The King's Bride. Lucy Gordon

actress at the height of her beauty and fame. Next to it was a picture of her most notable admirer, King Alphonse, taken when he was nearly seventy, imposing, autocratic, but still astonishingly good-looking. Near the bottom was written, in the King’s own hand, In friendship and gratitude, Alphonse.

      Lizzie tossed her bag onto a chair and confronted Dame Elizabeth.

      ‘I made a mess of it,’ she told her. ‘Nothing happened the way I meant it to, and I just antagonised him. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? I am supposed to be a professional.’

      The Dame’s eyes were laughing, her head thrown back in an ecstasy of song, but Lizzie could read her thoughts.

      ‘I know, I know! Dress the part. That’s what you used to say. And I didn’t. If I’d worn tweeds and horn-rimmed spectacles I suppose he’d have taken me seriously. But why shouldn’t I dress as I like?’

      Good question! If a historian was a modern young woman, five feet ten with ravishing red hair and a model figure, why shouldn’t she wear skirts short enough to show off her silken legs, and suicidally high heels? Why shouldn’t she make up to emphasise her large green eyes and wide mouth that seemed made for the pleasures of life, of which laughter was only one?

      If there was an answer, it was because she was as serious about her work as her appearance, which was very serious indeed. And today she’d blown it.

      ‘There was one moment when I thought I was winning,’ she told the picture. ‘He looked at me in such way that I thought—I was almost sure—but he just got away from me at the last minute. You wouldn’t have let him get away, would you?’ She sighed. ‘And I won’t get a second chance, either.’

      But, against the odds, the second chance presented itself next morning in the shape of a gilt-edged card announcing that King Daniel was pleased to invite her to a ball at the Voltavian embassy that very evening. After a whoop of triumph she got down to the deadly earnest business of making an impact.

      The evening dress she chose was black velvet and swept the floor, but there all semblance of decorum ended. It was cut to show off her shoulders and bosom. The neckline was within the bounds of propriety, but only just. The bodice clung, and fitted tightly all the way down to her small waist, before outlining the flare of her hips, the length of her thighs and then down to her ankles. It would have been impossible to walk in such a dress but for the slit at the rear, through which the vision of her stunning legs came and went.

      It was a dress for a woman who wanted to be noticed and could afford to be noticed: not always the same thing, as the Dame had frequently observed in her most caustic voice.

      Lizzie had booked the cab with time to spare. No matter what the function, the rule was that royalty arrived last. To be late was to be shut out.

      To her relief she reached the embassy in good time, and was shown into the great ballroom that looked as though time had passed it by. Glittering chandeliers hung overhead, the mirrors were framed by gilt, and its glamour was the glamour of another age. At the far end was a dais with a throne. Over it hung the coat of arms of Voltavia, dominated by a snarling bear. For a thousand years the bear had been the country’s symbol.

      When every guest was in place, fanning themselves and desperate for a drink, the great doors at one end of the room swung open, and the King began the long walk to the throne at the far end.

      Lizzie recalled the Dame describing a ball at the palace in Voltavia, with King Alphonse in full dress military uniform, glittering with gold braid. ‘So splendid, my dear! So magnificent!’ Kings didn’t dress like that any more, which Lizzie thought a pity, but she ceased to regret it when she saw Daniel in white tie and tails, which seemed to emphasise his height and the breadth of his shoulders. On some men, anything was magnificent.

      First there were the duty dances. The King took the floor with a succession of titled ladies—a member of the British royal family, the ambassador’s wife, the wife of a prominent international banker. Lizzie guessed there were a lot to go before he reached her.

      She wasn’t short of partners, and Frederick, one of the king’s aides, solicited her hand several times. He danced well and asked her many questions about herself. Acting on orders, she thought, and kept her answers light and unrevealing. If Daniel wanted to know about her, he could do his own asking.

      Occasionally the dance brought them close, but he never looked in her direction. That might have been courtesy to his partner, but once, when he wasn’t dancing, Lizzie glanced up to where he sat alone on the throne and found him watching her. After that she knew he was conscious of her even when he wasn’t looking.

      At last Frederick approached her again, not to dance this time but to give a correct little bow and ask, ‘Would you like the honour of dancing with His Majesty?’

      ‘Thank you. I would.’

      She followed him to Daniel, who watched her approach. She sank into a curtsey, but unlike the other women, who lowered their heads, Lizzie curtseyed with her head up, eyes meeting his in direct challenge. He nodded slightly in her direction, before extending his arm. She took it and he led her onto the floor for the waltz.

      He was a good dancer, every step correct, but his body was tense. By contrast, Lizzie danced like liquid, gliding this way and that in his arms.

      ‘I’m glad you were able to accept at such short notice,’ he said.

      Lizzie made the appropriate speech about being honoured before saying, ‘I wonder how Your Majesty knew where to send the invitation.’

      ‘I had you investigated,’ he informed her calmly, ‘and discovered you to be a historian, as you said. I gather you’ve written many letters to the Information Office in Voltavia.’

      ‘Yes, and I’ve got nowhere. They just brush me off. But I am serious.’

      ‘So I understand. The list of your degrees and professorships is impressive—and alarming.’

      ‘There’s no need for Your Majesty to be alarmed,’ she said demurely. ‘I don’t bite.’

      ‘But you do pursue. When you contrived to get yourself a place at the press reception—oh, yes, I know that too—you were in pursuit, were you not?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘And I was the prey?’

      ‘Naturally. I only pursue the big bears. They’re the most rewarding.’

      He looked down at her with a faint, curious smile. ‘And do you think you’ll find me “rewarding”?’

      ‘I’m not sure yet. It depends whether you give me what I want.’

      ‘And is that how you judge men—by whether they give you what you want?’

      Lizzie raised delicate eyebrows in well simulated surprise. ‘But of course. What other yardstick is there?’

      ‘Are you by any chance trying to flirt with me, Miss Boothe?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ she said, shocked. ‘It would be improper for any woman to flirt with the King.’

      ‘True.’

      ‘It’s for the King to flirt with her.’

      Her demure tone took him off guard, and he frowned, as though unsure that he’d heard her correctly. Then he smiled, cautiously.

      ‘And if the King didn’t flirt with her?’ he asked. ‘Might she not show a little enterprise in the matter?’

      ‘She wouldn’t dare,’ Lizzie informed him, straight-faced. ‘Lest he think her impertinent.’

      ‘I don’t think you fear the opinion of any man, Miss Boothe.’

      ‘But Your Majesty is a king, not a man.’

      ‘Is that what you think?’

      She looked straight into his face,