Modern Romance Collection February 2025, #5-8

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

S TRING LIGHTS DRIPPED from myriad small trees filling the palace ballroom. Halrovia’s Spring Ball was famed for its opulence, and this year the organisers had excelled with their theme: a Midsummer Night’s Masquerade. Anastacia turned, gazing up at the canopy above her which glittered as if the room were filled with fireflies. The lighting was lower than normal, making the space look somehow mysterious, like a wonderland. Huge urns dotted the room, spilling with flowers and fruits. The assembled crowd drifted through the room masked, costumed in jewel colours, twittering like tropical birds.

The sense of the whole evening was...expectant. As the Halrovian royal family’s middle child, she’d been taught many lessons about how to comport herself with restraint befitting her position as the country’s ‘perfect princess’, which the press and therefore her people had dubbed her. She was sure, if her mother saw her now, another rule would be added to the long list : don’t twirl about looking awestruck.

But her mother was in another corner of the room entertaining official guests, among them the Crown Prince of Isolobello who rumour had it, was going to offer for her hand in marriage tonight. Rumour had it wrong. Ana had eyes; she could see what others refused to—that Prince Caspar had no interest in her. Her parents would doubtless be disappointed, but she wasn’t. Caspar was handsome and kind, the type of man she could make a friend. They had similar charity interests, such as in child literacy. She’d be prepared to do her duty, if it came to that, but it never would. A friend was all Caspar would ever want to be.

Now her sister, Priscilla... Ana was sure Caspar didn’t have friendly thoughts in her direction, given the way he stared at Cilla when she walked into a room as if he’d been clubbed over the head.

To have someone look at her like that —not with simple appreciation, or even lust, but with a yearning, a consuming... need . Ana didn’t want just a good friend for a husband, though for someone in her position, whose parents expected the eldest daughter to marry a prince, she should have counted friendship as a bonus. Was it wrong to seek more? Ana scanned the crowd, searching for...

No . Wanting more was a dangerous thing for a woman in her position with expectations placed on her since birth. Yet for her whole, young life of twenty-four years she’d craved it. She’d rapped up her desires deep inside, locking them away. She knew she was lucky, always with a roof over her head, and not any old roof but a palace . She had sumptuous food on her plate and staff to look after her.

With those privileges came great responsibility. She had a duty to uphold, obligations to her family name and to Halrovia’s people. She carried out those duties because it was the right thing to do—such as marrying someone her parents selected because that would be good for Halrovia. It was another way she could serve.

Yet why did she always feel so starved ? No one would ever know. All people took note of was how she appeared, as if that was somehow her measure as a person. There were endless reports of her ‘flawless blonde hair’, following every change in its style with breathless anticipation, people waiting to copy it. Commentary about her famed pale-blue eyes, a feature of the Halrovian royal family, and her skin, over which the beauty magazines waxed lyrical, imagining her onerous routines to keep the march of time at bay. The paparazzi constantly tried to take photographs of her body. Ana’s private secretary had reported that a shot of her wearing a bikini—as if she’d ever be allowed to wear one—would earn a photographer thousands of dollars, and never mind one who could photograph her doing something less than perfect...

She was trapped by her genetics which no one could look past. Everyone saw who they wanted to see with her. Nothing out of place, restrained, smiling on cue, the perfect princess. Yet there was a question she asked herself every morning as she looked in the mirror, staring at her imperfect self. Who was Anastacia Montroy, Princess of Halrovia? She had no answer to that question.

Ana breathed in deeply, shutting her eyes for a moment, allowing the intoxicating scent of exotic flowers to overwhelm her senses. Tonight, she didn’t want to comport herself with restraint. She craved chaos and magic, a little something for herself. To shed the expectations of others like a skin that she’d felt she’d outgrown. Wasn’t that what the spring was all about—renewal?

She’d dressed for it. In ordinary circumstances, her mother would never have permitted her gown. Tonight, she was supposed to catch a prince, so allowances had been made. No neat and tidy hair; hers tumbled in unruly waves wound with flowers. She’d been explicit about her dress. Ana had wanted a cross between Botticelli’s two famous paintings: The Birth of Venus and Primavera .

