A Royal Proposal. Barbara Hannay
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It was ridiculous to avoid telling him now. ‘I have no idea how long it takes to operate on a not quite two weeks old baby’s heart.’
She watched the shock flare in his eyes.
‘This is your little half-sister?’ he said, eventually.
Charlie swallowed. ‘You knew?’
‘I knew you had a baby sister, your stepmother’s child. You visited her in Sydney before you left.’
She supposed his ‘men’ had told him this. ‘Her name’s Isla,’ she said. ‘She was born with a congenital heart defect.’
‘Oh, Charlie.’
She held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t be nice to me, or I’ll cry.’
Rafe stared at her, his expression gravely thoughtful. ‘Where is this surgery taking place?’
‘In America. In Boston. The surgeon is supposed to be brilliant. The best.’
‘I’m sure you can rely on that brilliance,’ Rafe said, and this time his voice was surprisingly gentle.
Charlie nodded. Already, after getting this sad truth out in the open, she was breathing a little more easily.
Rafe was looking at his phone. ‘I guess the Internet should be able to tell us how long these sorts of operations might take.’
‘I guess.’ Charlie hugged her coffee mug to her chest as she watched him scroll through various sites.
‘Hmm...looks like it could take anything from two and a half hours to over four hours.’
‘Oh, God.’
Poor Isla.
Rafe looked up from his phone, his gaze direct, challenging. ‘This is what you wanted the money for, isn’t it?’
The tears she’d warned him about welled in her eyes. Fighting them, Charlie pressed her lips together. She nodded, swallowed deeply before she could speak. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Mind? No, of course I don’t mind. How could I mind about my money being spent on something so—so decent and honourable?’ His mouth twisted in a lopsided, sad smile.
‘Oh, Charlie,’ he said again and his voice was as gentle as she’d feared it would be.
Oh, Charlie.
With just those two words, Rafe unravelled the last shreds of her resolve.
The tension of the past few days gave way. She could feel her face crumpling, her mouth losing its shape. Then suddenly Rafe was on the sofa beside her and he was drawing her into his arms, bringing her head onto his shoulder.
For a brief moment, Charlie savoured the luxury of his muscled strength, the reassuring firmness of his considerable chest through the soft wool of his sweater, but then the building force of her pent-up emotions broke through and she wept.
RAFE KNEW THIS was wrong. A weeping Charlie in his arms was not, in any way, shape or form, a part of his plans. But he was still trying to digest her news and its implications.
Surely he shouldn’t be so deeply moved by the fact that Charlie had used his money for such a worthy cause?
It had been much easier to assume that she’d wasted it.
Now, disarmed by the truth, Rafe knew he had to get a grip, had to throw a rope around the crazy roller coaster of emotions that had slugged him from the moment Charlie hurled herself into his embrace.
These emotions were all wrong. So wrong. He’d struck a business deal with this girl, and a short term one at that. She was a conveniently purchased stopgap. Nothing more. He wasn’t supposed to feel aching tenderness, or a desperate need to help her, to take away her worries.
The problem was—this girl had already become so much more than a lookalike body double that he could parade before Montaigne like a puppet. Charlie Morisset was brave and unselfish and warm-hearted and, when these qualities were combined with the natural physical attributes she shared with her beautiful sister, she became quite dangerous. An irresistible package.
But somehow Rafe had to resist her appeal. He’d made his commitment. He’d chosen Olivia as his fiancée. They’d signed a contract, and even though she’d disappeared he was almost certain she was playing some kind of game with him and would turn up when it suited her.
Meanwhile, Charlie was being predictably sensible. Already, she was pulling out of his arms and gallantly drying her eyes, and making an admirable effort to regain her composure.
She gave him a wan smile and they drank their cooling coffee. Outside, the afternoon was turning to early twilight.
Rafe stood and went to the window, looking out. ‘It’s not snowing. Perhaps we should go for a walk. All the lights are coming on, so it should be quite pleasant, and you still have a long time to wait.’
He was sure a long walk in fresh air and a chill wind were what they both needed. Anything was safer than staying here on the sofa with Charlie. The temptations were huge, overwhelming, but only a jerk would take advantage of her when she was so distraught.
‘Won’t you be mobbed if you try to walk out on the streets?’ Charlie asked.
‘It’s not too bad at this time of the year. With an overcoat and a woolly cap and scarves, I can more or less stay incognito.’ He smiled at her. She should have looked pathetic, so wan and puffy-eyed from crying, but she brought out the most alarming protectiveness in him. He held out his hand to haul her to her feet. ‘Come on.’
* * *
Charlie had the good sense to recognise that Rafe’s suggestion of a walk was the right thing to do under the circumstances. Sitting here, feeling sick and scared, was not going to help anyone in Boston. She could change into jeans and a sweater, and she’d bought a warm hat, as well as a scarf and gloves, so she would be well protected against the cold.
Besides, it was incredibly considerate of Rafe to put up with her weeping and to devote this entire day to her. The least she could do was accept his kind suggestion.
Outside, the sky and the air were navy blue, on the very edge of night. Lamplight glowed golden, as did the lights from shops and houses, from the headlights of cars. Pulling their hats low and winding their scarves tighter, they set off together, with Charlie’s arm linked in the crook of Rafe’s elbow.
Ahead stretched the long main street that led from the castle. On either side were pastel-coloured buildings from different eras, mostly now converted into shops, hotels and restaurants.
‘This section of the city is called Old Town,’ Rafe told her. ‘New Town starts on the far hillside, beyond that tall clock tower.’
He seemed to enjoy playing tour guide, pointing out the significance of the clock tower and the statue of his great-great-grandfather in full military regalia, complete with medals. When they rounded the next corner and came across a small cobblestoned plaza with a charming statue of a young boy with a flock of goats, Rafe told her the story of the goatherd who was Montaigne’s national hero.
‘His name was Guido Durant,’ Rafe said. ‘He acted as a kind of unpaid sentry up in the high Alps. When the Austral-Hungarians were making their way through a narrow pass in winter, planning to invade our country, Guido dug at rocks and stones and managed to get a snow slide going. It turned into a full-blown avalanche and blocked their way. Then he ran through the night all the way to the castle to warn my great-great-grandfather.’
‘So he’s Montaigne’s version of William Tell?’ Charlie suggested.
Rafe shot her a surprised smile. ‘You know about William Tell?’
‘Of course. My father used to love telling