‘Afternoon tea’ turned out to be an exact replica of what might be found in the UK, of the very highest standard, and she was not slow to say so. Her praise drew a giggle from Princess Fatima.
‘My brother flew in the pastry chef from London this morning, and he brought all the ingredients with him to bake the scones just as you arrived!’ Her dark eyes twinkled. ‘Now, tell me,’ she said confidentially, ‘as an Englishwoman, what is the correct order in a cream tea? Jam first or clotted cream first?’
Diana gave a laugh. ‘Oh, that’s an impossible question, Your Highness. In Devon, I believe it is one way, and in Cornwall the other—but I never remember which! I’m afraid I do jam first.’
‘So do I!’ cried the Princess delightedly. She smiled warmly. ‘I do hope, my dear, that we can take tea together when I am next in London?’
‘I would be honoured and delighted,’ Diana said immediately.
Nikos smiled. ‘If it pleases the Princess,’ he said, ‘afternoon tea at Greymont would be our pleasure.’
Diana’s fingers tightened on the handle of the priceless porcelain tea cup she was holding. A small but distinct sense of annoyance flared in her that Nikos had presumed to offer her home in his invitation to the sister of the man whose approval he needed to make money out of doing business here. Greymont was hers—and she would choose who to invite to it.
But he’d clearly said the right thing, and it obviously did please the Princess. Her eyes lit up. ‘I adore English country houses,’ she exclaimed in her enthusiastic manner.
‘So much so that I bought my sister one only last year,’ her brother interposed dryly.
‘And so he did—he is the most generous of brothers,’ Fatima acknowledged.
A chill replaced the flare of annoyance that Diana had been feeling.
If I hadn’t married Nikos then Greymont might have been snapped up as the latest amusement for an Arabian princess.
It was a sobering reminder of just why she was sitting here, in a royal palace in the Persian Gulf, next to the man who was legally her husband, but in name only, making small talk with an Arabian princess about her latest acquisition.
The Princess rattled on in her bubbly manner, asking Diana about how great houses used to be run and how best to furnish them in a style to look authentic. Diana contributed as best she could, making several suggestions which the Princess seemed to value.
As she talked to the Princess, all the while taking delicate bites of the lavish cream tea laid before them, she became aware that the Sheikh and her new husband had moved their own conversation on to matters concerning the economic development of this particular Gulf state.
After a while, with the final sliver of Dundee fruit cake consumed, the final cup of Darjeeling taken, the Princess got to her feet.
‘We shall leave the men to their tedious affairs,’ she announced smilingly to Diana.
Nikos and the Sheikh immediately got to their feet as well, as did Diana, who was then swept off by the Princess. When they were in the Princess’s own apartments Fatima cast aside her veiling, then turned to show Diana that she could do likewise with her headscarf.
‘My dear, what a handsome husband you have.’ She gave a theatrical sigh, her dark eyes gleaming wickedly. ‘I’m going to tell my brother that he must lend you his...’ She giggled even more wickedly. ‘His love-nest in the desert. It’s actually quite respectable—our great-grandfather had it built for his favourite wife, so they could escape together, away from his jealous older wives.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Diana exclaimed weakly, not knowing what to say.
‘You must demand of your oh-so-handsome husband that he declares his love for you every morning. And even more importantly...’ she cast a knowing look at Diana ‘...every night.’
Diana’s expression was a study. It was impossible for her to comment, but fortunately for her the Princess took her silence as embarrassment.
‘Oh, you English,’ she cried laughingly. ‘You are always so frozen—so...what is that word? Ah, yes—repressed. Well, I will not tease you—you are a bride. You are all
owed to blush.’ She took Diana’s arm. ‘Now, come and see my wardrobe. I am dying to show it to you.’
She led her off into a chamber which made Diana’s eyes widen. It was like, she realised, a museum of costume, for along the walls were a parade of gowns arrayed on mannequins set on pedestals, each and every one a priceless haute couture number, a work of art in its own right. Entranced, Diana let the Princess guide her around, enthusing volubly to the Princess’s evident delight.
Then, to her dismay, the Princess exclaimed, ‘This one will be my wedding gift to you.’
She clapped her hands and one of her hovering servants hurried forward to receive instructions in rapid Arabic. Diana immediately demurred—a gown like this would cost thousands upon thousands. She couldn’t possibly accept.
The Princess held up a hand, imperious now. ‘To refuse it would be to offend,’ she instructed regally.
Diana bowed her head. ‘You do me too much honour, Highness,’ she said formally, knowing she must concede.
‘And you will do it justice,’ the Princess returned warmly, adding for good measure ‘The colour is all wrong for me. It makes my skin sallow. But you, with your fairness—ah, that shade of palest yellow is ideal.’ She smiled. ‘I will have it delivered.’ The dark eyes gleamed with a wicked glint. ‘Make sure you wear it at the love-nest.’