The Royal Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
don’t think it counts as a present if you’ve been blackmailed into buying it!’
She laughed. ‘Well, thank you, anyway,’ she said, opening the magazine out on the table and licking a finger so that she could leaf idly through the pages one by one. ‘A little frivolity makes a nice change.’
Corran was leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing her morosely over the rim of his mug as she looked through the magazine, a tiny smile curling the corners of her mouth, long lashes downswept over the grey eyes. His gaze rested on the heart-shaking line of her cheek, and an ache for something he couldn’t name lodged in his chest.
The truth was that Betty McPherson had made Corran feel bad. He hadn’t thought of Lotty missing things like shopping and gossip, but of course she would. There was little scope for fashion at Loch Mhoraigh, but she still managed to look elegant and feminine. She was clearly someone used to a comfortable life, surrounded by fine things. Sooner or later, she would start to hanker for proper shops and things to do in the evening, he reminded himself.
True, she hadn’t complained about their absence yet, but she hadn’t been there that long.
It just felt like forever. Corran struggled to remember what it had been like without her now, and when he tried to imagine the future when she was gone, he just came up with a terrifying blank.
He was going to have to try harder.
ELLA hadn’t complained either at the beginning, he remembered. She had claimed at first that he was all she wanted but, once they were married, it turned out that she wanted a lot more than that. Corran wasn’t enough at all. Every day, there had been something that he didn’t do or didn’t feel or didn’t provide.
His mouth twisted, remembering that time. Ella had been constantly discontented, it seemed. She was disappointed that he spent so much time at work, resentful that he didn’t surprise her with bunches of flowers or mini breaks in Paris or little pieces of jewellery and hurt that he didn’t send her messages on the hour, every hour.
Corran had never understood why Ella needed proof that he loved her. He said it, and he’d meant it, and it seemed to him that ought to be enough, but Ella required constant reassurance that he had obviously failed to provide. She would plunge into despair, punishing him with floods of tears or sulky silences, and then go out and spend huge sums on her credit card which apparently made her feel better. Corran wondered if she was subjecting Jeff to the same treatment now, and hoped his old friend was dealing with it better than he had.
He couldn’t imagine Lotty carrying on like that. She had a natural dignity and grace, a quiet strength apparent in the straightness of her spine and the tilt of her chin. But then there had been no warning that Ella was that needy either. He had married one woman and ended up with quite a different one, Corran remembered bitterly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
And what, really, did he know about Lotty? He knew she was warm and passionate and stubborn. He knew she was hard-working and intelligent, but had an inexplicable lack of belief in her own beauty and abilities. He knew how her eyes lit when she smiled. He knew the scent of her skin, the softness of her hair, the precise curve of her hip. He knew she was stylish and sweet and a terrible cook.
But she was close-mouthed about her family and life before she came to Loch Mhoraigh. If it ever came up in the conversation, she would change the subject, and Corran was happy to pretend that her other life didn’t exist, that there was just this time they had together.
Her English was so perfect that he often forgot that she was from Montluce. Mrs McPherson’s reminder had been like a finger poking in the ribs. He didn’t like the idea that she had thought about Lotty being the kind of girl who would like to read a glossy magazine. He didn’t like her knowing something about Lotty that he didn’t. He didn’t like being reminded that Lotty had another life in another country, where she probably shopped and read magazines and wore expensive clothes all the time.
Corran didn’t want to know about that Lotty. That Lotty was going to leave. If he thought about that Lotty, he’d have to remember that she wasn’t going to stay here at Loch Mhoraigh for ever. Watching her leaf through the magazine, remembering, Corran felt something cold settle in the pit of his stomach.
More fool him for forgetting in the first place. He had to get a grip, Corran told himself. He had lost focus on the estate. He was thinking about Lotty too much. He’d be knocking down a wall or plumbing in a new pipe, and he’d remember her softness, or the silkiness of her hair, or the way his heart pounded when she touched him, when he ought to be thinking about breeding programmes or investment strategies.
Lotty was sipping her tea, pursing her lips at a page, shaking her head at another as she flicked through the articles. They certainly didn’t require much reading. From what Corran could see, they consisted of a lot of shiny photographs with captions. How could she possibly find any of it interesting?
Then she turned a page and choked, spluttering tea everywhere.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
But Lotty couldn’t answer. She was coughing and laughing at the same time, her eyes watering, until Corran began to get concerned. Levering himself away from the counter, he patted her on the back.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she tried to say, but it came out as a squeak and she put a hand to her throat. ‘Sorry!’
Unthinkingly keeping his hand on her back, Corran peered over her shoulder to see what had surprised her so much.
The page was dominated by a photograph of a vibrant girl with untidy hair. She was smiling at the camera and wearing a man’s jacket that was clearly much too big for her. A New Style Icon for Montluce, trumpeted the headline.
Another picture showed her with a good-looking man. Corran read the caption. Wedding Rumours for Prince Philippe, it read.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked Lotty, who was still trying to clear her throat.
‘What? Oh!’ She tried to pull the magazine away. ‘Oh, nothing. I was just surprised. She… she reminds me of someone I used to know, that’s all.’
‘Pretty girl,’ Corran commented, studying the photo. He was still absently rubbing Lotty’s back. ‘At least she looks like she’s got some personality, unlike most celebrities.’
Caro certainly had personality, thought Lotty. She was desperately aware of his warm hand moving over her, and she couldn’t resist leaning back into it as she wiped her eyes.
She wished she could tell Corran about her friend. She would have liked to have explained how Caro worried about her weight and wore the oddest clothes, like that old dinner jacket of her father’s, and how much she would laugh to hear herself described as a style icon.
It would be nice to tell him what a special friend Caro was, and how she had stepped in to give Lotty herself a chance to escape from Montluce for a while. Caro would say that it had suited her too, but Lotty knew that it was a lot to ask her friend to give up two months of her life.
But how could she tell Corran all that without telling him that she was a princess? Without changing everything.
They had so little time left. Why risk spoiling it? They were going to have to say goodbye anyway, Lotty reasoned. She wanted Corran to remember her as a woman, not as a princess pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
Unaware of her thoughts, Corran was still looking at the picture of Caro and Philippe. ‘What an awful life, though,’ he said. ‘Who’d want it? I can’t see the point of these tinpot monarchies, other than to fill the pages of trashy magazines.’
Tinpot monarchy? Lotty stiffened, unable to let the insult pass. ‘I’m from Montluce,’ she reminded him in an icy voice. ‘We