Modern Romance Collection February 2025, #5-8

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Six months later

A NA SAT AT her dressing table, hardly able to look in the mirror. Today was supposed to be an important day, one she could barely draw up enough emotion to dread. Her mother had said she must make an effort. When had there been a time in her life when she hadn’t; hadn’t done everything that was demanded of her? She gritted her teeth, adjusting her fringe and the rest of her hair to hide the angry pink scar that marred her temple, threading into her hairline.

Her doctors promised that there was revision surgery for it, and the other scars that were more easily hidden by her clothes. They said that they’d fade in time. If only the memories would, and that all her scars could be so easily dismissed. She shut her eyes against the jolting vision of crushing steel and shattering glass, then the ominous silence, hands pulling her from a crushed vehicle, the pain, a voice in her ear...

Ana sucked in a sharp breath, supressing the memory. Her heart pounded a panicked rhythm, a sick acid sensation climbing to her throat. She swallowed it down, opened her eyes and truly looked at herself, staring at the woman who looked back at her. Still Anastacia Montroy, but in all other ways changed. It felt as if she’d aged a hundred years in the space of a mere six months.

The door of her room cracked open, and her mother swept inside in a perfumed glide. If Ana had once been called ‘perfect’ she’d only been a pretender to the title, because her mother was in all ways a picture of perfection. Never once had Ana seen her with a hair out of place, her clothing anything other than immaculate. Today, the Queen was dressed in a pale-blue suit that accentuated her eyes of a similar hue and made her blonde hair gleam like spun gold. Pearls clasped at her throat, she looked as cold and forbidding as the snow-topped mountains for which Halrovia was famed.

‘Incomparable’, her father had once said of her mother; he hadn’t necessarily meant it as praise. Her mother wielded that perfection like a blade. Her sister, Priscilla, had once been the recipient of most of her mother’s cutting comments. No longer. Prince Caspar had proposed to Cilla soon after the Spring Ball and she’d moved to Isolobello, becoming assistant to Halrovia’s ambassador there till she and Caspar eventually married—a clever request of the Crown Prince to get his beloved closer to him, one that her parents hadn’t been able to refuse.

Now the Queen’s laser focus was turned on her. The once ‘perfect princess’ who had been dubbed...imperfect, a disappointment, when she’d spent her whole life trying to live up to the impossible standards set for her by her family, the public, the press. She’d never failed.

Till that dreadful night six months ago. In the aftermath of the Spring Ball, the press had constantly questioned how Prince Caspar could have passed up a famed beauty like her, wondering why he’d chosen Cilla, unfairly dubbed the ‘plain princess’, instead of the supposedly perfect one. The shock of that announcement had caused a stir, ripples in the press that lasted to this day, where she was concerned at least. What everyone had failed to realise was that Ana couldn’t capture a man whose heart had already been taken from the moment he’d set eyes her sister.

She’d been angry for Cilla, who few people had ever seen the true worth of because she didn’t fit the Montroy family mould. And for herself, because no one could look past her appearance to the very heart of her. That fateful night, everything had reached breaking point. She’d been so tired of being good all the time, the press asking what was wrong with the perfect princess. Why hadn’t she been able to snag a prince? All she’d wanted was to live a little. To go out, like any young woman in her circle might, to take to the casinos and clubs of Monaco. To flirt and have fun. To wear a scandalously short red dress. To pretend for a moment she wasn’t perfect, that she simply... was .

But it had ended in a terrible car accident that had changed her life. She considered herself lucky—at least her body hadn’t been completely shattered, unlike that of the friend she’d been in the vehicle with. Carla was still in hospital undergoing rehabilitation. She might have been able to walk today, had she not been in the company of a princess.

You’ll scar, and no one but me will love you now...

That voice...a man’s voice...whispered as she’d lain bleeding, trapped in the wreckage of the car. No one had believed that the accident had been something more sinister, that it had had something to do with who she was rather than a series of random events culminating in one, catastrophic moment... Some days, even she’d convinced herself it was a product of her shocked brain. Yet she’d heard it.

No one but me will love you now...

Ana almost laughed. How true that portent had become in the voice of the man she’d been trying to escape on the night of the accident. The man no one believed had been sending her anonymous letters ever since he’d glimpsed her on the night of the Spring Ball.