Her dress maker had delivered. The fabric was a sheer net covered in silk flowers. The nude lining clung to her body. Cleverly hand-painted with shading, it looked as though she wore nothing other than strategically placed blooms which appeared to wind lovingly around her. Her mask was made of feather butterflies. It was breath-taking. Caused her mother to scowl. Made Ana feel bold. And tonight it wasn’t a prince’s attention she sought to catch.

Ana took a deep breath. She shouldn’t be trying to catch anyone’s attention. She had people to meet, alliances to shore up, a prince to dance with so appearances might be maintained, whilst both of their imaginings lay elsewhere—Caspar’s with her sister, who was oblivious to his attraction, and hers with someone she could only ever view from afar.

‘Your Highness.’

Her belly fluttered as it filled with the feather-winged butterflies of her mask come to life. That male voice... Deep. Decadent, like a fondue of dark chocolate. She wanted to dip herself into it and drown. Its accent was a heady mix of French, the country of his birth, and Australian, the land of his father.

Ana turned, slowly to savour the moment of seeing this man up close for the first time tonight. Would that sensation of breathless anticipation ever change around him?

She tried to repeat the mantra as he came into view : princesses don’t marry commoners . Perhaps in some royal families, not in hers. Yet the reasons for that were hazy, and tonight all a voice shouted in her ear was, why not?

She knew the answer with an unshakeable certainty, for this man at least. A man like him could never be pinned down. He filled her view. Aston Lane. Tall, broad, knockout handsome. Heir to the Girard family champagne fortune. Billionaire businessmen in his own right, his daring was renowned in yachting, mountaineering...a thrill seeker. Her heart hammered in her chest. Aston Lane looked like her every midnight fantasy come to life.

‘Mr Lane.’

She held out her hand, for no reason other than so he could touch her—the only touch that would ever be allowed between them. His own engulfed hers as he took it. No soft, smooth palms for this man; his were roughened, as if he knew hard work. The heat of him was like electricity ricocheting up her arm as if it were a lightning rod, the shock exquisite and yet almost painful. Aston bowed over her, his lips never touching but his breath a warm gust against her flesh that left her quaking with pleasure, goose bumps peppering her skin, even on this mild evening.

‘You look incomparable, as always.’

He towered above her. She wasn’t a short woman, yet he was a man who could make her feel small and precious. His inky dinner suit wrapped a powerful body. A waistcoat, not of white or black, but of a deep-green threaded with gold and patterned with leaves. His vivid blue eyes seemed to be smiling behind a mask of a burnished pewter, golden horns curling from it. The expression moulded into the mask itself, one of wry amusement, almost mischievous, yet with a bite. He looked like an embodiment of the chaos she craved.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wondering how she managed to speak at all.

Here was the man she’d been looking for. The one that stole her breath and almost all her reason every time she saw him. A man she’d first met when he’d come to talk about trade of his family’s wine, then he’d conquered one of Halrovia’s highest peaks. He’d conquered her with a mere smile.

‘I’d hoped to see you tonight,’ he murmured.

The breath hitched in her throat and she almost blushed. She wanted to say, And I, you . But she wouldn’t. It would give too much away, and her breeding taught her never to do that. Anyhow, Ana wasn’t fool enough to believe anything could come of this. The man was notorious, linked with many beautiful women, though none had lasted longer than six months. Instead, she could dream. Dreams were all she really had.

‘Who are you supposed to be?’ she asked.

‘Who do you think I am?’

With his horns and wicked gleam in his vivid blue eyes that would tempt the hardiest of mortals, he could be Lucifer himself. She wouldn’t give him or his undoubtedly healthy ego the satisfaction, no matter how much she wanted to. Even though it was an ego rightly held, one that deserved praising.

‘A satyr.’

His full and tempting lips curled, and his wickedness intensified. ‘And will you be my nymph to frolic with?’

His voice was deep, softly spoken, words for them alone. Her body heated. Was spontaneous combustion a thing? If so, she was ready to burst into flames. What she wouldn’t give to frolic with him, even if it was impossible. The flirting would always have to be enough.

‘You have me mistaken. I’m the goddess Flora.’

‘Ah.’ That one word contained so much as his gaze drifted over her in appreciation. Everywhere it slid, she sensed it like the stroke of his fingers. ‘You also have me mistaken. I’m a god.’

She didn’t doubt it. ‘Who?’

