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They made love several times. More times than he had believed he was capable of. Until now.
Until her.
Russell had no idea how much time had passed. An hour, two. A week. Lost in thoughts and feelings, he had no way of reckoning. He only knew that he had never, ever felt so summarily drained and contented at the same time.
Amelia was lying beside him, curled up in the hollow of his arm, and he could not remember ever feeling as happy as he did at this moment. His heart swelled as he looked at her. Russell laughed softly to himself, his breath ruffling her hair. “I think I might never walk again.”
Half asleep, she was amusing herself by playing with the hair on his arm, lightly stroking it and pretending with all her might that tomorrow did not have to come. That she never had to leave this bed, never had to know another man intimately. Only him.
“Is that a good thing?” she murmured.
“That all depends.”
She half turned her face up to his, curious. “On what?”
“On whether or not the bed is on fire.” He wanted to go on holding her like this, wanted somehow to make her his forever. But that was even more impossible than his sprouting wings would be.
He felt her smile against his arm as it widened. Amelia—how could he think of her as the princess after what they had just shared?—raised her head again, her eyes dancing as she looked at him. “And is it?”
“It was.” He pulled her to him, settled her against his chest and felt her heart beat against his. As if they were meant to be one. If only …
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Princess, but you are a natural.”
She moved until she was resting her hands on his chest. Laying her head on top of them, she cocked it slightly as she studied his face. He felt the tickle of her hair as it draped along his naked skin.
“Do you think that you could find it in your heart, for the space of what is left of this night and in light of the fact that you have seen me as naked as the moment I was born, to call me just Amelia?”
He loved her. The thought came to him, riding on a thunderbolt. He loved her. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
But right now, he could play along and pretend that they were just two people who’d found each other. “I could, ‘just Amelia.’”
She sighed, her eyes closing again. “Good.”
Raising his head, he pressed a kiss against her forehead.
It made her feel warm and wanting all over again, even though Amelia doubted she could move. Like him, she was utterly and entirely spent—and thrilled. If there was guilt because she was promised to another, because she had wantonly thrown herself at Russell, it made no appearance tonight. Because tonight didn’t belong to her realm, and certainly not to the man she’d been pledged to from the moment she’d drawn her first breath.
Tonight was hers.
And Russell’s.
“I wish …” Her wistful voice trailed off.
Russell looked at her, curious. “You wish what?”
She opened her eyes again for a moment. The smile that found her mouth was soft, gentle, sad. “Just ‘I wish,’” she murmured.
“Yes, me, too,” Russell whispered softly, understanding what couldn’t be spoken out loud, what couldn’t be. She wished that she were someone else and that they didn’t both have duties standing in the way.
He raised himself on his elbow. “I’d better go,” he began.
But she tightened her arms around him. “Not yet,” she whispered. “Hold me. Just for a little while longer. Just hold me.”
It wasn’t in his heart to say no to her. Besides, it was unheard of for a duke to refuse a princess. Especially when he didn’t want to.
So he remained where he was, holding her in his arms, saying nothing, thinking everything, until the first flicker of dawn creased the darkened sky and she fell asleep.
Then, very carefully, Russell slipped his arm from beneath her head. He held his breath as he slowly left her bed, one tiny inch at a time so as not to wake her. He watched her face the entire time for a sign that he had roused her.
Watched it, too, because he knew he would never be able to see it this way again, relaxed in soft repose, the scent of their lovemaking still on her skin as well as on his.
Russell felt a pang of longing and sorrow in his heart. Damn Reginald, anyway. Why couldn’t the fool have come to get her himself? This would have never happened if Reginald hadn’t allowed his appetites to dictate his behavior.
The pot calling the kettle black? a voice inside Russell’s head mocked.
He was clearly no saint, but there was a difference between him and Reginald, he silently insisted. He sincerely doubted that the prince loved any of the women he bedded. Given a test, the Playboy Prince would probably be unable to recall the names of more than half of them. Lust was his god.
But lust hadn’t been what had led Russell to give in to Amelia when she’d pressed her body so invitingly against his, he thought. He had never been one to be led around by his appetites, even as a teenager with hormones the size of boulders. Longing was what had prompted him to do what he had. To give in. Because from the first moment he’d arrived to escort her back to Silvershire, there had been something, a pull, an electrical charge, something that had seduced him, had whispered her name in his head and made him want her.
