This One Night

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

A young girl finds glamour, adventure, and the romance of her dreams ? but fate threatens her love and her life! For lovely Tona Felton, it?s a dream come true ? a trip aboard the gleaming, luxurious Balkans Express to a tiny storybook country. But when her pocketbook is stolen, she is left alone and penniless? until a handsome stranger offers her aid. And, in the quiet elegance of his private railway car, he offers her even more ? a lifetime of love. And Tona responds with a passion she?s never known ? until, after one intoxicating night in his arms, she awakes to find him gone. Only later will she discover that her lover was a king ? and that as war clouds gather over the Balkans, she will be plunged into a battle to save a country ? and her love!

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

In the years before the war the one consuming passion of Tona Felton’s life had been to travel, to get away from the monotony of her existence in London and forget about life as a City typist knows it, with its wearing monotony of days filled with work and nights void of any real excitement.

Now as she stood on the crowded platform of Istanbul station she had to laugh at the perversity of fate which had decreed that her nomadic impulses were not to be fulfilled until the world was in the midst of a war which was gradually closing the frontiers of almost every European country which she had wanted to visit. This was no pleasure-seeking holiday crowd which jostled and pushed their way towards the trains. The whole atmosphere was pregnant with a feeling of tense realism as though the people knew they were living on the edge of a volcano which might erupt at any moment to cover them with the relentless lava of war.

So far, Tona decided, she had certainly experienced more than her fair share of excitement. The convoy in which she had sailed from Tilbury had been attacked by submarine and from the air, and now she found herself at half-past six on a hot summer’s evening at one of the largest and busiest junctions in Europe, ready to take her place on the Balkans Express. How thrilling it sounded! The Balkans Express which would speed with her through lovely, unknown lands towards Gardenia.

As far as she had been able to ascertain, she was the only British subject who wanted to go to Gardenia, and when she stood on the platform trying to make her way through the cosmopolitan crowd towards the long gleaming train in the great station, she found herself a stranger amongst a lot of gesticulating, chattering foreigners of apparently every nationality except her own. She was jostled and nudged. Nobody seemed to notice her. At least, so Tona thought, as flushed and breathless she tried to reach one of the second-class carriages in the express, her bag under her arm and a suitcase in each small hand.

She was much too preoccupied and flustered to be aware of the fact that somebody was watching her very intently. Two brilliant blue eyes, which looked all the bluer because of a darkly browned face, had glanced at first idly in her direction, then with intensity.

The eyes belonged to a slimly-built man above average height, and of unusual grace, who was leaning out of a coach at the end of the train.

He spoke in Gardenian to someone who stood behind him.

‘Paul, look at that girl, English, obviously. Not particularly chic. But, my dear fellow, have you ever seen such beauty?’

The man called Paul glanced out of the window. He smiled as he saw the girl, who with her two suitcases was pushing and struggling towards the train. Without doubt she was more than ordinarily beautiful. A perfect blonde. One could just glimpse fair, shining hair under the small blue hat; an exquisite figure in the grey tweed travelling coat; a face like a flower.

‘She is attractive, Highness,’ he agreed.

‘I would like to see the colour of her eyes, Paul,’ said the young man who had first noticed Tona.

The other smiled again and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I envy you, Highness, that you can turn your thoughts to the colour of a woman’s eyes, when the affairs of state press one so furiously.’

‘There are times when it is good to forget politics and intrigue, Paul, especially when there are such perfect things to concentrate upon as that exquisite creature.’

The elder man nodded his head. He was used to the sudden fancies of his prince. Valentine of Gardenia was a prince of lovers as well as of his beautiful country. He had been educated at an English public-school and had taken a degree at Balliol. With his sun-browned skin and blue eyes he might have been a typical healthy, sport-loving Englishman. Only his blue-black hair gave away the foreign blood. His English was flawless. Whenever he stayed in England there were always women around Valentine. He adored pretty women, flattering them all and loving none of them. But they broke their hearts for him.

Tona Felton, still unconscious of those handsome eyes which were levelled on her, reached the side of the express at the same moment as a bearded man in uniform approached her.

‘Tickets, please!’

Tona put down her suitcases. The crowd and the heat were exhausting her. She loved warm weather and had wanted sunshine, but the atmosphere in the glass-roofed station was unbearable. She glanced longingly towards the interior of the train, which looked cool and inviting.

