The Prince's Proposal. Sophie Weston
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of the playground, as much as he relied on his speed of reaction. The only person they had failed to intimidate in the last five years was his grandfather.
Now Conrad said with feeling, ‘I’m already kissing goodbye to every Saturday morning. Just so I can teach a lot of kids, who don’t want to learn it, a language that they will never use. At least, not unless they manage to get in touch with the ghosts of their great-grandparents.’ He added bitterly, ‘And I’m not good with kids.’
‘Rank has its obligations,’ said his grandfather, grinning. ‘I’d trade rank for the occasional Saturday morning lie-in.’
‘Unfortunately, rank is not a tradeable commodity.’
Conrad flicked up one black eyebrow. ‘No?’ he said mockingly. ‘And there was me, thinking you wanted me to hire myself out as Rent-a-Gent to Heller Incorporated.’
His grandfather snorted. ‘You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself.’
But suddenly Conrad was not attending. ‘Hell, that monster is going to strangle the kid with her own plait,’ he muttered. He set off in the direction of the intended mayhem and intensified his voice so that it bounced off the playground walls. ‘Gligor!’
An intent ten-year-old looked up, momentarily arrested.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ advised Conrad, arriving.
The ten-year-old narrowed his eyes, assessing the situation with the air of an experienced criminal. Meanwhile a small girl with a plait was sweetly unaware that she had ever stood in any danger; or that it had been averted, however temporarily. But she knew that Crown Prince Conrad had been graciously pleased to approach their group. Her eyes lit up and she broke out a slightly wobbly curtsey.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ she said, staggering a bit as she came up from the bob.
Conrad sighed and steadied her automatically.
‘Why do they do that?’ he muttered.
His grandfather came up, rather more sedately.
‘You’re royal and they do ballet classes,’ he said, answering the question literally. ‘Put the two together and curtsies become inevitable.’
As if to prove his point, that was the moment at which the small girl identified him. She squeaked, ‘Your Majesty,’ and sank to the ground, head bowed, red dirndl skirts billowing.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Conrad, exasperated.
‘Me?’ His grandfather was wounded. But he looked down at the small tumble of scarlet skirt and chestnut pigtail that did not rise from the ground. He was a touch disconcerted at this excess of respect. ‘Well, well, child, that’s enough. Get up now.’
Conrad gave a sharp sigh. ‘Don’t you see, she’s trying?’
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