Defying the Prince

The confidence-boosting buzz from the champagne was morphing into a horrid spinning feeling.

Aware of the unsmiling disapproval on the aristocratic faces around her, she decided that Allegra had to be seriously in love if she was prepared to put up with this. As far a

s Izzy could see, marrying a prince promised about as interesting a future as being stuffed and put in a glass case in a museum for everyone to stare at. What was that called? Taxi-something or other. And she was so hungry, and she could never think properly when she was hungry. Why on earth weren’t they serving proper food? She would have killed for a bacon roll and all they’d given her since she’d arrived was champagne, champagne and more champagne.

The royals certainly knew how to drink. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to eat which probably explained why they were all so thin. And why she’d broken her golden rule and drunk too much.

‘Just one love—’ she hollered happily, beaming at a group of women who were gazing at her in disapproval and ignoring her father’s less than subtle attempts to tempt her from the stage.

The fact that even her family didn’t listen added a sting to the already sharp pain of humiliation. Weren’t families supposed to support you no matter what? She adored them but they patted her on the head and patronized her as if she was singing drunk at a karaoke machine rather than giving her all. She knew she had a good voice. And even if they didn’t like the song and thought she was foolish trying to make a career from what should have been a hobby, they ought to be grateful to her for trying to liven up a totally boring evening.

‘Enough!’ Her father’s loud voice boomed around the ornate room, his East London accent jarring with the cultured tones around him confirming the one thing everyone already knew—that no amount of money could buy class. Izzy already knew that. She knew exactly how people felt about her family. ‘Save the singing for when you’re in the shower. You’re embarrassing yourself, luv.’

No, I’m not, Izzy thought. I’m embarrassing you. And the hypocrisy of it stung. She loved her father, but even she knew his behaviour was often questionable. And now they were laughing at her, and the sharp sting of their mockery was all the more acute because Izzy had been so desperate for them to take her seriously.

It was partly her fault, she acknowledged miserably. She should never have entered that stupid reality show Singing Star. She’d done it because she’d thought that finally someone would hear her voice but the producers had been less interested in the sound she could belt out than in the picture she’d made on the stage and the gimmick factor of having tabloid-favourite Bobby Jackson’s daughter on the show. They’d made her do all sorts of dubious things to raise the ratings, none of which had focused on her singing. And she’d been too wrapped up in her own fleeting moment of fame to see the truth.

Until it was too late.

Until she’d become a national joke.

The fame had vanished faster than water down the drain, and with it her reputation. Forever more she was going to be ‘that awful girl from Singing Star.’

Unable to think about that without squirming, Izzy turned away, closed her eyes and sang, pouring out the notes and losing herself in the music until her concentration was shattered by someone closing a cold, hard handcuff around her wrist.

She was being arrested for crimes against music.

Her eyes flew open in shock and she realised it wasn’t a handcuff, but someone’s fingers, brutally hard and as cold and unyielding as metal. Her startled gaze collided with unfriendly dark eyes and the sound died in her throat.

It was the prince.

Raw sexual attraction ripped through her because close up he was quite simply the most spectacular man she’d ever met, even more incredible to look at than all the photographs had led her to believe. A television camera might hint at the thickness of those dark lashes and the perfect shape of his mouth but no lens, however powerful, could capture the innate masculinity that set him apart from others.

‘Enough.’ He spoke through his teeth, his tone so abrupt that even the normally buoyant and resilient Izzy felt herself shrivel.

The Prince and the Pauper, she thought, struggling to keep her balance on her towering platform shoe-boots as he all but yanked her from the stage.

Clearly he had no intention of formally introducing himself—presumably because he didn’t see the need. Everyone knew who he was. And he was living up to his formidable reputation, his spectacular features set and severe as he bodily removed her from her position by the musicians.

So that was that then—

Watching her dream of stardom fizzle out and realising that the last glass of champagne she’d downed had pushed her over the edge from tipsy to drunk, Izzy stumbled as she attempted to twist her wrist from his grip. ‘Ouch! What are you doing? I was just singing, that’s all. Do you mind not gripping so hard? I have a very low pain threshold and don’t drag me because these shoes definitely aren’t made for walking.’ Swamped by the wave of disapproval flowing from the other guests, she was grateful for the anaesthetising effects of the alcohol.

‘Off with her head,’ she whispered dramatically, smiling sweetly as he sent a black glare in her direction. ‘Oops—we are definitely not amused.’ Her heart sank.

So much for hoping he might be able to relaunch her stalled singing career.

It was clear from his body language that he wouldn’t be likely to give her a job cleaning the toilets at the palace let alone a role in the upcoming concert.

Izzy Jackson wasn’t going to feature on his list of headline acts. And she couldn’t even blame him because she knew she hadn’t sung her best. She’d tried too hard. Forced her voice.

As he towed her across the room he spoke in a low, driven voice intended only for her. ‘You are a guest, not the entertainment. And you’re drunk.’ Although it wasn’t his first language, he spoke English as fluently as she did but that was where the similarity ended. His aristocratic demeanour had been bred into him and polished by the best education money could buy. His mother was a monarch. Hers was a market stall trader. His accent was cut glass. Hers was shatterproof plastic tableware.

‘Actually I’m not drunk.’ Izzy was swamped by disappointment that her plans had gone so badly wrong. ‘At least, not very. And even if I am then it’s your fault for serving buckets of alcohol and no food.’ She glanced desperately around for a friendly face and caught sight of her sister, but Allegra wasn’t looking at her either, clearly trying to distance herself from Izzy’s behaviour. Stung by that betrayal and mortified her surprise song that she’d been working on for weeks had been received with the same enthusiasm as a virus, she momentarily lost her bounce. What did she have to do to make people listen?

‘All right, you’ve made your point. I messed up. Let me go, and I promise to be boringly appropriate. I’ll stand still and talk about the weather or whatever it is that these people talk about without moving their faces.’ Hoping to end it there, she pulled and struggled but he ignored her attempts to free herself and propelled her past an astonished-looking footman, through a door into a panelled anteroom lined with portraits.

‘Stop dragging me! I can’t walk fast in these heels.’