and wove an expert way through the racks of shrouded clothes and palpitating assistants.

      She had been navigating the backstage chaos of international fashion shows for five years and more. She knew how to do it. There was a job to do here, and she was good at it.

      ‘You’re here,’ said the designer. His eyes were wild and his hands colder than her own. This was his first big show. ‘I called and called. Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

      Jemima sidestepped the question. ‘I don’t let people down.’ That was true. Almost the only thing in her life she was proud of now. ‘Relax, Francis. I’m going to do you proud.’

      True to her word, she gave the performance of her life out on the catwalk—a prowling predator in minimalist silks. The show got a standing ovation. The designer gathered the models about him and wept.

      Jemima dropped her head on his shoulder. The waterfall of Titian hair cascaded artistically across the front of his leather jacket. It looked spontaneous, friendly, even affectionate. And it would make a hell of a photograph.

      Everyone knew that. That was how they had all sat round and planned it last night. The PR people, the publicist, Francis…

      Spontaneous? Huh!

      Just for a moment, when they’d told her last night, she had flared up. She was fresh in from Paris, and travelling made her edgy these days. For half a second she’d forgotten that they paid her a lot of money to pretend to be spontaneous.

      ‘You’re trying to get a rumour going about Francis and me,’ she’d accused them, with more accuracy than tact.

      People started to read their briefing notes avidly, or stared round the untidy boardroom. No one met her eyes.

      In the end it was left to the head honcho to spell out the facts of life.

      ‘Just do the business, Jemima,’ Belinda’s UK marketing director said wearily. ‘You’re the face of Belinda. We need the column inches. Madame’s in town for the show.’

      And everyone, but everyone, was scared of Madame.

      So now Jemima leaned against Francis and smiled up at him as if he was the boy next door, instead of a workaholic dress designer with no known social graces. The paparazzi snapped away, delighted. Columnists scribbled. There was even a romantic sigh or two.

      You could see the headlines, Jemima thought dryly. Jemima in Love at Last?

      She kept her smile so firmly in place her ears hurt.

      Once they were behind the curtains Francis removed his arm at once. He looked almost uncomfortable, as if he shouldn’t be touching the Queen.

      ‘Thanks, babe.’

      He called everyone ‘babe’, though. That illusion of intimacy was just for the camera. Once the performance was over, they both knew she was unattainable. Every man in the world knew she was unattainable. Except one. And he…

      She swallowed.

      ‘You were right,’ said Francis, not noticing. ‘You did me proud.’

      ‘A pleasure.’ Jemima’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

      ‘I suppose you don’t—?’ He was talented and obsessed, but suddenly he sounded uncertain.

      She was easing off his last creation with neat, practised movements. One of his staff was helping. But at that she looked over her shoulder.

      ‘Don’t what?’ She slithered all the way out of the silky tunic and handed it to the assistant.

      ‘Don’t feel like a meal later?’ he muttered. His ears had gone pink. And not because she was down to her underwear.

      Jemima sighed inwardly. Be nice, she told herself. Be nice. It’s not his fault he has the social sense of a toadstool.

      ‘No. Sorry, Francis. Madame’s in town. I could be summoned at any moment.’

      Relief flashed in his eyes. He masked it quickly. ‘Another time, then.’

      It was so unflattering Jemima nearly laughed aloud. She only didn’t because his assistant was hovering. Francis hadn’t noticed, but Jemima was more alert these days. She was almost certain that the assistant had a hotline to at least one of the tabloids.

      ‘Mmm, great. Call me?’ She flung a sweet, poisonous smile at the assistant. ‘Got that?’

      The assistant was wooden. She transferred the tunic to its padded hanger without comment. But the air sizzled.

      Jemima reached for her bra and clipped herself into it at speed.

      Francis blinked. ‘You really were great,’ he said hastily.

      ‘Thank you.’

      He hesitated. Then he said, ‘You just get better and better, don’t you?’

      Jemima was surprised. It showed.

      Francis laughed, bouncing into candour on a great spurt of relief. ‘Oh, you were always gorgeous. But the last few months there’s something new. Like you’re dangerous or something.’

      She was pulling on silky pantyhose with care, but at that she stopped, startled.

      ’Dangerous?’

      Francis might be socially unflattering but he was a professional. ‘It’s very sexy,’ he said reassuringly.

      Suddenly, Jemima was charmed. She gave him her first genuine smile of the day. ‘That’s really sweet of you, Francis. Thank you.’

      ‘You’re better than you know.’ He patted her shoulder awkwardly. ‘Now I gotta go mingle. Where are you due next?’

      This was London Fashion Week, and the models were running from fashion show to fashion show at full tilt.

      Jemima sighed. ‘Meeting with the PR people. Unless Madame Belinda blows her whistle first.’

      ‘What it is to be a supermodel.’ He was only half joking.

      ‘Semi-super. The days of the big celebrity are gone,’ said Jemima, pulling on slim tobacco leather trousers and a black cut-away top.

      ‘You could just be bringing them back.’

      ‘Some hope!’

      She shrugged rapidly into the matching jacket. It was as soft as glove leather. It would be freezing outside in a London February—but what the hell. There might be photographers out there. The Queen of Top Models couldn’t bundle up in winter linings and woolly mittens. However much she might want to.

      ‘And then what? Back to Paris?’

      She