Her Royal Baby

tinkled out musically in the beautiful salon. ‘What did you tell me? You’ve dragged her here from the Australian bush? Darling, you’ll be lucky if she knows how to use a knife and fork.’

‘She’s Lara’s sister,’ Marc snapped, and Ingrid nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes. Isn’t it amazing? That those two can be sisters…? Lara was a beauty.’

‘Tammy-Tamsin isn’t exactly ugly.’

‘No, dear, but those clothes…and those freckles…’

‘Do you want to go in to dinner?’ he asked shortly, offering his arm.

‘You don’t want to wait for our little mate from the bush?’

‘No need,’ said a dangerously controlled voice from the door. ‘Your little mate from the bush is right here.’

She took his breath away. Marc turned to face the door and it was all he could do not to gasp.

How had she done this in fifteen minutes?

She was transformed.

Gone were her faded jeans and her old shirt. Gone was Tammy Dexter, tree surgeon. In her place… Tamsin.

The dress was deceptively simple-a sliver of brilliantly cut black silk. It had a scooped neckline and tiny capped sleeves. It curved into a cinched waist and hugged her hips to a short, short hemline. Her long tanned legs went on for ever to a pair of strappy black sandals that made her legs look even longer than they were.

And the rest… Her burnished curls were brushed to a shimmering glory, swinging around her shoulders in a soft cloud. She’d found some make-up-just a little-just enough to add a tiny touch of colour to her lovely mouth and accentuate those huge brown eyes.

She was stunning!

‘Where the hell did you get the clothes?’ he demanded, and her eyes creased in amusement.

‘Now, here I was, wondering whether my manners were up to scratch.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said stiffly, catching himself. She was right. As a greeting it was hardly appropriate. ‘I…Tammy, this is Ingrid. My…’

‘Partner,’ Ingrid finished for him, her dark eyes giving him a strange sideways glance. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you…Tammy.’ She came forward and took Tammy’s hand in her cool grasp, gave it a lightly welcoming squeeze. ‘How are you, my dear? We were just saying you must be feeling very strange. I wouldn’t have wondered if you’d wanted dinner in your room tonight.’ Her eyes perused Tammy and her look of light amusement deepened. ‘You’ve been raiding your sister’s clothes, I see. Well done, you. I was going to wrap them up and send them to charity, but if you can use them…’

The implication was obvious, and Tammy flushed. But she held her cool. This woman reminded her of her mother, and Tammy had learned early that anger wasn’t a useful tool. Other methods were more effective.

‘I’m pleased that you did no such thing,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve yet to see the terms of my sister’s will, but I doubt her private property would be yours to dispose of. Legal writs are so tiresome, don’t you think?’ She took the flute of champagne Marc had poured for her and smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s just what I needed. And Dom Perignon…my favourite.’

Fifteen minutes ago she’d been saying that what she needed was a Vegemite sandwich. Marc blinked-but then maybe he would have blinked anyway.

Wow!

Until now he’d suspected Tammy had chosen her isolated profession because of an inferiority complex. Lara and her mother, Isobelle, were magnificent. They were creatures whose every feature screamed perfection, from the tip of their beautifully pedicured toes to their gleaming tresses. If Tammy had grown up comparing herself to such perfection-well, maybe anyone would have headed to the bush.

But Tammy was just as beautiful as her sister or her mother, he thought. Maybe even more so. She wore very little make-up and no jewellery, but in her sister’s simple black dress she made Ingrid appear overdressed and over-made-up.

And Ingrid knew. And Ingrid didn’t like it one bit.

‘Well, of course if they fit you…’ She was smiling, moving to the head of the table and gesturing to Tammy to sit. Hostess to guest. The gesture wasn’t lost on Marc who grimaced. Hell, he had things to sort out here.

But Tammy still seemed unfazed. ‘It’d be a waste not to use them,’ Tammy agreed cheerfully. ‘By the look of the wardrobes I shan’t need to buy anything more until Henry inherits.’

‘You intend to stay that long?’

‘Henry needs a mother,’ Tammy said softly, sitting down as though she’d sat at such tables all her life. The butler was behind her-he assisted her into the chair and placed a napkin on her knees and she gave him a friendly, happy smile. ‘I guess I’m it.’

‘But if Marc and I-’

‘Will you have wine?’ Marc interrupted with a harried look, and Tammy gave him her very nicest smile.

‘Yes, please.’

Hell.

Marc couldn’t sleep. Finally, at about two in the morning, he rose and took himself out for a walk in the gardens. It was a full moon. The moonlight was reflecting off the lake and the night was gorgeous. He walked the full perimeter of the lake. His strides lengthened as he walked and so did his sense of unease.

What was he doing?

Until Jean-Paul had died his life had been uncomplicated. Or…less complicated. He’d been able to keep himself right apart from this family, and that was the way he’d liked it.

He’d been brought up close to here, but miles apart in terms of lifestyle. His father had been the Crown Prince’s brother. The brothers had got on-once-but the children hadn’t. Jean-Paul’s mother had been a snob of the first order, who’d preened herself on her success in marrying Marc’s uncle, whereas Marc’s mother had been a warm, fun-loving woman who’d had little to do with royalty.

For good reason. At the thought of his mother, Marc twisted his mouth into a grim line. What they’d done to her… This family…

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. It was past. He’d learned that the only way to cope with these people-with anyone who had any connections to the crown-was to be businesslike and brusque.

Because he loved this little country he’d do what he had to do over the next few years. He’d wear the crown and hold the monarchy in good stead for his little cousin, but that was as far as it went. If Tammy-Tamsin, he told himself harshly; he’d keep this formal-if she could be persuaded to take a royal role then he could step back into the background. Which was what he wanted. He wanted to go back to his lovely little estate and get right away from these people.

From Tammy?

Yes. From Tammy, he told himself savagely. She stirred him as he hadn’t believed a woman could.

And he didn’t understand why. His sort of woman wasn’t like that. Not like Tamsin. His sort of woman was one such as Ingrid.

Ingrid…

The thought of her behaviour at dinner made his teeth clench. She’d been a bitch. He needed to get rid of her. After dinner, as she’d clung and expected to be taken back to his bed, he’d rebuffed her with more bluntness than tact.

‘I’m jet-lagged, Ingrid. I need my own bed tonight.’

‘I can just stay a while, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart… The term sounded almost obscene coming from her. She was beautiful, and she’d been an elegant hostess for him in the past, but their relationship hadn’t lasted any more than a few short months. None of his relationships did.

That was the way he liked it. The women in his circle were all tarred with the same brush as his aunt and Isobelle and Lara. He knew damned well what drove them. To bring a woman in from outside-to expose her to the goldfish bowl of royalty-would be to expose her to the same sort of pain his mother had experienced. He couldn’t do it.

And Tammy…