Vows Made In Secret

‘I honoured you with a gift. The most important gift a man can give to a woman. I made you my wife and you threw it in my face.’

Prudence gaped at him, shock washing over her in waves. She opened her mouth to deny his claim but the words clogged her throat. His wife? Surely he didn’t really think that they were actually married? Her heart was pounding and the palms of her hands felt suddenly damp. Married? That was ridiculous! Insane!

Dazedly she thought back to that day when she’d been led, giggling and blindfolded, to his great-uncle’s trailer. Laszlo had been waiting for her. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the memory, for he’d looked heartbreakingly handsome and so serious she had wanted to cry. They’d sworn their love and commitment to one another and his great-uncle had spoken some words in Romany, and then they had eaten some bread and some salt.

Her pulse was fluttering, and despite her best efforts her voice sounded high and jerky. ‘We’re not married,’ she said tightly. ‘Marriages are more than just words and kisses. This is just another of your lies …’

Her voice trailed off at the expression of derision on his face.

‘You’re going off topic, pireni. We’re still married. I’m still your husband. And you’re my wife.’

LOUISE FULLER was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the prince—not the princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon® she studied literature and philosophy at university and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.

Vows Made in Secret

Louise Fuller

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To my husband, Patrick, who provided inspiration not just for the love scenes but the emotional conflict!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract from Tycoon's Delicious Debt by Susanna Carr

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SCOWLING, A LOCK of dark hair falling onto his forehead, Laszlo Cziffra de Zsadany stared at the young woman with smooth fair hair. His jaw tightened involuntarily as he studied her face in silence, noting the contrast between the innocence of the soft grey eyes and the passionate promise of her full mouth.

She was beautiful. So beautiful that it was impossible not to stand and stare. Such beauty could seduce and enslave. For such a woman a man would relinquish his throne, betray his country and lose his sanity.

Laszlo smiled grimly. He might even get married!

His smile faded and, feeling restless and on edge, he leant forward and squinted at the cramped, curled inscription at the bottom of the painting. Katalina Csesnek de Veszprem. But even though his eyes were fixed intently on the writing his mind kept drifting back to the face of the sitter. He gritted his teeth. What was it about this painting that he found so unsettling? But even as he asked himself the question he shrank from acknowledging the answer.

Anger jostled with misery as he stared at the face, seeing not Katalina but another, whose name was never spoken for to do so would burn his lips. Of course it wasn’t so very like her; there were similarities, in colouring and the shape of her jaw, but that was all.

Disconcerted by the intense and unwelcome emotions stirred up by a pair of grey eyes, he glanced longingly out of the window at the Hungarian countryside. And then he froze as he heard an unmistakable hooting. It was bad luck to hear an owl’s cry in daylight and his golden eyes narrowed as he uneasily searched the pale blue sky for the bird.

From behind him there was a thump as Besnik, his lurcher, sat down heavily on the stone floor. Sighing, Laszlo reached down and rubbed the dog’s silky ears between his thumb and forefinger.

‘I know,’ he murmured softly. ‘You’re right. I need some air. Come.’ Standing up straight, he clicked his fingers so that the dog leapt lightly to its feet. ‘Let’s go! Before I start counting magpies.’

He wandered slowly through the castle’s corridors. The wood panelling on the walls gleamed under the low lights, and the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender calmed him as he walked down the stairs. Passing his grandfather’s study, he noticed that the door was ajar and, glancing inside, he saw with some surprise that the room wasn’t empty; his grandfather, Janos, was sitting at his desk.

Laszlo felt his chest tighten as he took in how small and frail Janos appeared to be. Even now, more than six years after his wife Annuska’s death, his grandfather still seemed to bear the burden of her loss. For a moment he hesitated. And then, softly, he closed the door. There had been an almost meditative quality to his grandfather’s stillness and he sensed that Janos needed to be alone.

He wondered why his grandfather was up so early. And then he remembered. Of course. Seymour was arriving today!

No wonder Janos had been unable to sleep. Collecting art had been his hobby for over thirty years: a personal, private obsession. But today, for the first time ever, he would reveal that collection to a stranger—this expert, Edmund Seymour, who was arriving from London.

Laszlo grimaced. He instinctively distrusted strangers and he felt a ripple of dislike for Seymour—a man he’d never met, and to whom he had never so much as uttered a word, but whose company he would now have to suffer for weeks.

Pushing a door open with his shoulder, he glanced warily into the kitchen and then breathed out slowly. Good! Rosa wasn’t up. He wasn’t ready to face her gimlet eye yet. Apart from his grandfather their housekeeper was the only other person from whom he couldn’t hide his feelings. Only, unlike Janos, Rosa had no qualms about cross-examining him.

Pulling open the cavernous fridge, he groaned as he saw the cold meats and salads arranged on the shelves.