She’d always received fan mail—but then some had begun to come in via her private secretary that made her senses scream on high alert. It was the way they’d been phrased. They’d sounded just like the man she was sure wrote them, somehow...oily. She hadn’t been able to put her finger on it, other than the sentiments had made her deeply uncomfortable, made her skin crawl. Still, everyone had dismissed her concerns. Her parents had said she was just being dramatic.

That night had changed the way her country and her family saw her. Had left its terrible scars, physical and emotional. Yet no one seemed to care.

Ana greeted the woman who was more monarch than mother.

‘Mama.’ She gave a small curtsey.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, looking her up and down, no doubt searching for flaws in the conservative navy dress she wore with its high neck, long sleeves, skimming just below the knee. Impeccably tailored, it hid a multitude of sins...or the evidence of her failings.

The Queen’s lips thinned. ‘You’re wearing that? You look more like a nun than a woman about to become engaged.’

The problem was, she didn’t feel like a woman about to become engaged, particularly since she didn’t yet know who her mythical fiancé was supposed to be. A fire of anger lit in her belly. At least with Caspar they’d been given a choice—thrust together on an expectation, yet never forced.

This? It had been presented to her as a fait accompli . Ana felt as if all her choices had been stolen from her. She suspected it was because her parents believed she’d made such a hash of capturing Caspar’s attentions that they wouldn’t give her a chance to ruin an arrangement with another person they’d chosen for her. She took a slow breath, through the hurt and the ache.

‘The dress has pockets,’ she said, hating that her voice somehow sounded small.

Her mother sniffed, looking down her nose at Ana from her towering heels.

‘Why does a princess require pockets?’

To hold her phone, which gave her constant updates and alerts about the man she believed had followed her to Monaco that terrible night. He was from one of Halrovia’s oldest families. Rich, titled... entitled . Count Hakkinen, the son of one of her father’s former advisors. A man who had caused the skin on the back of her neck to prickle unpleasantly the moment she’d been introduced to him.

Yet what confessions could she make when no one believed her? They’d whisper that she was attention seeking, not telling the truth, trying to avoid the consequences of her actions for her friend and the crown.

‘Why do I need to marry?’

She’d been prepared to marry for duty six months ago, but the near-death experience had brought her life into sharp focus. Why should she settle down, be stuffed back into a box everyone had created for her, rather than one she’d designed herself? Especially to someone whose name she didn’t know. She’d planned for Caspar, after having been pushed in his direction—she had at least liked him—but now she found herself wanting more. Why wasn’t she allowed to find love?

Her mother stalked up to her and Ana almost took a step back. Queen Beatrice reached out and tugged at Ana’s fringe over her temple, adjusting it some more, eyes narrowing. Had she been able to frown, Ana was sure one would have bisected her mother’s brow. Yet her mother would allow nothing to crease her flawless skin, no lines at all—smiling, laughing, nothing.

‘You well know the answer to that question.’

The fire in Ana’s belly guttered and died. It was true; she did know the answer.

When she’d seen Hakkinen in the casino that night, she’d been sure he was following her. She’d caught glimpses of him in every club they’d visited, lurking in the shadows, as if waiting to strike. She’d been terrified. She’d needed to get away before he did something terrible to her, to Carla.

They’d hurried into a cab. The driver was unlicensed, had drunk too much and taken prescription medication. Ana hadn’t known, or she would never have entered the vehicle. Her family had had to spend a fortune to buy the horrible, grainy pictures of her being extracted after the accident so they would never hit the news services. Scrubbing the internet. Photos of her dress as red as the blood marring her skin, Hakkinen by her side...

During her recovery, the news stories about her had become even worse. There’d been talk of her being a ‘precious princess’, shirking her duty when all she’d wanted to do was hide from the looks of pity from the doctors, nurses and palace staff, because of her scars. As if all the charity work she’d done was meaningless in the face of her imperfections, even the new charity she’d started to little fanfare: the Cygnet Centre. It paid for children in medical need around the world to have life-changing reconstructive plastic surgery. Despite everything, she hadn’t been allowed time to recover from the wounds to her body and her soul. Not to mention wanting to hide away from her fear that the man who’d been pursuing her might be lying in wait...

Then the focus of the press had turned onto Gabriel, Halrovia’s Crown Prince—her somewhat uptight brother, yet a person who cared deeply about his country. They’d searched for flaws in him, ones he and his family kept hidden. Palace courtiers had fears for her family’s very existence.

