A Royal Proposition. Marion Lennox

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      The kiss grew deeper.

      Neither could break the moment—break the contact. It was too precious. Too infinitely valuable.

      It was as unexpected as it was magical.

      Then Penny-Rose broke away. For one long moment the prince still held her, his hands on her arms and his gaze locked with hers. Their eyes reflected mutual confusion—mutual need.

      “I’m—I’m sorry,” he managed, and Penny-Rose shook her head.

      “Don’t be. I had no business to kiss you.”

      “I never meant—”

      “Don’t explain things to me, Alastair,” she said gently. Because he couldn’t. And she had to let him off the hook. He was confused and angry with himself. She could see that. He’d broken his unwritten rule….

      Marion Lennox was born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows weren’t interested in her stories!

      In her nonwriting life Marion cares (haphazardly) for her husband, teenagers, dogs, cats, chickens and anyone else who lines up at her dinner table. She fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). She also travels, which she finds seriously addictive.

      As a teenager Marion was told she’d never get anywhere reading romance. Now romance is the basis of her stories. Her stories allow her to travel, and if ever there was an advertisement for following your dream, she’d be it!

      A ROYAL PROPOSITION

      Marion Lennox

      To David, who took my heart to Paris.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘ALASTAIR, I know you and Belle are planning to marry, but you must marry Penny-Rose first.’

      Silence. Marguerite de Castaliae looked as unruffled as if she’d just talked of the weather, but Alastair and Belle were staring at her as if she’d dropped a bomb.

      ‘What are you saying?’ It was Alastair who first found his voice. His Serene Highness, Alastair, Prince de Castaliae dug his hands deep into the pockets of his faded jeans. His dark eyes closed. What now? He didn’t need his mother making crazy propositions. Not when he had so much else to think of…

      If this inheritance didn’t go through, the village faced ruin. After months of effort, he’d found no way to save it. His own fortune couldn’t save this place. Nothing could.

      Today he’d reached a final, joyless decision. He’d been up since dawn inspecting the cattle with stock agents, working out how much they’d make at market. He’d come in to make a final bleak phone call to his accountants. They’d given him their verdict and it was all looking futile.

      The banks would never finance such a venture. The estate would have to be sold.

      So Alastair was exhausted, and he didn’t need this.

      ‘Marry someone else? That’s ridiculous.’

      ‘It’s not ridiculous.’ His mother was wearing her I’m-about-to-solve-all-your-problems smile. ‘My dear, you do want to be a prince?’ She was probing, fishing for a reaction.

      She found it. ‘No!’ Alastair turned to stare out the window, over the castle’s lush gardens to the river beyond. ‘No,’ he said again. His voice was surer still, and there was revulsion in his tone. ‘It was Louis who was supposed to inherit all this. Not me.’

      ‘But Louis is dead, dear,’ Marguerite reminded him. ‘And I won’t even pretend I’m sorry, because he would have made a very bad prince. If he’d inherited…’

      ‘It was his right to inherit.’

      ‘He drank that right away,’ his mother retorted. ‘He was a wastrel and a fool, and now he’s dead. So now the title is yours. And the responsibilities.’

      ‘I never wanted it.’

      ‘But it’s yours for the taking.’ Marguerite’s gaze shifted from her son to her future daughter-in-law, and her probing eyes were thoughtful. ‘If you want it badly enough,’ she said gently. ‘And if Belle wants it.’ Her voice became questioning again. ‘I’d imagine Belle would rather like to own this castle and be your princess?’

      ‘Belle doesn’t care about titles,’ Alastair said shortly. ‘Just as I don’t.’

      Marguerite wasn’t as sure of that as her son was, but she kept her face deliberately expressionless. This tiny Castaliae principality, tucked between France and the rest of Europe, might be a very small player on the world stage, but it was a lovely place to live—and maybe a wonderful place to rule?

      Wealth and position might very well appeal to Belle, she thought, but she’d have to use other ways to persuade her son.

      ‘Alastair, the people here need you,’ she told him. ‘The country is depending on you.’

      ‘We’ve been over this.’

      ‘Yes, dear, but you’re not listening. If you don’t inherit, there’s no one else to take it on.’ These were hard facts to be faced, and the sooner her son faced them the better.

      ‘If you don’t accept it, the estate will be carved up and the title will disappear,’ she told him. ‘Most of the people who’ve lived here all their lives will face losing their own homes. Then the village houses will be bought by holidaymakers who’ll only live here for three or four weekends a year.’

      ‘No!’ said Alastair, outraged.

      ‘Of course not. None of us want that.’ She was getting through. All she could see of her son was his strongly muscled back, but it was expressive enough. Alastair had been brought up to accept responsibility. Marguerite had every hope that he’d accept it now.

      Despite Belle.

      Or even with Belle’s assistance…

      Alastair was a good son, she thought fondly. A son to be proud of. Until his recent involvement with Belle, Alastair de Castaliae had been considered to be one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors.

      Well, why not? Of royal blood and with an inherited fortune, he’d been attractive even as a child. Time had added to his good looks until, at thirty-two, his mother—and a fair percentage of the principality’s female population—considered him perfectly splendid.

      The tragedy in his background did nothing to lessen his appeal. In fact, the distance he’d placed between himself and the rest of the world since Lissa’s death had seemed only to make him more desirable.

      And he was desirable, his mother decided, trying to look at him without bias. Alastair was six feet two in his socks—and his muscled, taut and tanned frame made him seem even taller. He was smoulderingly dark. His jet black hair, his crinkling, brown eyes and his wide, white smile had made many a girl’s heart melt.

      Just as his father’s smile had melted her own heart all those years ago…

      Sternly Marguerite blinked back unexpected tears and returned to the job at hand. Emotion wasn’t any use here. It wouldn’t convince