And then, despite the rush of cold air on his face, and the even colder lump of resentment in his chest, he felt his mood shift and he closed the fridge door gently. Food had been a comforting distraction during his grandmother’s long illness. But by the time of her death it had become a passion—a passion that had led to him financing a restaurant in the centre of Budapest. The restaurant had been his project: it had been a risk, and a lot of hard work, but he thrived on both and he was now the owner of a staggeringly successful chain of high street restaurants.

Laszlo lifted his chin. He was no longer just Janos’s grandson but a wealthy, independent businessman in his own right.

He sighed. Not that he wasn’t proud of being a de Zsadany. It was just that the name brought certain responsibilities along with it. Such as Seymour’s impending visit. He gritted his teeth. If only the blasted man would ring and cancel.

As if on cue, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. Clumsy with shock, and a ridiculous sense of guilt, he pulled it out with shaking fingers: it was Jakob! Relief, and the tiniest feeling of regret, washed over him.

‘Laszlo! I thought you’d be up. I know you’ll have forgotten, so I’ve just rung to remind you that we have a visitor arriving today.’

Laszlo shook his head. Typical Jakob—ringing to check up on him. Jakob Frankel was the de Zsadany family lawyer, and a good man, but Laszlo couldn’t imagine letting his guard down with him or any other outsider. Not any more: not after what had happened the last time.

‘I know you won’t believe me, Jakob, but I did actually remember it was happening today.’

He heard the lawyer laugh nervously.

‘Excellent! I’ve arranged a car, but if you could be on hand to greet—?’

‘Of course I will,’ Laszlo interrupted testily, irritated by the tentative note in the lawyer’s voice. He paused, aware that he sounded churlish. ‘I want to be there,’ he muttered roughly. ‘And let me know if I can do anything else.’ It was the nearest he got to an apology.

‘Of course. Of course! But I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’ Jakob spoke hurriedly, his desire to end the conversation clearly overriding his normal deference.

Laszlo murmured non-committally. For most of his life Janos’s hobby had seemed a strangely soulless and senseless exercise. But Annuska’s death had changed that opinion as it had changed everything else.

After her funeral life at the castle had grown increasingly bleak. Janos had been in a state of shock, inconsolable with grief. But once the shock had worn off his misery had turned into a kind of depression—a lethargy which no amount of time seemed able to heal. Laszlo had been in despair; weeks and months had turned into years. Until slowly, and then with increasing momentum, his grandfather had become almost his old self.

The reason for his recovery, like all catalysts for change, had been wholly unexpected. A stack of letters between Annuska and Janos had reminded him of their mutual passion for art.

Tentatively, not daring to hope, Laszlo had encouraged his grandfather to revive his former hobby. To his surprise, Janos had begun to lose his listless manner and then, out of the blue, his grandfather had decided to have his sprawling collection catalogued. Seymour’s auction house in London had been contacted and its flamboyant owner, Edmund Seymour, had duly been invited to visit Kastely Almasy.

Laszlo grimaced. His grandfather’s happiness had overridden his own feeling but how on earth was he going to put up with this stranger in his home?

Jakob’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘I mean, I know how you hate having people around—’ There was a sudden awkward silence and then the lawyer cleared his throat. ‘What I meant to say was—’

Laszlo interrupted him curtly. ‘There are more than thirty rooms at the castle, Jakob, so I think I’ll be able to cope with one solitary guest, don’t you?’

He felt a sudden, fierce stab of self-loathing. Seymour could stay for a year if it made his grandfather happy. And, really, what was a few weeks? Since Annuska’s death time had ceased to matter. Nothing much mattered except healing his grandfather.

‘I can manage,’ he repeated gruffly.

‘Of course...of course.’ The lawyer laughed nervously. ‘You might even enjoy it. In fact, Janos was only saying to me yesterday that this visit might be a good opportunity to invite some of the neighbours for drinks or dinner. The Szecsenyis are always good fun and they have a daughter around your age.’

In the early-morning light the room seemed suddenly grey and cold, like a tomb. Laszlo felt his fingers tighten around the handset as his heart started to pound out a drumroll of warning.

He took a shallow breath, groping for calm. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said finally. His tone was pleasant, but there was no mistaking the note of high-tensile steel in his voice. ‘I mean, our guest may simply prefer paintings to people.’

He knew what his grandfather really wanted, and why he had inveigled Jakob into suggesting it. Janos secretly longed to see his only grandchild married—to see Laszlo sharing his life with a soulmate. And why wouldn’t he? After all, Janos himself had been blissfully happy during his forty-year marriage.

Laszlo’s fingers curled into his palms. If only he could do it. If only he could marry a perfectly sweet, pretty girl like Agnes Szecsenyi. That would be worth more than fifty art collections to Janos.

But that was never going to happen. For he had a secret, and no matter how many dinner dates his grandfather engineered, a wife was most certainly not going to result from any of them.

