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 Alastair-he’d held himself emotionally distant after Lissa died-and she was almost convinced that Belle didn’t have any emotion to play with.

‘It’s only for a year.’

‘What’s only for a year?’ Alastair turned back to face his mother, his brow drawn heavily over his deep-set eyes. ‘You sound as if you have this whole thing arranged.’

‘Well, I do,’ she said apologetically. ‘Someone has to think of the future. You’ve been so involved getting the estate back into working order-making sure all the workers are paid, organising the rebuilding of the stonework, doing all the work caused by two such sudden deaths-that you haven’t had time to look at the whole picture. So if you’ll only listen…’