That curl of his lips again, then he let out a pained kind of sigh.

‘You disappoint me, Your Highness. I thought you might have guessed, given my family’s history.’ He held his arms out to the side and took a bow. ‘Bacchus.’

Now it was her turn to give him an appraisal and take him in with no shame. The height and breadth of him. His pristine dinner suit, stitched so finely it seemed as if it had been sewn directly onto his powerful body. The way it gripped his shoulders and thighs led her to wonder what he would look like without any clothing at all. Her breaths came shallow and fast, not helped by the intricate corsetry of her dress that pulled her in and pushed her out in all the right places, giving her the perfect silhouette—or that was what her dress maker had told her. If she didn’t watch out, she’d become quite dizzy. It was as if she’d been tossed into a kind of fever dream she didn’t want to wake from.

‘The lack of toga tripped me up.’

A waiter walked past. Aston snatched a glass of champagne for each of them. The Girard family’s Grand Cru, their Soleil label. It was one of the reasons Aston had been invited here. Ana took a sip and the perfect bubbles sparkled across her tongue.

Another waiter came with canapés. Aston selected one delectable looking bite for himself. She’d eaten a light meal before she’d come. Her mother would never have approved of her having more, no matter how sublime the palace kitchen’s creations. Her Majesty believed it was unseemly to consume finger food, and heaven help it spilling on a gown. Ana shook her head, regretting it the moment the waiter left.

Aston finished his canapé and took another healthy sip of his champagne, reported to have been named after him by his parents. He was a man who seemed to relish life and the pleasure it could provide him, like the god he claimed to be tonight.

‘I do believe Bacchus is most often portrayed...’ he leaned forward, and she leaned in towards him ‘...naked.’

The delicious sensation of heat scorched over her again, no doubt colouring her cheeks. Her parents would be outraged. She was... enthralled .

Unbidden imaginings began to drift into her consciousness: how he might look when the refinement of his perfect evening dress was stripped away to bare skin. She’d never much thought of such things before but, the moment she’d first been introduced to him, those kinds of erotic visions had clung to the darkest recesses of her consciousness like a limpet.

Where was the perfect princess tonight? It was as if she’d disappeared. But what was the Spring Ball if not something where, for a little while, she could allow herself the fantasy that she might flirt with a man like Aston Lane and ignore the expectation that she was to marry a prince? Especially when said prince wanted her sister rather than her.

‘I don’t know whether I should be relieved or disappointed, Mr Lane.’

He chuckled, the deep, throaty sound rolling over her with all the thrill and expectation of thunder heralding a storm. Even under his imposing mask she could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘It didn’t seem the kind of party where either mode of dress, or lack thereof, seemed appropriate.’

She shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help herself. The world in which she moved was a rarefied one. ‘And how often do you attend those sorts of parties?’

He winked. ‘Whenever I’m invited.’

Though she wasn’t entirely sure he was being serious, from the pictures taken by the dreaded paparazzi she could well believe it. Not that she had often taken to the Internet to look at him—not at all. Yet his existence seemed intoxicating, like the champagne for which his family was renowned, full of sparkle and...life.

‘You clearly move in different circles to me.’

‘I believe the goddess of spring and fertility and the god of wine and ecstasy would move together extremely well if they found themselves in the same circle.’

He leaned into her again. She leaned into him. It was as if they needed to be close to one another. She couldn’t help it, absorbing the warmth which seemed to radiate from him, catching his scent—green and fresh, with a bite. ‘Think of the things we might do.’

The things she imagined... She’d watched one video of him free-climbing, the way he’d tackled the rock face, the sheer power of him lifting himself. His strength astonished her, the focus... She’d spent days wondering what all of that power and focus would be like when fixed on her. Yet, no matter how she might have dreamed, here they were.

‘Sadly, we’re mere mortals, not gods.’

‘You’d make a man feel like one.’

His voice was like a murmur, as if he were imparting some deep secret. Her breath caught. Everything seemed to still. She could take compliments, but Aston Lane scrambled her brain, and all sensible thought fled. For a moment, she yearned . Instead, Ana took a gulp of the chilled bubbles as the warmth of a blush rose to her cheeks again. Everything about this, them here together in this magical forest, seemed to speak of possibilities.

‘And I hear congratulations might be in order, if you believe what you read.’