* * *

‘Now, you have read my notes properly, haven’t you, Prue? Only you do have a tendency to skim...’

Pushing a strand of pale blonde hair out of her cloud-grey eyes, Prudence Elliot took a deep breath and counted slowly up to ten. Her plane had landed in Hungary only an hour ago, but this was the third time Uncle Edmund had rung her to see how she was doing: in other words, he was checking up on her.

Edmund paused. ‘I don’t want to sound like a nag, but it’s just... Well, I just wish I could be there with you...you do understand?’

His voice cut through her juddering, panicky thoughts and her anxiety was instantly replaced by guilt. Of course she understood. Her uncle had built up the auction house that bore his name from scratch. And today would have undoubtedly been the most important day of his career—the pinnacle of his life’s work: cataloguing reclusive Hungarian billionaire Janos Almasy de Zsadany’s legendary art collection.

With a lurch of fear, Prudence remembered the look of excitement and terror on Edmund’s face when he’d been invited to the de Zsadany castle in Hungary. His words kept replaying in her head.

‘The man’s a modern Medici, Prue. Of course no one actually knows the exact contents of his collection. But a conservative valuation would be over a billion dollars.’

It should be Edmund with his thirty years of experience sitting in the back of the sleek, shark-nosed de Zsadany limousine. Not Prudence, who felt she could offer little more than her uncle’s reputation by proxy. Only Edmund was in England, confined to bed, recovering from a major asthma attack.

Biting her lip, she glanced out of the window at the dark fields. She hadn’t wanted to come. But she’d had no choice. Edmund owed money, and with debts mounting and interest accruing on those debts the business was in jeopardy. The fee from the de Zsadany job would balance the books, but the de Zsadany family lawyer had been adamant that work must start immediately. And so, reluctantly, she’d agreed to go to Hungary.

She heard Edmund sigh down the phone.

‘I’m sorry, Prue,’ he said slowly. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with my nagging when you’ve been so good about all this.’

Instantly she felt ashamed. Edmund was like a father to her. He had given her everything: a home, a family, security and even a job. She wasn’t about to let him down now, in his hour of need.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to inject some confidence into her voice. ‘Please try not to worry, Edmund. If I need anything at all I’ll ring you. But I’ll be fine. I promise.’

He rang off and gratefully Prudence leant back against the leather upholstery and closed her eyes until, in what felt like no time at all, the car began to slow. She opened her eyes. Two tall wrought-iron gates swung smoothly open to let the limousine pass, and within minutes she was looking up at a huge, grey stone castle straight out of a picture book.

Later she would realise that she had no memory of how she got from the car to the castle. She remembered only that somehow she had found herself in a surprisingly homely sitting room, lit softly by a collection of table lamps and the glow of a log fire. She was about to sit down on a faded Knole Sofa when she noticed the painting.

Her heart started to pound. Stepping closer, she reached out with one trembling hand and touched the frame lightly, and then her eyes made a slow tour of the walls. She felt light-headed—as though she had woken up in dream. There were two Picassos—pink period—a delightfully exuberant Kandinsky, a Rembrandt portrait that would have sent Edmund into a state of near ecstasy, and a pair of exquisite Lucian Freud etchings of a sleeping whippet.

She was still in a state of moderate shock when an amused-sounding voice behind her said softly, ‘Please—take a closer look. I’m afraid the poor things get completely ignored by the rest of us.’

Prudence turned scarlet. To be caught snooping around someone’s sitting room like some sort of burglar was bad enough, but when that someone was your host, and one of the richest men in Europe, it was mortifying.

‘I’m so—so sorry,’ she stammered, turning round. ‘What must you...?’ The remainder of her apology died in her throat, the words colliding into one another with a series of shuddering jolts as her world imploded. For it was not Janos Almasy de Zsadany standing there but Laszlo Cziffra.

Laszlo Cziffra. Once his name had tasted hot and sweet in her mouth; now it was bitter on her tongue. She felt her insides twist in pain as around her the room seemed to collapse and fold in on itself like a house of cards. It couldn’t be Laszlo—it just couldn’t. But it was, and she stared at him mutely, reeling from the shock of his perfection.

With his high cheekbones, sleek black hair and burning amber eyes, he was almost the same boy she had fallen in love with seven years ago: her beautiful Romany boy. Only he most certainly wasn’t hers any more; nor was he a boy. Now he was unmistakably a man: tall, broad-shouldered, intensely male, and with a suggestion of conformity that his younger self had lacked. Prudence shivered. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Once, on seeing her, they would have burnt with the fierce lambent fire of passion. Now they were as cold and lifeless as ash.