A second later her fair young face turned crimson and her lips opened in a cry of dismay.

‘My bag!’

It had gone. There was no doubt about it. The blue leather bag with all her money in it, her keys, and make-up accessories had vanished completely. She could guess at once what had happened. Some thief on the platform must have taken it from under her arm in that seething crowd.

‘Tickets!’ repeated the official impatiently.

Tona’s colour faded. She went white. She began to explain, but the man, who spoke English badly, was insolent and unsympathetic. He intimated that the English ‘Miss’ was trying to board the express without paying. It was his duty to hand her over to the police. They were accustomed to dealing with such offenders.

Tona protested vehemently.

‘I tell you I had my ticket for Gardenia. It’s been stolen. You can’t have me arrested. It would be ludicrous.’

The ticket collector answered her roughly, Tona could see that he was not to be argued with. Her heart sank. Every penny she possessed had been in that bag. If she didn’t find it she would be in a hopeless position. Matters looked black. She was frankly terrified by the prospect of being detained in a Turkish prison without knowing a soul to whom she could turn to help her out of her difficulties. If only she would see an English face or hear an English voice.

Then she heard what she imagined was one—a rich softly-modulated voice at her elbow.

‘Can I be of any assistance?’

A thrill of utter relief shot through her. She looked up into a very brown face from which handsome, laughing eyes looked down at her eagerly.

‘It’s my bag,’ she explained. ‘I’ve lost it. It must have been stolen. This man doesn’t believe me. If you can make him understand you, for heaven’s sake don’t let him hand me over to the police.’

‘I most certainly will not,’ he said confidently, and turning spoke a few curt words to the official. The man’s attitude was transformed. Bowing low, he muttered a stream of apologies and hastened down the platform. ‘You see,’ Tona added breathlessly, ‘I’m going to Gardenia. I shall be all right once I get there. I expect a friend to meet me and I can get some money.’

‘You have your passport?’

‘Fortunately, yes. In my coat pocket.’

‘Then you need worry no more,’ said the stranger. ‘Please come with me. I can arrange a place for you on the train, in my carriage.’

‘It’s frightfully kind of you,’ Tona stammered. ‘If I can just borrow a little money until I get there …’

He smiled down at the distressed young face.

‘You shall borrow all you need. What is your name?’

‘Felton,’ she told him, ‘Tona Felton.’

He lifted her suitcases and led the way, and she followed sighing with relief. It was certainly a stroke of luck to find an Englishman here who was so kind and helpful. Incidentally, he was extraordinarily good-looking, she thought. Yes, her lucky star was holding fast. She had once believed it was only on the films that devastatingly handsome young men came to the assistance of maidens in distress.

A moment later she found herself following him through the most magnificent railway coach which she had ever seen. It astonished her. It seemed like hôtel de luxe. One luxurious compartment led into another. She glimpsed a bedroom, a dining-car, a drawing-room with gold brocade curtains shutting out the crowded platform. There were flowers everywhere, books, a radio and every modern gadget for the traveller’s convenience.

‘This certainly isn’t second-class!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen such beautiful fittings. I’d always heard the Balkans Express was a super train—but this——’

‘I know you will be comfortable,’ the young man said casually. ‘I’ve reserved this suite. I shall be delighted if you will use it until we reach Gardenia.’

Tona paused beside him, a little breathless and uncertain.

‘I hardly feel justified in accepting so much.’

‘But please,’ he broke in. ‘There is so much room.’

‘It seems presumptuous.’

‘Nonsense,’ he interrupted again. ‘You mustn’t refuse. I have helped you. Now won’t you do me a good turn and relieve my boredom? I find travelling alone somewhat dull, don’t you?’

He gave her a swift smile. It dazzled her strangely. There was extraordinary magnetism in this exceedingly handsome young man in his perfectly-cut grey flannels and well-chosen tie. But her voice was still hesitant when she replied: ‘I still don’t think I should.’

He nodded towards the platform.

‘You can’t prefer all that trouble with the authorities and possible arrest. Anyway, I told them you were with me.’

She laughed.

‘In that case I’ll stay.’

He, too, laughed as though gripped by a sudden curious elation, and turned to walk into the next compartment where the man called Paul sat reading.

‘Paul,’ he said in an undertone, ‘the English lady travels in my suite to Gardenia. See that I am not worried and that she does not know who I am. I will remain incognito. Use the name of Carr.’

