© 2002

‘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.’