She felt breathless, almost faint, and her hand moved involuntarily to her throat. Laszlo had been her first love—her first lover. He had been like sunlight and storms. She had never wanted anything or anyone more than him. And he had noticed her. Chosen her with a certainty that had left her breathless, replete, exultant. She had felt immortal. The knowledge of his love had swelled inside her—an immutable truth as permanent as the sun rising and setting.

Or so she’d believed seven years ago.

Only she’d been wrong. His focus on her—for that was what it had been—had burnt white-hot, fire-bright, and then faded fast like a supernova.

Prudence swallowed. It had been the ugliest thing that had happened to her. After the fierce bliss of what she’d believed was his love, that disorientating darkness had felt like death itself. And now, like a ghost from paradise lost, here he was, defying all logic and reason.

Surely he couldn’t be real? And if he was real then what was he doing here? It didn’t make any sense. She stared at him, groping for some kind of answer. Her stomach lurched as she remembered the last time she’d seen him: being pushed into the back of a police car, his face dark and defiant.

Laszlo didn’t belong in a place like this. And yet here he was. Standing there, as though he owned the place.

She felt her stomach lurch. In the back of her mind, pushed down in the darkness, she’d always imagined that he’d drifted into bad ways. So to watch him saunter into the room was almost more than her brain could fathom. Helplessly, she racked her brain for some shred of explanation.

‘Wh—what are you doing here?’ she stammered, her voice sounding small and shrunken, like a soul facing purgatory.

Laszlo stared at Prudence, his handsome face cold and blank. But inside it was as though he was falling from a great height. His mind was racing, explanations tumbling over one another, each one more desperate and untenable than the last. And all the time, like a silent movie, the short, doomed pretence of their love played out before his eyes.

Aware that he was playing for time, he felt a rush of anger. But words had literally failed him—for he had blotted out all traces of her so completely that just looking at her made him feel dizzy.

‘I could ask you the same question,’ he murmured.

And then, with shock, he remembered that it had been only that morning that his hunger-fuelled brain had conjured up her memory. He shivered as the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he remembered the cry of the owl he had heard earlier. Had he somehow summoned her here?

The part of his mind not numb with shock pushed the suggestion away irritably: of course he hadn’t. Clearly she hadn’t come looking for him, for her own shock was unmistakable. So what exactly was she doing here?

Eyes narrowing, he stared assessingly at her and waited for answers.

White-faced, Prudence stared back at him dazedly. She must have fallen down a rabbit hole, for what other explanation could there be? Why else was Laszlo Cziffra here in this isolated castle in the Hungarian countryside? Unless—her blood turned cold—could he be working for Mr de Zsadany?

Her mind cringed from the possibility and, remembering his blank-eyed indifference when she’d told him she was leaving him, she felt suddenly sick. But that had been seven years ago. Surely after all this time they could treat each other with at the very least a polite neutrality? But instead of cool curiosity, he was watching her with a sort of icy contempt.

‘I don’t understand—’ She broke off, the colour draining from her cheeks as he walked slowly across the faded Persian carpet towards her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said again. ‘You can’t be here.’

Watching the shock on her face turn to horror as he approached, Laszlo felt the floor yaw beneath him like a wave-tossed ship. But he had no intention of revealing to Prudence how strongly he was affected by her presence. Or her evident dismay at seeing him again.

Breathing deeply, he steadied himself. ‘But I am,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are you trembling, pireni?’

She tried to ignore it. Just as she was trying to ignore how handsome he was and his nerve-jangling nearness. But the familiar word of endearment seemed to grow to a roar inside her head, drowning out her answer to his question.

For what felt like a lifetime they stood, staring at one another in silence, as they had done a hundred...a thousand times before.

The man’s voice, when it came, startled both of them.

‘Ah, there you are! I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was terrible.’

A plumpish, middle-aged man, with thick, dull blonde hair and a panicked expression on his face, hurried into the room. Turning to Prudence, he shuffled some files under his arm and held out his hand.

‘I’m so sorry to have missed you at the airport, Miss Elliot. You got my message, though?’

Still speechless with shock, Prudence nodded. She had felt a momentary spasm of relief at the man’s arrival. But now it would appear that her relief was premature. For his words had made it painfully clear to her that Laszlo’s presence was a shock only to her.

The man glanced cautiously at Laszlo and cleared his throat. ‘I see you two have already met. So let me introduce myself. Jakob Frankel. I work for the law firm that represents Mr de Zsadany. May I say on behalf of the family how grateful we all are for you stepping in at the last moment. It was really very kind of you.’

Laszlo felt his guts twist. His brain was struggling to give meaning to what was happening. Jakob had told him that Edmund Seymour was ill and that someone else was coming in his place. Typically, he’d forgotten—for one stranger was no better or worse than another. But suddenly Jakob’s words seemed to take on a new and wholly unpalatable significance: Seymour’s replacement was Prudence Elliot. And that meant she would be living under his roof for the foreseeable future!