Those were cracks she’d brought to the family’s foundations. And now? The atonement was hers to make. She needed to become perfect again to save the royal family’s reputation.

She wrapped her arms around herself till her mother gave her the look , one that froze like the winter wind. So she adjusted how she stood, as she had been taught, arms relaxed by her side, though everything about her was wound tight.

‘Who is this man I’m supposed to become betrothed to?’

It seemed important— should be important. Like every princess who was required by their family to marry a suitable prince if humanly possible, she knew who the available ones were. The ones you hoped might be chosen, the ones you didn’t...

‘ Will become betrothed to, Anastacia. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with him. He’s acceptable in almost every way.’

‘ Almost every way?’

The Queen’s lips pursed, as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. ‘He’s a commoner. However, his mother and I knew each other at school.’

Her mother still hadn’t given her a name, but it was pointless asking again. When the Queen didn’t want to do something, she didn’t, end of story.

‘You and Father said I’d be expected to marry a prince, or at the very least nobility...’ Ana’s voice sounded somehow distant, as her mind worked through the possibilities and came up with nothing.

Her mother tilted her head to the side and gave a tight half-smile. Ana hated that look. It screamed of pity, that her daughter wasn’t the vaunted beauty any longer, as if her scars had somehow tarnished her worth. Because in the end what Ana had learned was that all anyone had truly cared about was how flawless she’d appeared—her mother most of all. What that look of the Queen’s told Ana was that no available prince must want her.

Who she was inside didn’t matter at all. Yet she was more than how a dress might hang on her body, or her good skin, shiny hair or anything that had to do with how she looked.

Her mother’s private secretary entered the room without knocking, giving a discreet cough. ‘Ma’am...’

Her mother checked her elegant platinum watch, then pinned Ana with her glacial gaze. ‘It’s time.’

With those words she began walking to the door and Ana followed. The Queen’s heels clicked like daggers striking the marble floor of the hall, tap, tap, tap. Ana felt as if the sound was counting down the time to her doom.

‘Halrovia’s royal family has been the country’s bastion for over four hundred years, upholding everything that is right and good. Each of us must do our duty for the family, Anastacia. Your turn comes now. Your second chance to do your duty.’

A terrible sense of unfairness overwhelmed her. Before the accident, she’d accepted that her life was in many ways her country’s. Had worked tirelessly with charities, even the one she’d recently established on her own. She’d done everything that had been expected of her. When had it ever been enough? She’d toed the line, had never stepped out of bounds. She’d come to realise that the love and acceptance of her parents was entirely conditional.

Bile began to rise to her throat.

‘Caspar wanting Cilla was not my fault.’

The sharpness of her mother’s responding gaze would have eviscerated anyone else. Once, Cilla had borne the brunt of her mother’s disapprobation; now it was turned on Ana.

‘Yet why did he choose her over you? What did you do?’ The accusation stung because it was the question everyone else was asking too, and the question that was unasked: what is wrong with you?

‘I didn’t do anything. I was myself. That was the problem. I was the wrong daughter of the House of Montroy. Caspar and Cilla fell in love.’

To her, it seemed romantic. Her sister always sounded so happy when they spoke on the phone, inviting her to visit Isolobello any time she wanted, especially if she needed an escape from the expectations that bound her.

‘ Love . What use is that when it makes you forget where your duty lies? It had always been the hope of our family that you and Caspar would be together. No matter. When you’re finally married, it will silence the critics. Your father and I are resolved. This is a sensible choice.’

What sort of man did her parents believe was sensible? It brought to mind someone bland, grey-suited, grey-haired, maybe older. Perhaps bland and sensible were good? She could melt away from publicity and everyone would forget her. There’d be no more pity, there’d be nothing. She’d simply disappear. She could live her life any way she chose without the public or her parents caring about her. Yet why did those thoughts make her feel that she’d be missing out on something real?

They approached her father’s study. The huge, oak doors loomed ominously in the otherwise bright hall, the windows to her left giving her views of the capital of the country she’d spent her whole short life representing. Her footsteps slowed. She didn’t want this, not right now. Maybe if she had more time... Her breaths came short and sharp. Where was all the air?

Her mother stopped, her private secretary at her side. ‘Anastacia, compose yourself. This man clearly found you attractive at the Spring Ball...’

