He wondered why. Wondered if it was some stupid, silly class notion of aristocracy that he hated. During official functions he wore the appropriate clothing and sash but the rest of the time he preferred to be more casual. A regular suit with or without a tie when he was on charity business, and khakis and button-down shirts, like he was wearing now, for casual wear. Complete with wrinkles.
That didn’t explain the lack of eye contact, though. He’d almost think she was shy, except there’d been a few moments where she’d dropped her guard and he’d actually felt as if they’d connected. He chalked it up to first-day nerves.
She finished her tea, took a last bite of cake, and put down her fork. There was still a corner of the piece left on the china, and he thought she looked at it rather regretfully before checking her watch. “It’s three forty-five,” she said, placing a hand on her belly in a telltale gesture of nerves. “Perhaps someone could show me the way to the blue salon?”
Senora Ortiz came around the corner. “I’ll have one of the maids take you,” she said. “Don’t worry, Miss Walters. You’ll learn your way around in no time.” She smiled reassuringly.
Diego frowned and got up as soon as Rosalie stood and smoothed her blouse. “Don’t trouble the staff. I’m going that way anyway. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and he was grateful she’d left off any form of address this time.
He led the way out of the kitchen and toward the offices at the back of the castle. But when he looked over at the young woman beside him, he realized the agency had left out one thing when they’d spoken about Miss Walters.
They’d left out how pretty she was. And not in a drop-dead gorgeous, glamour sort of way. No, she was the kind of woman who emanated simplicity and calm, like a fresh spring day. Like the spray of tea roses on the china set Mariana had always used—beautiful, classic, timeless.
She was the kind of woman who could cause a man all sorts of trouble . . . without consciously doing a thing.
He’d have to watch out for that.
* * *
He didn’t remember her.
Rose followed Diego through the castle, a half-step behind him as they made their way out of the north wing and toward what she figured was the back of the building. It was interesting how the different areas of the building had different vibes. The kitchen had been spotlessly clean, beautifully modern and yet warm and welcoming. Her room was in the family wing, next to the children should she be needed and keeping her close to her charges. It was the most beautiful room she’d ever been able to call her own, a bit more finely appointed than she was used to, but light and airy with sheer panels at the windows and a spread of sage-green leaves and pink rosebuds. Not only was there a huge bed and an attached en suite complete with a stunning clawfoot tub, but she had her own sitting area too, with a sage-green sofa and chair and polished end tables.
Now they were marching toward the business area of the castle, where presumably the king, his sons, and his staff had their offices. The nerves in her stomach were tumbling over themselves now. She hadn’t considered coming face to face with Diego so soon, or her gut reaction to him. His insistence on being so familiar threw her off. He was just as gorgeous as she remembered, but there was more too. When he spoke of the children, there was a softness around his eyes that showed his deep affection for them. And a surprising steel in his voice when he’d informed her she’d been vetted before being hired.
He was the Playboy Prince. She’d expected charm, and he’d had that in spades. The rest, though . . . she wasn’t sure what to make of him. Or the fluttering in her stomach when he smiled and a half-dimple popped in his cheek.
Now she was on her way to meet Raoul, so she pushed aside her thoughts of Diego and ran through the protocol in her head yet again. Hopefully she didn’t have any crumbs on her collar or anything.
They stopped outside a massive oak door and Diego smiled at her reassuringly. “Don’t be nervous. He doesn’t bite. He’ll probably try to ply you with more tea.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir.” There. “Sir” might work. Less formal than a fussy title and yet it was respectful and delineated their difference in station.
He smiled, a crooked little flash that made her pulse give a solid thump. She wouldn’t berate herself for that;Diego was and always had been unfairly sexy and reputably charming. She was human, after all. That was the problem.
“I don’t like it, but it’ll have to do,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t shake the feeling that you look familiar.”
She laughed, but inside she was squirming. She had taken the proper training, passed all her accreditations, and had been working for five years now. But she hadn’t forgotten that at nineteen she’d been struggling to put herself through school and Diego had swept through her life. She’d made an entire weekend’s worth of wages in the time it took for him to get off one train and catch another.
“I have one of those faces,” she supplied. “Sir.”
“I take it back. It’s no better than the rest. We’ll have to work on it.” He had the audacity to wink at her.
She was working up a suitable response when the door opened. “Ah. Diego. Why am I not surprised?”
She goggled at the sight of the crown prince. Raoul Navarro was older than his brother, and even smiling, his countenance was far more serious. There were lines beside his eyes and mouth, and just a hint of dark circles suggesting lack of sleep. Where Diego wore tan trousers and a light blue shirt, Raoul was clothed in a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, complete with white shirt and flawlessly knotted necktie.
It was a terrible time to lose her carefully rehearsed words.
“This is Miss Rosalie Walters, your new nanny.” Diego smoothly performed introductions.
“Yes, Miss Walters. Please come in.” He stood aside. “You’ve gotten settled, I hope?”
She hastily bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you. The room is beautiful and I’m looking forward to meeting the children.”
To her dismay, Diego followed her into the room. Now she felt outmatched and outnumbered.