Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye
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be used for massage, besides the huge bathing tub which was filled with warm water, the surface strewn with flower petals.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Aida, who discreetly—to Stephanie’s relief—left the room. Though she longed to luxuriate in the delicately scented water, there was no time for anything other than a very swift but efficient toilette. Emerging much cleaner and considerably refreshed, she secured her newly washed hair in a chignon and was once again faced with the dilemma of what to wear. Aside from her spare riding habit and accompanying supply of shirts, she had only packed only nightwear, undergarments and one day gown. Fashioned from plain white cotton, with short puffed sleeves and a high waist, the décolleté gathered with a satin ribbon, the wide panel of white-work embroidery running down the centre of the gown from neckline to hem was the gown’s only adornment. Clad now in her chemise, corsets and stockings, Stephanie held the dress up for Aida’s inspection. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything else, do you think this will suffice?’
The Mistress of the Harem looked dubious. ‘It is a pity I had not more notice of your arrival. I would very much appreciate the opportunity to dress a fine lady again.’
‘Oh, I’m not a lady, I am an army officer’s daughter and work with horses.’
Stephanie held the dress against her to study it in the mirror. It was a comfortable, cool garment, and it was her favourite. The trouble was, her affection for it showed all too plainly in its almost threadbare state. Perhaps she would ask Aida to make her a new gown. Nothing extravagant, but...
‘You said that you would appreciate the opportunity to dress a fine lady again,’ she exclaimed, turning back to face Aida. ‘What did you mean by that? Do you refer to—to concubines?’
Aida flushed deeply, looking even more shocked than Stephanie felt. ‘Indeed no, there have been no such women in the palace since the reign of Prince Bassaym, the grandfather of our revered and honourable prince. No, I refer to...’ She paused, looking over both shoulders before continuing, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I refer to Prince Rafiq’s wife, the Princess Elmira.’
So he was married. Why then had he implied that he was not, with his reference to an empty harem? And where was his wife, if she was no longer resident in the harem? ‘I don’t understand,’ Stephanie said. ‘Is the Princess Elmira elsewhere at present?’
‘I’m afraid the Princess Elmira is no longer with us.’
‘No longer—oh! I’m so sorry, do you mean she is dead?’
‘Two years ago, the Princess Elmira died tragically in her sleep,’ Aida said in hushed tones. ‘Such a mortal blow for the Prince and for our people, for we long to see the Royal House of al-Antarah flourish once more.’ The Mistress of the Harem shook her head sadly. ‘But as it is for Bharym, so it is for Prince Rafiq. Until the Sabr is reclaimed, none of us can truly be happy.’
‘The Sabr?’
‘The Sabr,’ Aida repeated reverentially. ‘You said you work with horses. That explains your presence here, madam. The Prince has summoned you all the way from England in order to safeguard our chances, yes?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘At the stables they are sworn to secrecy, but I have heard rumours of a sickness.’
Prince Rafiq had not specifically forbidden her from discussing the nature of her business here, but then again, Prince Rafiq had not actually appointed her yet. Why would an outbreak of sickness be such a state secret? Curious as she was to know the answer to that question, Stephanie opted to change the subject instead. ‘Now tell me honestly Aida,’ she said, holding up her gown, ‘do you think this quite unfit for dinner with Prince Rafiq?’
‘It is not, in all truth, ideal. Unfortunately there is nothing to be done about the robe itself, madam, but if you will wait a moment, I may have a solution.’
Aida disappeared. Stephanie stepped into her gown and tied the ribbons at the neck and waist, the simplicity and ease of these only fastenings another reason for the gown’s well-worn state. She had pulled on a pair of slippers, and was studying her reflection with resignation when Aida returned with a long length of fabric over her arm.
‘May I?’ It was finest crêpe de Chine, spangled with what looked like a galaxy of gold stars. Aida folded it in two and fixed it into the back of Stephanie’s hair with a huge comb and a selection of pins, where it fell in filmy folds down her back, rather like the beautiful mantillas worn by the haughty Spanish ladies whom Stephanie had seen pay court to Wellington in Madrid. This mantilla though, was much longer. Taking up both ends, Aida draped it over Stephanie’s arms so that it added a lustre to her gown, and covered the bare skin of her forearms which would have been rendered more decent by the addition of evening gloves, if she had any, which she did not.
‘It’s beautiful. My gown is quite transformed.’ Delighted, Stephanie twirled around in front of the mirror. ‘Now I feel suitably dressed to dine with a prince. How clever you are.’
Aida smiled shyly. The sound of a bell tinkling in the courtyard made them both jump. ‘It is time,’ she said, ‘that is your summons, madam.’
A final glance in the mirror was reassuring. She barely recognised herself. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. A new Stephanie. It truly was time for her to put her past behind her and embrace whatever the future might hold.
* * *
The dining room into which Stephanie was shown was even grander than she had expected. A perfectly square chamber, each of its walls was an exact replica of the other, with three tall arched windows topped by three half-size arches, the whole surrounded by another huge corniced arch stretched between two marble pillars. The walls between each of the windows were tempered a soft lemon, the simplicity a stark contrast to the geometric pattern of tiles in multiple shades of ochre, terracotta, umber, russet and mahogany, which decorated the floor, the pattern replicated in the ceiling. There were candles everywhere. Light flickered from the huge chandelier which hung on a long chain over the centre of the table, from the myriad candles which burned in the free-standing clusters of candlesticks which stood in each corner, and in the blazing sconces which adorned the walls.
The low circular table with scrolled and gilded legs took up most of the available floor space. It could, Stephanie reckoned, have seated at least thirty people, though there were only two places set with gold plates and crystal glasses. The servant who had escorted her from the harem waved her to the smaller collection of cushions, shaking his head when she would have seated herself. Two more servants stood by each of the four doors. Stephanie shuffled nervously from foot to foot. She was extremely hungry, but she wasn’t at all sure she’d be able to eat anything. She was about to have dinner with a prince, for goodness sake.
The doors—different doors from the ones through which she had entered—were flung open. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Rafiq al-Antarah of Bharym.’
The servants did not bow, but stood sharply to attention. Stephanie dropped uncertainly into a curtsy. ‘Your Highness.’
‘Miss Darvill. There is no need to curtsy every time we meet.’
He had changed from his formal robes. Over the traditional white dishdasha robe buttoned high to a little round collar, Prince Rafiq was now dressed in a tunic of indigo-blue silk richly trimmed with gold braid. His hair was swept back in damp waves from his high forehead, his jaw freshly shaved. Once again, Stephanie’s body reacted with an unmistakable shiver of desire. She resolutely ignored it.
‘Please, sit.’
He took her hand to assist her on to the heap of cushions. His skin was so cool, it made her own feel uncomfortably hot. She dropped down with very little grace, almost as if her knees had given way under her. ‘What a beautiful room,’ Stephanie said inanely, in an effort not to stare at the beautiful man.
‘My private dining room,’ Prince Rafiq said, seating himself cross-legged on the large cushion at her right hand. ‘I thought you would be more comfortable in a less formal setting.’
‘A less formal setting?’