Her heart stuttered for a moment as conflicting emotions coursed through her. Relief. Excitement. Dread.

‘He danced with you three times.’

Aston Lane? It couldn’t be. Yet he was the only man she’d danced with three times that night. Once, she might have been thrilled about this. But everything was different now. She wasn’t the perfect princess any more. She was someone else entirely. Someone she didn’t recognise. The woman Aston had danced with at the Spring Ball had ceased to exist and another person had replaced her. That woman wanted to hide away and lick her wounds. Her now seemingly childish fantasies about a man she might have dreamed of were one thing, but reality?

You’ll scar, and no one but me will love you now...

She was flawed in every way. For a few blissful moments that night, she’d been thought of as a goddess. She’d held tight onto that, a precious memory when everyone was now so focussed on her flaws. She wasn’t a goddess any longer.

Her mother’s private secretary gave the door a sharp knock and Ana flinched as it opened. Her heart beating a sickening rhythm, her breath heaving in her chest. Ana followed her mother into the room, wishing time could simply rewind. She fixed her gaze on her father, who stood as they entered. He looked satisfied, perhaps relieved. Her mother broke into as warm a smile as Ana had ever seen, for a man she could not look at as the breath crushed in her chest like the weight of the world sat upon her.

‘Mr Lane,’ her mother said in greeting. ‘How pleasant to see you again.’

Aston was a man who’d always tried to live in the moment. Since Michel had died, he’d fought not to dwell on the past, or fear for the future. In recent months, he’d been suffocating in both, a state forced upon him by his parents. Now the future had been thrust in his face in the shape of a woman—a seeming lifeline, a breath of oxygen. A woman he’d only admit in his quieter moments he’d thought far too much about in the months since the last Spring Ball.

You must marry...

It was something he’d not contemplated for himself, yet an edict from his parents he couldn’t ignore—to settle down when settling for anything was not where he saw his future lying.

When he did consider the future, it was tied up in the direction of his business interests or the next adventure to take, the next mountain to climb—keeping his promises to Michel, carrying out his dream of standing on the top of the whole world with his father’s ice-axe in his hands. What man wouldn’t want that, instead of being tied to another? A wife would only distract him from his dreams. Yet his parents had been clear—the Girard Champagne company was to be left to his cousin unless Aston managed to find a wife.

When his training for the Everest climb had first commenced months before, the hints had come. First from his father then more explicitly from his mother, until their last argument. “Find a suitable wife,” they’d demanded. What the hell did that even mean? Why force this upon him?

Though he suspected what their reasons might be. Finding a wife to gain his inheritance of the company whose history ran rich in his veins would consume all of his time. Time he’d planned to spend training for the promise he’d made to his brother, to climb Everest. But if he married? He suspected his mother and father believed that the prospect of a wife would be enough to entice him to abandon the climb altogether and focus his attentions on the business alone. That he’d lose his urge to conquer mountains if he could find contentment closer to home. They presumed, since they were happy in their own marriage, that marriage was a state he wanted for himself.

Why do you always need a bigger mountain to climb Aston? Isn’t living life well challenge enough for you?

His mother’s words. She’d never understand. Aston took a deep breath through the anger still burning like acid through his veins at the hurt over what his parents had demanded of him. Blackmail was never something he’d expected in his life, especially from them.

He’d almost told them to go to hell. His fortune was his own. Whilst some might have accused him of being one, he was no ‘nepo-baby’. Give him a hundred dollars, he’d turn it into a hundred thousand without blinking. He had investments that were all his. He didn’t need Girard. Yet he hadn’t been able to walk away. The wine was his life. Some laughed and said that, if you cut him, he’d bleed champagne. He wouldn’t lose the company to a man like his cousin—someone who did the books but didn’t understand the company’s soul .

In any case, they were wrong. Nothing, nobody, would prevent him from fulfilling his vow. Marrying for love? All love did was hold you back, destroyed your resolve, distracted you. Distractions on a mountain could have fatal consequences—a fall, shattered bones...

I want to stand on top of the whole world.

Words he’d often heard his brother say. And now Aston was determined to fulfil a promise. To carry out Michel’s dream of standing on the summit of Everest with their father’s ice-axe in his hands.

