The Greek's Pregnant Cinderella. Michelle Smart
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aching for one night, just one night, of freedom from the unrelenting drudgery of a life spent scrubbing bathrooms and cleaning rooms.
This was the sort of ball at which, if her father had lived, she could have been a real guest. She would have been here by right, not deception.
If Giannis suspected for a moment that she was a lowly hotel employee she would be fired on the spot.
But there was no hint of recognition.
But then, he’d never looked at her before. And why would he? He employed hundreds of people at this hotel alone. Chambermaids came bottom of the pecking order, a faceless army who flitted unobtrusively through the corridors and cleaned the rich guests’ rooms.
The thought calmed her a little but it was with a heart that raced that she slipped her hand through his offered arm, then found it racing even harder.
Tall, with dark brown hair cut short at the sides and long at the top, Giannis had a nose that was too long and his chin was a little too pointed for him to be considered traditionally handsome. But there was something about him, whether it was the high cheekbones, the clear blue eyes or the full bottom lip, that drew attention.
It had drawn her attention from her first glance.
His was a face that had lived and had the lines etched in his forehead and around the eyes to prove it.
He might not be traditionally handsome but in the black leather swallowtail suit and black leather eye-mask he wore as his masquerade costume, which gave him an almost piratical air, he was devastating.
‘Which part of England are you from?’ he asked as they strolled down a wide corridor.
‘Oxfordshire,’ she answered cautiously.
‘A beautiful county.’
It was, she thought wistfully. She’d avoided the entire county since she’d been thrown out of her home. It hurt too much to think of everything she’d lost and everything she missed.
However, she smiled, nodded her agreement and prayed for a change to the conversation.
What would be even better would be an increase to the pace Giannis had set. They were walking so slowly a tortoise could have overtaken them.
Her mind raced as to how she could slip away from him before she had to hand over the invitation written in the name of a woman who was not Tabitha.
If she had left Mrs Coulter’s room a minute earlier or later she wouldn’t have bumped into the one person she’d really needed to avoid.
‘I went to university in Oxford,’ he said. ‘Boarding school at Quilton House in Wiltshire. Do you know it?’
That explained his flawless English.
‘I know of it.’ Quilton House was one of the oldest schools in the world and certainly the most expensive. Only the filthy rich could afford to send their children there. A few of her school friends’ brothers had attended it.
‘What school did you go to?’ he asked.
‘Beddingdales.’
He laughed, a deep, rumbly sound that played melodically in her ears. ‘My first girlfriend went to Beddingdales. I would ask if you knew her, but I suspect you’re a lot younger than me.’
‘Probably.’
He laughed even louder. ‘You don’t waste words, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...’
He stopped walking and fixed clear blue eyes on hers. ‘Don’t apologise. Honesty is a rare, refreshing trait in this world we live in.’
They reached the door that led into the area where the guests were to wait before the ball was declared open. In a moment she would have to hand over the invitation for her name to be confirmed on the guest list.
Her heart pounded.
She needed to slip away.
Before she could think of an excuse to flee, Giannis took hold of the hand tucked into his arm and brought it to his lips. His eyes sparkled as he razed the lightest of kisses against the knuckles. ‘I have a couple of things I need to check on before the ball starts. I will find you.’
Then he bowed his head and turned on his heel, leaving nothing but the scent of his spicy cologne in his wake.
Tabitha slowly released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes.
Her heart still pounded, although whether that was an effect of the kiss on her hand or the close call she’d just had she couldn’t determine.
‘Are you coming in, miss?’
The uniformed guard had opened the door for her.
She swallowed.
It wasn’t too late. She didn’t have to do this.
But then she caught sight of a waiter holding a tray of champagne and the longing in her heart overshadowed the fear.
She could stay for one glass of champagne, she reasoned. That couldn’t do any harm. One glass of champagne and then, when the ball was declared open, slip away and return to her room and the safe anonymity of her servile life.
But she would have one glass of champagne first.
She stepped into a small holding room. Another uniformed guard stood on the other side of the door, a large tablet in his hand. Her heart almost stopped.
She recognised him. She’d spoken to him numerous times in the staff room.
There was not a flicker of recognition in his returning stare.
He greeted her with a polite smile. ‘May I see your invitation please, miss?’
Hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her hand, she passed it to him.
He peered at it closely then turned his attention to his tablet until he found her name on the list. He pressed his finger to it then smiled again at her and nodded at the double doors at the other side of the room. ‘Guests are assembling through that door. Enjoy your evening, Miss Coulter.’
Air rushed out of her lungs.
Mrs Coulter had been right. The dress and the mask acted as the perfect disguise.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Straightening her back, Tabitha held her head high. Yet another doorman opened the double doors for her to step through.
The noise she was greeted with from the reception room made her blink. The guests already congregated were in high spirits. Laughter and the buzz of excited chatter filled the air, melding with the music coming from the corner, where a pianist was playing a familiar tune.
She soaked up all of this in the time it took to step over the threshold.
A waitress holding a tray of champagne approached her.
Tabitha took a flute with a smile and restrained herself from tipping the contents down her throat in one swallow.
Whatever the circumstances of her life now, she’d been raised to be a lady. Ladies did not tip drinks down their necks.
She brought the flute to her mouth and took a small sip.
The explosion of bubbles in her mouth was enough to make her want to cry.
Only twice in her life had she tasted champagne. The first time had been at her father’s wedding when she’d been ten. The second had been when she’d been fourteen. Her stepmother had thrown an eighteenth birthday party for Fiona, the oldest of Tabitha’s stepsisters. The party had been an elaborate affair with no expense spared.
The celebrations for Tabitha’s own eighteenth birthday had been markedly different. Her stepmother had celebrated by throwing Tabitha out of the family home.
The big wide