If they had both been free to do so, if obligations didn’t bind them, Russell knew he would have proposed to her last night. Because when he had made love with Amelia, every fiber in his being had cried that it was right.
Even if it was so wrong.
Once out of her bed, Russell hastily threw on his clothing and then tiptoed to the door. He eased it open like someone waiting for a telltale squeak to give him away. None came. But he wasn’t home free yet.
He needed to make his retreat without encountering anyone in the hallways until he was well clear of the princess’s suite.
Russell looked furtively first in one direction, then another, before satisfying himself that no one was there to witness first-hand his leaving the princess’s rooms.
Because the palace had had a modern overhaul only two years ago, there were surveillance cameras in almost every corner of the lengthy hallway. Knowing what he did about security procedures, it would be easy enough to quickly doctor the tape that could incriminate both of them. All he would need to do, once he had the tape, was create a quick time loop, for both the time that he and the princess entered her suite and then again for when he left it.
It was a relatively simple matter to erase any evidence that this had ever taken place—from everywhere but his soul. But that was his problem. What he needed to do was make sure that everyone regarded the princess above reproach.
He tried not to think about the fact that in a few short days, Reginald could be enjoying the very things that he had just had. The thought was too painful for him to examine now.
Madeline Carlyle rounded the long corridor, pleased and amazed at how quickly she had rallied. She wanted to be the first to tell Amelia that the trip to Silvershire did not have to be delayed because of her.
Rounding the corner, Madeline came to a dead stop. The smile on her appealing round face froze and then faded when she saw the tall, dark, handsome man emerging from the princess’s suite. Catching her breath, Madeline melted back into the shadows, her heart hammering hard in her chest.
Her first thought was that Amelia was in danger. If that were the case, she had no business hiding. Her job was to protect the princess no matter what. But when she stepped out into the hallway again, the man she’d just seen was gone.
What had he done to Amelia?
Madeline hurried into Amelia’s quarters, completely disregarding any protocol that would have her knocking on the princess’s door and waiting to be allowed access. They had been friends for far too long for her to stand on protocol. Especially since Amelia would have none of it. She’d always encouraged her to treat her as if they were equals.
Rushing through the sitting room, Madeline burst into the princess’s bedroom. The same room where they had played and whispered stories to one another in the dead of night when they were children.
“Amelia,” she cried, “are you all right?”
But even as she asked the question, she saw that rather than looking violated, or like the victim of some sort of mistreatment, Amelia looked absolutely fine. She also looked as if she were asleep.
The sound of Madeline’s breathless question elbowed its way into the dream she was having. With reluctance, Amelia opened her eyes. Dazed, disoriented, it took her a moment to pull herself together.
The fact that she was alone in bed came crashing down on her consciousness.
Her brain replayed Madeline’s question as she tried to focus on the woman’s concerned face. Belatedly, Amelia realized that she was still nude. As regally as she could, she gathered the sheet to herself, forced a smile to her lips and made an attempt at diversion.
“Madeline. You’re better.”
The redhead waved her hand, dismissing the reference to her health. All that was yesterday’s news. She had very obviously stumbled across something that came under the heading of “breaking news.”
And she wanted to know every last detail about it. “Never mind me, what about you?”
For a moment, Amelia avoided her best friend’s eyes. She picked at the sheet, as if arranging it in a more flattering way. “What about me?”
Madeline knelt down beside the bed, her eyes searching Amelia’s face for some kind of sign that would tell her if something was truly wrong. “Are you all right?”
Amelia lifted her head, tossing her hair over her shoulder. A portrait in regalness. “Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”
“Because—” Madeline stopped and tried again, more coherently this time. “Amelia, I saw a man coming out of your rooms.”
So, he’d only just left her now. Somehow, she found that heartening. It meant that he couldn’t tear himself away. The thought made her happy. “No, you didn’t.”
Madeline frowned, confused. “Yes, I did, he—”
Amelia fixed the other woman with a very intent look. “No, Madeline, you didn’t,” she repeated, enunciating every word carefully.
Madeline returned Amelia’s look, trying to gauge the princess’s thoughts. “I didn’t.” It wasn’t quite a question, nor was it completely a statement.