He clenched his fists, then relaxed them. Memories of Michel had no place here. For now, they needed to stay locked in a vault of the past.

‘Your Majesty. Your Highness.’ He gave a short, polite bow, focussing on the princess, even though this was a done deal. He might not be happy about it, but he wasn’t ill-mannered enough to show it to the woman who was to become his wife. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

That was no lie, so far as Anastacia was concerned. He’d forgotten the effect she had on him, relishing and rejecting it at the same time. The sight of her was a physical thing, like a blow to the head knocking the sense right out of him. Though, as he looked at her, he realised that she seemed little happier than he was at the prospect of an engagement. He didn’t question why that thought irritated him, like a burr in his shoe.

In fact, she looked almost unrecognisable from the woman whose visage had crept through the cracks in his consciousness more times than he’d cared to admit. At the Spring Ball she’d been like a tropical ginger flower, vibrant with the hint of spice. Now it was as if she were an arctic white peony—pale, impossibly beautiful yet would bruise at the merest touch.

Today, instead of a rosy flush of health her skin held no colour, as if the life had been sucked from her. Her eyes were a little too wide, her features pinched. Her hair had changed; no cascading golden waves or sophisticated chignon, which had once been her signature. Now it fell shorter around her shoulders, with a heavy fringe framing her face. In a plain, albeit impeccably fitted, conservative dress, she looked as if she were heading for a day in court rather than celebrating her betrothal.

Where was the earthy goddess he’d danced with at the ball six months ago? Where, even, was the ‘perfect princess’? He’d not paid much attention to the goings on in Halrovia in the past months. He’d been too immersed in the launch of Girard’s latest signature Grand Cru and the early stages of training for his climb on Everest.

Then his parents’ edict had come, and his focus had turned to finding a suitable wife. He’d even engaged a professional matchmaker, until he’d realised only thoughts of one woman entered his head when contemplating marriage: Anastacia Montroy. Once that idea had struck, it wouldn’t let go. No one else would do. How could a princess be anything other than suitable?

The King motioned to a lounge area in the cavernous study. ‘Please, let’s take a seat.’

As they moved towards the seating area, the Queen gave her daughter a quelling look. The atmosphere in the room was an uncomfortable one. Aston accepted it was likely that monarchs rarely had commoners entirely relaxed in their presence, however there was an undercurrent here he couldn’t place.

It was at odds with the King’s reaction when Aston had seeded the idea of his interest in their daughter, with his expectations low as a commoner but his hopes high because of their family connection. From first mention to final agreement, it had fallen into place with laughable ease. When they’d said yes, it had been a personal triumph, the first step in reclaiming his family’s legacy and fulfilling the promise to his brother. He’d been told Ana was satisfied with the arrangement, and he hadn’t much thought about it till now, because this was a business deal like any other.

What had changed? If only he could get the princess alone to ask her. Aston was sure any reluctance she might have could be easily overcome. He wouldn’t allow anything to impede the marriage he’d negotiated.

They all took their places, the Queen in one grand brocade chair, the King in another. He took the sofa, supposing it was natural for her parents to seat the soon-to-be betrothed couple together. With another meaningful glance from her father, Anastacia took a seat with him, but not close as one might expect if this was to be a happy or desired union. She lowered herself elegantly onto the cushions, pressing herself into a corner, crossing her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap.

‘We should discuss dates for a wedding,’ the King said.

‘It’s modern times, so we don’t propose a long engagement,’ the Queen added.

That got Anastacia’s attention. Her head jerked up and she stared at her parents as though she didn’t recognise them. When he’d been forced to consider marriage, he hadn’t thought of a long engagement either. Whilst his parents weren’t old, his mother’s insouciant attitude to her high cholesterol and her love of good food, wine and the occasional sneaked cigarette with friends, much to her doctor’s dismay, made an earlier wedding of greater import than ever before.

Yet, even though this was a state he didn’t want, he found his thoughts speeding straight to the wedding. Anastacia in her bridal whites, a veil over her face, walking down the aisle towards him. Given his views on love and marriage, he wasn’t sure why the vision running through his head was so enticing, rather than leaving him cold. Pictures of a wedding night burst vivid in his head: Anastacia spread out on the bed, skin naked and exposed to him alone. Would he be the first man who’d ever seen her, who’d ever made love to her?

