“Your warning is appreciated,” Alexander murmured, and wondered if he would survive the deadly boredom of the evening. Unless he missed his guess, the redoubtable Madame Cabot would have him seated between herself and her reedy-voiced, heavy-handed and unmarried daughter.

If only he could stay home, sit in his own garden at moonrise. With Eve beside him. She’d smell darker, more exotic than the gardens. He’d pick a spray of jasmine for her and her skin would be softer, smoother, than the petals. Her eyes would be the rich, dark blue that tempted a man and her voice would pour, warm and fluid over his skin until he was driven to taste her. She would smile at him, for him, as her arms reached out….

Damn the woman.

Both valet and secretary braced as the prince’s brows drew together.

“What of tomorrow?” Alexander demanded, rising to face the window. He saw the gardens and deliberately looked beyond them to the sea.

Henri rose automatically and balanced the appointment book on his open hands. “Eight o’clock breakfast with the president of Dynab Shipping. Ten-fifteen, a personal appearance at the opening of the Le Havre Seaport Museum. One-thirty, you speak at a luncheon for the benefit of St. Alban’s Hospital. At three-forty-five …”

Alexander sighed and let the rest of his day pass by him. At least he was home, he reminded himself. Plans were already in the works for his European tour that winter.

One day he would visit the moors of Cornwall and the vineyards of France as he wished, rather than as Cordina’s representative. One day he would see the people and places as they were, rather than as they looked for a prince. One day. But not today and not tomorrow.

“Thank you, Henri, that’s certainly thorough.” His hands linked behind his back, Alexander swore at himself. It was hardly Henri’s fault. In fact, the only fault lay within himself and his sudden restless yearning to be free. He turned and smiled as the old man took off his glasses as elaborately as he had put them on. “How is your new granddaughter?”

A hint of color came into Henri’s cheeks. All pleasure. “She is beautiful, Your Highness. Thank you for asking.”

“Let’s see, she must be … three months old now.”

“Three months tomorrow,” Henri agreed, his pleasure doubling that Alexander remembered.

Alexander recognized it, understood that small things were sometimes the most precious, and cursed himself for being so abrupt with his staff over the past few weeks. He would have liked to lay his mood at Eve’s door, as well, but found it firmly lodged at his own.

“Certainly you have a picture of her. Annabella, isn’t it?”