The equerry to the Prince of Gardenia rose and bowed.

‘The boy is incorrigible,’ he thought. ‘Will he ever settle down?’

Aloud, he said: ‘I understand, Highness.’

Then Valentine gave his equerry one of those dazzling smiles which endeared him to all who knew and served him, men and women alike.

‘She is truly wonderful, my dear Paul. Her name is Tona. I like her.’

Paul Lavengro, a member of one of the oldest families in Gardenia, Royalist from all time and fiercely loyal to the throne, looked with mingled affection and sadness towards Valentine. The prince was a charming boy, considerate and kind. But what would be the outcome of these light frothy affairs which meant nothing in the end? One day he must marry, and it must be a princess of the royal blood. No hazel-eyed English girl called Tona could ever mean anything vital or lasting to Valentine of Gardenia. Such affairs were, of course, not so serious so long as they were meaningless. But there was always the chance, he reflected, that his beloved prince might one day fall in love and be hurt.

It was a somewhat bewildered Tona who found herself in that small luxurious drawing-room which seemed so unlike a train, drinking a cocktail with her newly-acquired benefactor. His name, he told her, as he busied himself with ice and shaker, was Valentine Carr. He was going to Gardenia for a protracted stay.

‘I’m so glad I saw you and was able to help,’ he went on, raising a glass to his lips. ‘Good luck, and happy days in Gardenia!’

‘Thank you. Good luck!’

‘Now, do please take off your hat and coat. It’s warm in here.’

‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s heaven compared to that sweltering station.’

Valentine sat down opposite her, and watched her remove her things. He had told Paul that she was not ‘chic,’ but he had never seen a girl more beautifully built, with that slim, straight line which he admired; straight wide young shoulders and narrow waist and the smallest of ankles and well-bred hands and feet. Her dress—grey, with a white organdie collar—was charming. His gaze narrowed as it rested on the smooth, shining waves of her hair. What a lovely child she was! Obviously in her early twenties. He liked the way that fair hair was cut and curled under in a page-boy ‘bob’ at the nape of the slender neck. He wondered if a lover’s lips had ever brushed the tiny gold tendrils clustering there.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.

Tona sat down and smiled. She found it remarkably easy to talk to this young man. The train was already moving out of the station, but the coach was so perfectly sprung that she scarcely felt any vibration as they passed over the points. She looked with shining eyes around the miniature salon, at the artistically arranged flowers, the heavy rugs on the floor and the gold and purple cushions on the sofa.

‘This is thrilling,’ she said. ‘It’s like a scene out of … a film.’

‘You make it all very thrilling for me,’ he said.

She gave him a quick look, then changed colour, and her long, thick lashes dropped. He could see that she had the typical English girl’s shy reserve. The shyness intrigued him. He repeated: ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She told him something about her life as a typist in a London office. Her parents were dead. She lived with a married sister in Norwood. All her life she had wanted the colour and romance which only travel could supply. She had seen pictures and read books about Gardenia. She was sure that it was an enchanted country. For many months she had saved in order to take a holiday there. Now she was going on business. Her firm had important papers which had to be taken to their agent in Gardia, the capital, and she was the only member of the staff who could be spared to contact him. It was a stroke of luck for which she would always be thankful.

‘It seems strange,’ she added, ‘that it should take a war to get me to my peace-time Utopia.’

He watched her closely, thinking what a waste of youth and beauty it was for such a girl to be shut up in the drab surroundings of a city office. She was so obviously sensitive to beauty and colour. Her mind was as responsive as a violin string. It was disagreeable to Valentine to think of such a mind being dulled, perhaps by marriage to some uninspired young man who would wear a blue suit on Sundays and keep his money in a little pouch purse. She was too good to spend her life cooking midday dinners in a ‘homely’ and suburban villa.

‘You say you know somebody to whom you can go in Gardia?’ he asked.

Tona nodded.

‘Yes. His name is George Oliver.’

Valentine’s handsome face puckered a little.

‘Who is he? Your fiancé?’

She shook her head vigorously. No, George was not her fiancé, she laughed. He was the agent of whom she had spoken. But they had known each other for years. He used to work beside her in the London office. He had often asked her to marry him and she liked him, but she didn’t love him. But he had promised to look after her and give her. . .