Crowned: An Ordinary Girl. Natasha Oakley

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СКАЧАТЬ a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his dinner jacket. ‘I spoke to one of Prince Sebastian’s aides this afternoon about what’s expected of us tonight with regard to royal protocol and the like. It all seems fairly straightforward,’ he said, passing across the sheet. ‘Apparently the prince is not one to stand on too much ceremony, thank God.’

      A cold sensation washed over Marianne as she unfolded the paper. This was an aspect of the evening ahead of her she hadn’t considered. If Seb thought she was going to curtsey he could go take a running jump.

      ‘I think I’ve got it straight in my mind,’ the professor continued, reaching out to hold the bar as the lift juddered to a stop. ‘When we first meet him we address him as ‘Your Serene Highness’, but after that we can use a simple “sir”.’

      Marianne’s eyes widened slightly. Sir? Call Seb ‘sir’? How exactly did you look a man you’d slept with in the eye and call him ‘sir’? Particularly when you wanted to call him a million other things that would probably have you arrested?

      The doors swung open and the professor continued, ‘Jolly good thing, too. Can you imagine how ridiculous it would be to have to say “Your Serene Highness” all evening? Such a mouthful.’

      Her eyes skimmed the first couple of points.

      —Wait for the prince to extend his hand in greeting.

      —Don’t initiate conversation, but wait for the prince to do so.

      ‘It must irritate the heck out of him to have people spouting his title at him every time he steps out of doors.’ The professor broke off to hail a passing black taxi. ‘Not to mention having everyone you meet bob up and down in front of you like some kind of manic toy.’

      Marianne’s eyes searched for the word ‘curtsey’. ‘Sir’ she could just about cope with—particularly if she said it in a faintly mocking tone—but curtseying to him? He’d humiliated her in practically every way possible, but that would be too much to cope with. There had to be a way round it.

      Hadn’t she read something somewhere about Americans not having to curtsey when they met British royalty? Something about it not being their monarch that made it an unnecessary mark of respect?

      The taxi swung towards the kerb.

      ‘And an inclination of the head when I meet him is all that’s required. No need for a more formal bow,’ the professor continued. ‘Obviously removing any hat—’

      Marianne watched as he struggled with the door before holding it open for her ‘—but, as I’m not wearing a hat, that’s not a problem.’

      She gathered up the soft folds of her dress so that it wouldn’t brush along the edge of the car and climbed inside. Seb wasn’t her monarch. If he wasn’t her monarch, she didn’t need to curtsey…

      Moments later the professor joined her. ‘Of course, as a woman, you give a slight curtsey. Nothing too flourishing. Keep it simple.’

      Keep it simple. The words echoed in her head. There was nothing about this situation that was simple. She was in a taxi heading towards a former lover who may or may not know she was joining him for dinner tonight. A former lover, mark you, who hadn’t had the courtesy to formally end their relationship.

      ‘Blasted seat belts,’ the professor said, trying to fasten it across him. ‘They make the things so darn fiddly.’

      Marianne blinked hard against the prickle of tears. She wasn’t sure whether they were for her and her own frustration, or for the professor and his.

      The one thing she was certain of was that they shouldn’t be here. Why couldn’t Peter see how pointless it was? He shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of going to Andovaria. Even a simple task like fastening a seat belt was difficult for him now.

      ‘Done it,’ the professor said, sitting back in his seat more comfortably.

      She turned away and looked out of the window. Age-related macular degeneration. It had come on so suddenly, beginning with a slight blurriness and ending with no central vision at all. Sooner or later people would notice Peter couldn’t proofread his own material.

      And if he couldn’t cope with something in a clear typeface, how did he imagine he was going to do justice to something written in archaic German and eight hundred years old? He’d miss something vital—and the academic world he loved so much would swoop in for the kill.

      It was all such a complete mess.

      Familiar landmarks whizzed past as the driver unerringly took them down side-roads and round a complicated one-way system.

      The taxi slowed and pulled to a stop. ‘Here we are. The Randall.’

      Marianne looked up at one of London’s most prestigious hotels and felt…intimidated.

      All she had to do was look at the photographs, eat and leave. She could do that.

      Of course she could do that. This was a business meeting. There was nothing personal about it.

      Marianne’s eyes followed the tier upon tier of windows, familiar from the countless postcards produced for tourists.

      And this was where Seb, the real Seb, stayed when he was in London. In France they’d booked a room in whatever inexpensive chambre d’hôte they’d happened upon and sat on grass verges to eat warm baguettes they’d bought from the local boulangerie. So different.

      ‘That’ll be £16.70, love,’ the driver said, turning in his seat to look through the connecting glass.

      Marianne jerked round and her fingers fumbled for the zip of her purse. ‘P-please keep the change,’ she said, pulling out a twenty-pound note.

      It was only later, when she’d carefully tucked away the receipt in the side-pocket of her handbag and was standing on the pavement, that it occurred to her she should have let Peter settle the fare himself. She was so used to stepping in to do the tasks she knew he found difficult that it hadn’t occurred to her that she ought to let him fail this time. Perhaps that might have shown him how impossible a proposition this was?

      ‘This is something, isn’t it?’ the professor said gleefully, gesturing towards sleek BMWs that were so perfectly black they looked as if they’d been dipped in ink.

      Marianne managed a smile as men in distinctive livery opened every door between the pavement and the imposing entrance hall. From there on it got worse. Enormous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings and gilt bronze garlands twisted their way along endless cream walls. It was the kind of awe-inspiring space that made you want to speak in hushed whispers.

      ‘Professor Blackwell and Dr Chambers to see His Serene Highness the Prince of Andovaria,’ the professor said, pulling out a simple white card on which Seb had written something. ‘In the Oakland Suite.’

      Marianne half expected the slightly superior young man to raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Her dress, which had seemed so expensive just an hour ago, now didn’t seem quite expensive enough. She lifted her chin in determination not to be cowed by her surroundings. She’d enough of an ordeal ahead of her without falling apart simply by stepping through the door.

      ‘Of course, sir. This way.’

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