Royal Families Vs. Historicals. Rebecca Winters

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      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like getting new breeding stock, improving my herds. I need to buy some good rams in October.’

      ‘I’ve hardly seen any sheep,’ Lotty realised.

      ‘That’s because they’re all up on the hills at the moment. You’ll see plenty come September when we take the sheep to market,’ said Corran.

      But in September she would be gone. ‘I’d like to see that,’ Lotty said in a level voice, ‘but I won’t be here then.’

      She looked out of the window, suddenly bleak. In September she would be back in Montluce, back to her life as Princess Charlotte, always good, always obliging. A princess who never behaved badly. Who never sulked or lost her temper or felt herself burning up with desire.

      And Corran would be here, taking his sheep to market, Meg at his heels and Pookie under his feet, bringing the estate back to life, without her.

      Perhaps it would all be for the best. If her grandmother finally gave up the idea of her marrying Philippe, Lotty might be allowed to meet someone else. There had to be some prince or count somewhere the Dowager Blanche would deem a suitable match. Someone who understood royal life, who would know how to behave and how to smile and shake hands, who would be a dignified consort for Princess Charlotte of Montluce. Then Lotty could be married and lose her tiresome virginity to her husband. It would be sweet. It would be safe. It would be sensible.

      But Lotty didn’t want sweet and sensible. She didn’t want suitable. She didn’t even want safe.

      Not yet.

      This might be the only chance she ever had to be reckless, her only chance to take what she wanted without worrying about what the papers might say, or how her grandmother would react.

      All those ancestors had had a chance to live dangerously, one way or another. Why not her?

      A little fling, a brief affair… Was that so much to ask for?

      Absently Lotty rubbed her thumb over her poor, cracked fingernails and allowed herself to revisit the question that had been simmering at the back of her mind ever since that first bath at Loch Mhoraigh.

      Why not ask Corran?

      Under her lashes, she watched Corran driving with the same cool competence he did everything else. The long, solid body was relaxed, his eyes narrowed, the big hands very sure on the wheel. The flex of muscles in his thigh when he braked sent such a surge of lust through her that she was dizzy with it.

      It wasn’t as if Corran was involved with anyone else. He was a free agent, and so was she.

       So why not?

      Of course, she wasn’t Corran’s type. He’d made it clear that he was looking for quite a different kind of woman, but that just made it better, didn’t it? There would be no problem about her leaving after a couple of months. She could say goodbye and he would never know who she really was. Not that Lotty thought Corran was the kind of man who would tattle to the tabloids, but who knew really? How I seduced virgin princess was a story some papers would pay a lot of money for, and the Mhoraigh estate was badly in need of cash.

      Besides, she didn’t want him to know she was a princess. She wanted him to think of her as an ordinary girl. She wanted him to make love to her as an ordinary girl. She couldn’t bear it if he suddenly started treating her carefully. No, she wouldn’t tell him, ever.

      He was single, attractive, and they were alone together most of the time. If she wanted to lose her virginity, Lotty thought, she might never have a better chance.

      Why not Corran?

      The sensible side of Lotty, the side that wasn’t giddy with desire, pointed out that she had no idea how to go about seducing a man and that, even if she did, Corran wasn’t the kind of man who would fall for any tricks. There was something dauntingly unflirtable about him. She simply wouldn’t dare.

      So there was no point in thinking about it any more.

      Only that didn’t stop her nerves crisping every time Corran reached for the gearstick between them. Every time he shifted his hands on the wheel or flicked a glance up at the rear view mirror, she found herself sucking in her breath. And every time she would wonder what it would be like if she did dare ask him to be her lover.

      Because then she would be able to put her hand on that long, tantalising thigh. She would be able to look at the uncompromising line of his jaw without feeling sick with longing.

      She would know what it felt like to press her lips to his throat. She would know the hard planes of his body, the shift of his muscles, the touch of his hands.

      Lotty began to feel feverish. Fixing her eyes desperately on the road ahead, she swallowed and twisted her fingers together.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      Corran’s abrupt question made her jump. ‘Fine,’ she said brightly. Too brightly. ‘Absolutely fine.’

      ‘You’re very quiet.’

      ‘Am I? I suppose I was just thinking about going home.’

      ‘It’s not much further,’ said Corran. ‘Another hour, maybe.’

      ‘No, I meant home to Montluce.’

      There was a pause. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ The silence lengthened uncomfortably. Corran cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know anything about your country. What’s it like there?’

      Lotty looked out of the window, remembering her home. ‘Everything’s on a small scale in Montluce. It’s like a fairy tale country in lots of ways. Mountains, lakes, castles, little old towns. It’s pretty.’

      Her eyes rested on the great sweeps of hillside, their starkness softened and turned to gold in the early evening sun. ‘Here, it’s…wilder. Grander somehow.’ A sigh escaped her. ‘I’m going to miss it.’

      ‘Do you have to go?’ Corran asked. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the road ahead, and it sounded to Lotty as if the question had been forced out of him.

      ‘Yes,’ she said on a breath. ‘Yes, I do.’

      Three months, she had agreed with Philippe, who was only standing in as regent while his father, the Crown Prince, was recovering from a major illness. The moment his father was better, Philippe would be leaving Montluce, he had told Lotty frankly, and that meant the country would need a first lady once more. Who better than Princess Charlotte, who had spent years doing the job for her own father? She had the perfect combination of warmth and dignity. The people loved her.

      Ever since she was a child, Lotty had had the importance of duty and responsibility dinned into her. Her grandmother hadn’t hesitated to point out that Lotty would be monumentally selfish if she insisted on her own life after her father had died. How could she even think about refusing and letting the new Crown Prince down? How could she think about letting her country down?

      She couldn’t. This was the only rebellion Lotty could allow herself.

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