A burn lit inside him, something hot and demanding. His consciousness was assailed by a night and three dances when they’d moved seamlessly in each other’s arms.

I believe the goddess of spring and fertility and the god of wine and ecstasy would move together extremely well...

If nothing else, they could have that together.

His fantasies from the night of the Spring Ball had been one thing. Now reality overcame him in a rush. He had to shut the thoughts down because there was no way he could politely adjust himself in his seat. The fact that he was sitting in this study, with his soon to be parents-in-law who were a king and queen, should have been enough to quell any errant desire. Yet he felt like a teenager again, with inconvenient erections springing up any time he’d thought about a girl, rather than a seasoned businessman of thirty-two. If the situation weren’t so laughable, he might find it embarrassing.

He glanced over at Anastacia to ground himself in the reality of what he was being compelled to do, but she wasn’t looking at him. She seemed intent on staring at her hands clasped in her lap, not relaxed in the chair, her back straight and stiff. As if she’d noticed him watching her, she unclasped her hands and reached one up to adjust her fringe.

‘I thought...’ Finally, Anastacia spoke. Not to him, but to her parents. They didn’t seem to listen.

‘As you would know, Mr Lane, our youngest daughter Priscilla is marrying the Crown Prince of Isolobello in eight months.’

Aston didn’t know. He had no interest in the personal machinations of the royal family. His thoughts were on business, keeping his name in the will and climbing Everest. Anything else was peripheral. ‘It wouldn’t do for the weddings to clash, so we thought earlier rather than later.’

He glanced at Anastacia again. Any meagre colour in her cheeks drained away.

‘Moth—Your Majesty—you know how long it takes to make a wedding dress.’

This was not going as he’d expected. What had happened between the night of the ball, when Anastacia been all flirtation, to now? He’d been passenger enough in this scenario, allowing their exalted majesties to direct the negotiations because he hadn’t wanted the deal to sour. Now it was time to make a stand for the woman he didn’t love, but would defend as his future wife.

‘You’d look beautiful in whatever you chose to wear. Designers will fight to dress you for your wedding. No matter how soon the date, they’ll achieve miracles for you.’

The faintest hint of colour bled back into her cheeks. The corners of her pouting pink mouth flicked into an almost-smile, before returning to a neutral line.

‘Halrovia’s designers are dressing royalty for our youngest daughter’s wedding, Mr Lane. They have no time to spare, even for miracles.’

At her mother’s words, Anastacia seemed to shrink further into herself. This was a woman who had swept across a ballroom, leaving people falling over themselves in her wake. A goddess. Ma déesse ...his goddess. Becoming less didn’t suit her. A pilot light of anger flicked to life in his gut.

‘Then Her Highness can name a French designer and I’ll ensure they have time for miracles.’

A silence fell over the room before the King clapped his hands. ‘Excellent, then a dress will be no impediment. What date suits you for the wedding, Mr Lane? We can co-ordinate our diaries.’

With a quick wedding and honeymoon, he could ensure his inheritance was secure and make the climbing season for Everest in eighteen months’ time. His dream to conquer the highest summit and the training it required would be back on the agenda and hopefully soon to be on track. His parents would be unable to object, since he’d done what they’d asked. Even better, he’d be marrying a princess, one who’d been trained for a political type of marriage. There’d be no uncomfortable expectations such as love to complicate everything. He could live his life and she could live hers, because that’s how she’d been raised. No complicated emotions to mess up everything. His focus would be uninterrupted.

Perfect. What his parents didn’t understand was that he wasn’t only living life for himself, but for Michel. For a promise between brothers that he wouldn’t break.

‘I’m in your hands, Your Majesties. Though perhaps Her Highness and I could have a discussion in private regarding the arrangements, since I’ve always considered a wedding is more about the bride than the groom.’

Her parents gave each other a quick glance, and to Anastacia a sharp one. Were they thinking to refuse him? How...quaint to believe they had any control over this where he was concerned.

He turned his attention to Anastacia. ‘I suspect the garden would be pleasant enough at this time of the year, Your Highness.’

She smoothed her hands down her dress then stood with only a moment’s hesitation. She looked down at him, her gazing morphing into something flinty, sharp, slicing right into him. He relished it, the flare of fire in her that burned, hinting at the woman beneath. The one who didn’t want to hide. She raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth kicked up in response.

‘Are you coming, Mr Lane?’