Crowned: An Ordinary Girl. NATASHA OAKLEY

that’s important to you?’

      ‘Of course. It’s the driving force of my life.’

      There was a small beat before he asked, ‘What do you think the professor’s thinking?’

      Marianne shook her head. ‘He’ll let you know when he’s ready.’

      ‘And you don’t have a preference?’

      His question was multi-faceted—and they both knew it. She looked down, apparently fascinated by the shades of pink that swirled together on the skirt of her dress. ‘I—I didn’t say that.’

      ‘Marianne—’

      Her control snapped. ‘Don’t!’ She turned away as though to go back into the sitting room.

      ‘We need to talk.’

      ‘Not here,’ she said in almost a whisper. ‘This isn’t the place.’

      ‘It’s the best we have.’ And then when she didn’t move away any further, ‘I get the impression that Max and Professor Blackwell will hardly miss us however long we’re out here.’

      He saw the faint nod of her head, her earrings swinging back and forth.

      ‘And there’s no one to hear us out here.’

      Marianne stood motionless for a moment as though she was deciding what to do. The breeze caught at the light fabric of her dress. And he waited, completely uncertain whether she’d turn or walk back inside.

      ‘I suppose that’s important,’ she said at last, turning back to face him.

      Marianne shivered again and wrapped her arms tightly around her. It hurt him to see her looking so…strained. That wasn’t the way he remembered her looking at him.

      ‘What do you want to tell me?’ She rubbed at her arms.

      Another shiver. ‘You’re cold. If we were really on our own I’d give you my jacket.’

      She seemed to uncoil and a spark of anger lit her eyes. ‘Well, that’s just a lovely offer, Your Serene Highness.’

      It took a moment for him to remember what she was remembering. The walk in the park. The rain. The kiss. She’d looked so incredibly sexy in his sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled over three times…

      The situation had been different then. For those brief weeks he’d been free—as he hadn’t been since. That summer the embargo on reporting his private life had miraculously held. There’d been no bodyguards, no responsibilities and, amazingly, no paparazzi. He’d been free to act exactly as he wished without reference to anyone or anything.

      And what he’d wanted had been Marianne.

      Seb broke eye contact and crossed back to the sitting room, beckoning to the butler. ‘Could you find Dr Chambers something to keep her warm?’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      ‘And bring us a bottle of the dry white and a couple of glasses.’

      His answer was a slight nod.

      ‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Marianne, fascinated by the pulse beating in her neck. ‘Shall we sit down?’

      There was a moment’s hesitation before she decided to do just that. She sat herself facing out over the terrace, her eyes fixed at some point out in the distance, back straight and hands gripped in her lap.

      Seb positioned himself opposite. Bizarrely, now she was sitting there, he was in no hurry to begin. What could he say that would begin to explain?

      At nineteen he’d been so overwhelmed…by everything. All he’d been able to do was react to whatever was happening in that precise moment. There’d been so much to adjust to.

      And somehow he’d managed to block the image of Marianne waiting for him in Paris. Convinced himself she wasn’t his most urgent priority. For someone who lived his entire life trying to do the right thing by everyone, it was ironic he’d done something so spectacularly wrong.

      What was it she had said? That she’d spent years of her life thinking him a ‘waster’ and a ‘liar’?

      And yet she’d never taken her story to the Press. Never sold the photographs she must have of their time together. There wasn’t an editor alive who’d have failed to snap them up. Her story would have made her thousands.

      But she had more dignity than that. A cool, classy lady.

      ‘How’s Nick these days?’

      Her question startled him, broke into his thoughts. Seb met her eyes and saw the steely determination. She didn’t want this, didn’t want any part of this conversation, but she was damned if she was going to let him see it. And she’d had enough of waiting.

      ‘Are you still in contact with him?’ she prompted when he was slow to answer. ‘Or was he some kind of bodyguard and you lied about that as well? He tried hard enough to keep you away from me. Was that his job?’

      Seb cleared his throat, still searching for the right words. ‘We’re friends. Good friends. And, for what it’s worth, he thought I should have told you exactly who I was—’

      ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

      From the expression on her face it certainly wasn’t. Seb ran a hand across his neck, easing out the tension there. ‘We’re still in close contact, although I see him less often since his father’s death.’

      ‘And what was his real name? Archduke Nikolaus?’

      ‘Marianne…’

      Her eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, am I making this difficult for you?’ she asked, her rich voice distorted by sarcasm.

      ‘As of last April Nick’s the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury.’

      Marianne looked down at her fingers and concentrated on the opal colour of her nail varnish. Nick was a duke. Why was she surprised? Had she honestly expected anything different? Nick Barrington was the fifteenth Duke of Aylesbury and Seb Rodier was His Serene Highness Prince Sebastian of Andovaria. Inadvertently she must have strayed into La-La Land and nothing was as it seemed any more.