Reality came back in a rush. It was like being doused in a bucket of iced water.

‘What have you been reading?’

‘You and Prince Caspar. A joining of the houses of Montroy and Santori. Marriage .’

He said the last word as if it was something poisonous. It was a salutary reminder of who they both were, of what her parents would and wouldn’t allow for Halrovia’s perfect princess. She took a slow breath, not wanting the moment to end. What did it matter if she clutched onto the fantasy for a little while longer? Reality could wait, although it was time for a little truth. She took another sip of the perfect champagne to fortify herself.

‘Are you a betting man, Mr Lane?’

Whilst many people might believe he had no limits, there were things Aston did not do. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t toy with women’s hearts and he most certainly did not corrupt virgins. Not that there were any in the circles in which he mixed. Yet here he was, in a secluded corner of a ballroom wishing for a blistering moment that he didn’t have his principles.

Tonight, Princess Anastacia was a goddess embodied in human form. Regularly feted as the most beautiful woman in Europe, her style was coveted and copied by women around the world. It was no surprise. He’d first met her on a trade mission, poised and every bit the ‘perfect princess’ the press had dubbed her. As cool as the snow-capped peaks for which Halrovia was renowned. The ‘Ice Princess’, as some of the less kind commentators called her.

There was nothing icy about her tonight. She looked like the most exquisite hothouse bloom. Almost...fecund, with her slender waist and the gentle flare of her hips, her breasts swelling above a neckline that scooped low. Her blonde hair wasn’t in a tight chignon, as was her usual style, but spilling over her shoulders in gleaming waves. She wore a dress that, when he’d first seen it, had made his breath stutter, because from a distance his fertile imagination had almost convinced him she was naked underneath, covered only by twisting vines and flowers.

Are you a betting man, Mr Lane?

Those luscious lips of hers were parted, as if in anticipation. He could read the signs from her throaty voice, the way her pupils darkened behind her mask. He knew them well. In other circumstances, he’d bet he could have her in his bed within an hour. What an enticing thought, albeit an impossible one in any circumstances.

‘I’ve been known to take a risk or two.’

More than one or two. His parents constantly tried to get him to settle down, especially now he’d announced his next conquest: a plan to climb Everest. His father’s ice-axe was in his office, ready to join him as he summited. That news had not gone down well over a dinner of cassoulet at the family’s chateau. He’d two years of gruelling training ahead of him, something that his mother and father could never understand.

Live for me.

They were last words his brother Michel had spoken to him, said years ago when his brother’s time had run out. The pain might now cut more like a blunt blade than a sharpened one, but it was ever-present. Still, from that day, Aston had vowed to live life enough for both of them.

But tonight wasn’t about loss. It was about living, the promises he’d made: a soft launch of Girard Champagne’s Grand Cru, Soleil. Aston was all about the champagne which had made his family famous. What was the saying? Wine, women and song... Give him wine and women any day. His family’s incomparable champagne and the magnificent woman before him with her eyes sparkling the pale blue of aquamarines and her plump lips a soft and pouty rose. Except, she was the marrying kind. The kind he would never touch. The kind that might cause him to lose focus...

He knew well what a loss of focus could do to a man, the fatal consequences. Michel had paid that awful price. Anyhow, why settle down when life was a feast to be gorged upon and not a Spartan meal for two? Though he wondered whether Anastacia Montroy wasn’t the type of woman he’d always hunger for, one for whom his appetite would never be sated...

The princess’s lips curled into an enigmatic smile. ‘Then tonight you should lay all your money down on my never being engaged to Prince Caspar.’

Excellent.

Though why that word should hook his imagination like a fish on the end of a line he couldn’t say. Her observation was only interesting because, politically, she and Santori would make the perfect couple, even though that thought made his fists involuntarily clench. At least she didn’t seem aggrieved. However, his observation didn’t change the reality—she was off-limits to anything other than some flirting, with the desire to make her flawless golden skin flush once more, never anything further and never anything over which her family would call for pistols at dawn.

Princess Anastacia raised her glass and drained it; no elegant sips for her any more. She looked as if she wanted to celebrate, not seek commiseration.

‘You don’t seem unhappy about that revelation,’ he said.

