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The Duke's Proposal
Chapter One
THE tall, lithe man leaned on the balustrade and looked out to sea. The simple cottage was hidden away in the hotel grounds, a long way from the hustle and bustle.
He gave a deep sigh of pleasure.
Night. Warmth. A breeze, soft as a woman's breath, across his skin.
Voices wafted over the murmurous water but he was alone. Just as he always was.
So? That was what he had chosen all those years ago. That was what he had stuck with. You make your choices. Then you live by them.
But sometimes, on a perfect night like this, when the air was heavy with the scents of leaves and the sea, he found himself wondering. What if it had been different? How would it feel if she were here with him?
"'The not impossible she'" quoted Niall Blackthorne aloud, mocking himself.
Across the bay, the entrance to Casino Caraibe Royale was lit up like Las Vegas. Already people were arriving in their hired limousines. Pretty soon the steel band would start.
Party time, thought Niall.
He shook himself out of his uncharacteristic reverie and stretched lazily in the gathering dark. He was shirtless, his tanned legs bare under the disreputable denim shorts. At nightfall the air was still warm along the skin. It was only later that the wind off the sea would really get up. And he would go to work.
He grinned, thinking about it. Showered and smooth-shaven, his hair gleaming blue-black in the moonlight, his tuxedo tailored to perfection, he would drive over to the casino. He would circulate among the tourists and the professional gamblers, aloof and mysterious, and play blackjack and roulette and poker.
Sometimes he won, and people envied him. Sometimes he lost, and they marvelled at his cool indifference. But either way they kept their distance. Even the women who fancied themselves in love with the enigmatic gambler never stayed. He never wanted them to.
Now, just for a moment, in the hot, quiet night, he could pretend that he was the beach bum he looked like. There were compensations for being alone, he reminded himself wryly. No woman would tolerate his beach bum side for long. Even if he wanted her to.
And of course he didn't. His grin died. Soberly, he looked at the shifting starlit ocean.
Face the truth, Niall.
He was a one-woman man. And the one woman belonged to someone else.
THE big, bustling room fell silent when Jemima Dare walked in.
Rooms did that these days. It was no more than a collective intake of breath. But it was more eloquent than a drum roll. It said, Love her or loathe her, the Queen is here.
That was what she was now, thought Jemima. The Queen of this little world.
She could feel the eyes. And the expectations. A wall of expectations pressing down on her. For a moment she felt as if she could hardly breathe.
Then she got a grip. Never disappoint your public ...
So Jemima Dare flung back the gorgeous Titian hair, narrowed the famous amber eyes and smiled blindly into the silence.
It had started the moment Belinda Cosmetics chose her to front their international campaigns, that silence. Now she was on the cover of this month's Elegance Magazine for the second time in a year and her crown was assured. Every model in the room was green with envy - and far too many of them loathed her because of it.
Be careful what you wish for; you might get it.
Instinctively Jemima squared her shoulders.
"Hi," she said to the room at large.
But already everyone was back at work, adjusting the designer clothes, balancing on cruelly high heels, concentrating on hair and make-up. One or two of the women who'd used to be her friends before she was Queen smiled back. A new girl, fifteen if she was a day, was so awed that she looked as if she were going to cry. But nobody spoke.
Although the room was a furnace, after the ice and hail in the streets, Jemima felt frozen from her fingertips to her heart's core.
Be careful what you wish for ...
Well, she had wished. And she had got it. And not a thing could she do about it, not any more. The die was cast.
It had been cast years ago. She had been seventeen. She had believed Basil Blane when he'd said, "Babe, you're a natural. I can make you a star."
And, of course, he had. She was a star, all right. Queen of the catwalk. Imperious priestess of the photo shoot. Basil had just never said what it would cost.
For a moment she looked round this room of women who couldn't even bring themselves to say hello to her and the amber eyes were bleak. Then she shrugged. The price of success, she told herself cynically. She lengthened her panther's prowl and wove an expert way through the racks of shrouded clothes and palpitating assistants.
She had been navigating the backstage chaos of international fashion shows for five years and more. She knew how to do it. There was a job to do here, and she was good at it.
"You're here," said the designer. His eyes were wild and his hands colder than her own. This was his first big show.
"I called and called. Don't you ever answer your phone?"
Jemima sidestepped the question. "I don't let people down.' That was true. Almost the only thing in her life she was proud of now. "Relax, Francis. I'm going to do you proud."
True to her word, she gave the performance of her life out on the catwalk - a prowling predator in minimalist silks. The show got a standing ovation. The designer gathered the models about him and wept.
Jemima dropped her head on his shoulder. The waterfall of Titian hair cascaded artistically across the front of his leather jacket. It looked spontaneous, friendly, even affectionate. And it would make a hell of a photograph.
Everyone knew that. That was how they had all sat round and planned it last night. The PR people, the publicist, Francis ...
Spontaneous? Huh!
Just for a moment, when they'd told her last night, she had flared up. She was fresh in from Paris, and travelling made her edgy these days. For half a second she'd forgotten that they paid her a lot of money to pretend to be spontaneous.
"You're trying to get a rumour going about Francis and me," she'd accused them, with more accuracy than tact.
People started to read their briefing notes avidly, or stared round the untidy boardroom. No one met her eyes.
In the end it was left to the head honcho to spell out the facts of life.
"Just do the business, Jemima," Belinda's UK marketing director said wearily. "You're the face of Belinda. We need the column inches. Madame's in town for the show."
And everyone, but everyone, was scared of Madame.
So now Jemima leaned against Francis and smiled up at him as if he was the boy next door, instead of a workaholic dress designer with no known social graces. The paparazzi snapped away, delighted. Columnists scribbled. There was even a romantic sigh or two.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Duke's Proposal by Sophie Weston Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
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