She lifted one slender shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. Everything about her was so measured and perfect. How he’d love to be the one to mess her up, if only a little, to see the princess wild and unrestrained. Since his brother’s death, it had been his mission to take every adventure and keep the promise he’d made on the day Michel had died. Princess Anastacia looked as if she needed a few adventures of her own, not an arranged marriage to some stranger, prince though he may be.

The princess looked out over the crowd to couples on the dance floor, almost in yearning. He followed her gaze. Santori was there, dancing with a woman in a glittering frost-blue ball gown. Was Anastacia wishing she were there in his arms, rather than here, perhaps rueing the loss of the prince to another? If she regularly hit the ‘world’s most beautiful’ lists, being passed over must sting. All he knew was that Santori was a fool if he couldn’t see the worth of the woman before him.

‘Since you’re not about to be swept away into some fairy tale, would you care to dance?’ he asked.

If a prince was happy enough to pass up his chance to get this woman into his arms, Aston would take it instead, for the next few moments at least. He held out his elbow. She took it, her touch light and delicate, her fingers tipped in shell-pink polish.

The princess looked up at him and smiled. ‘Who’s to say the fairy tale isn’t what we make of it, Mr Lane?’

It was as if he’d been flung into the lava flow of the last volcano he’d trekked up. He burned . He couldn’t wait for their bodies to be aligned, moving in synchronicity, even if it was only on a dance floor. Aston led her through the crowd as people turned, watching them—the bad boy of champagne and the perfect princess.

On the dance floor, couples drifted to the rhythm of a string quartet playing something slow and sultry. He took her into his arms, his hand spanning her narrow waist. The warmth of her seeped into his palm. Her scent was sweet and fresh, like a flower garden.

Sweet . He must not forget.

Virginal . Shouldn’t forget that either.

As he looked down at her then, into her azure eyes framed by the mask of tiny butterflies, the reasons for that seemed hazy.

‘You should call me Aston.’

‘Should I?’

Her lips parted and he drew her closer as they moved in perfect step to the music. She didn’t hesitate, instead melting into him. Who’d have guessed that Princess Anastacia would be the perfect fit? The crowd seemed to fade, as if it were only the two of them, and the music with its seductive lilt.

‘What should I call you?’

He craved to hear her say his own name, breathily, gasping in his ear as he made love to her for hours. Her lips parted. Could she tell what he was thinking?

‘“Your Highness” would be proper.’

‘What if you didn’t want to be proper?’

Even in the low light her cheeks darkened. The beautiful flush of colour made her glow. ‘I always am.’

The words sounded bitter in her mouth. Poor princess. Did she feel trapped in her cage, gilded and beautiful though it was? He swung her out. She executed a perfect turn and came back into his arms in a rush, even closer now, if that were possible.

‘Lucky for you, I’m not. For tonight, I’ll call you ma déesse ...’

Her mask shifted, the little butterfly wings fluttering as she raised her eyebrows. ‘“My goddess”?’

‘Oui. Bien s?r.’ He pitched his voice lower, softer, as if the words he was about to impart were a secret between them. ‘Of earthy delights.’

‘Don’t you mean “earthly”?’

‘No. I know exactly what I said.’

He might have imagined it, but he was sure she let out a sigh. Even part-hidden behind her mask her gaze pinned him as they simply moved together, lost to everything bar the music, in the same rhythm as his heartbeat. Then the music began to slow, a coda to his time with her, even though he didn’t want the dance to end. The string quartet stopped playing and, whilst he loosened his hold, she didn’t move from his arms. Another song started. Keep moving? Let her go? Take her to a darkened corner, press her against the wall and kiss her?

So many choices...only one of them a good one.

‘May I cut in?’

Aston wheeled round and almost shouted, No! Yet the voice was from the man to whom Princess Anastacia was supposed to become betrothed tonight. Perhaps Santori had seen the light and wanted an engagement after all? It was more than he could ever give this woman.

‘Of course,’ he responded, almost through gritted teeth, but he still handed her off, watching as she was swung away from him into the crowd of dancers. Though, as the couple came into view once more, Anastacia wasn’t looking at her prince.

She was looking at him.

Aston turned away from her. Tonight was about business, not pleasure, and business was something he did well. Yet, as he stalked back into the throng of people, he couldn’t shake the intense sensation he had misplaced something vital.

Something that one day he’d crave to recover.