“No.” Amelia’s tone was firm and not to be argued with.
Madeline drew closer still to the woman who had her allegiance before all others. “And this man I didn’t see, exactly who was he?”
They had shared everything. Intelligent, witty and blessed with a delicious sense of humor as well as irony, Madeline was the old-fashioned sort of confidante, the kind who was loyal to her very last breath. They had kept one another’s secrets since before either one had understood what that meant.
Looking down on her knotted fingers, Amelia whispered, “The Duke of Carrington.”
Madeline covered her mouth to keep the squeal of surprise from emerging. When her voice returned to normal, she dropped her hands and asked, “That was Russell?”
Amelia nodded. Rather than regret what, in a moment of wine-aided weakness, she had done, she found herself missing him.
“My lord.” Madeline stared at Amelia, speechless.
No, he’s mine, Amelia thought.
Clearing her throat, Madeline forged ahead, “Did you and he—?” And then she laughed at her own question. “Of course you did. Just look at you, you’re glowing. Glowing and naked.” More than slightly familiar with nights of excitement and passion herself, Madeline knew that Amelia had never been with anyone. “Was he good to you?”
“Better than good,” Amelia breathed. “He was fabulous.”
“If you wanted to run off with him, Amelia, I could create a diversion. I could—”
Amelia placed her hand on Madeline’s, anchoring her attention. She shook her head. “No.”
Madeline’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. Amelia knew Madeline had never liked the prince, had never thought of him as being good enough for her.
“No?”
“No.” Amelia took both of Madeline’s hands and held them in her own. “And you can never tell anyone, do you understand?”
Madeline looked into the imploring violet eyes. With reluctance, she nodded and gave Amelia her word. “I understand.”
Chapter 6
King Weston sighed, closed the thick, leather-bound binders and rose from his desk. Opening the double doors at his back, he walked out onto the balcony and looked out past the light green buds of spring, past the huge expanse of greenery. From where he stood, he had a view of the ocean which soothed him.
He’d been in his office for the last hour, going over the final plans for the coronation. It seemed like only yesterday he had been awaiting his own coronation, now it was his son’s he was making plans for.
His reign was coming to an end.
It was time to hand the scepter over to someone else. To Reginald. Unlike most other monarchies, it wasn’t death but tradition that brought about a change in the rulers in Silvershire. According to custom, the crown had to be relinquished after thirty years—to a first-born son if there was one, to a duke if nature had been cruel and withheld heirs from the reigning ruler.
That was how he had come to his crown. He’d been the chosen one. Oh, not at first. The late King Dunford had initially favored Lord Benton Vladimir over him and it was understood that the title of king would pass to Vladimir when the time came.
However, as the crucial moment had approached, King Dunford had changed his mind. Instincts, the old king had confided to him, caused the monarch to decide that Weston rather than Vladimir would make the better ruler. Vladimir was too self-centered ever to be a good king.
He’d accepted this with a heavy heart, because he and Vladimir were cousins and friends. Had been friends, he amended, remembering the course of events. The friendship that had existed had died the moment the crown came between them. Just before the coronation, Vladimir had disappeared, vowing revenge.
It had been a vow that apparently was never to come to fruition. He hadn’t heard from Vladimir in all these years that the crown rested on his head. No one had.
A sad smile curved his mouth. It was too bad, really, because he missed the man and the confidences they used to share.
And then there were the times that he found himself wishing that Vladimir had remained the chosen one. That it was Vladimir who wore the crown that occasionally weighed so heavily on his brow. But that, of course, was only in moments of extreme stress.
He’d tried to be a good king, to do his very level best for the people. And they, in turn, had been there for him. It was his duty to the people that had kept him alive and had brought him back from the brink of insanity, where grief had propelled him. His beloved queen, his Alexis, had died two days after giving birth to their only child.
Reginald.
Thinking of his son now, he shook his head and did his best to bank down a mounting sorrow that entwined itself with the headache that had been his constant companion these last few weeks. The same instincts that King Dunford had once spoken of so many years ago seemed to be now tormenting him. Instincts that whispered in his ear, saying that Reginald was not fit to be a ruler.
The heart of a ruler should be centered on his people. Reginald’s heart was centered on himself alone. On his pleasures, his needs. Reginald took no interest in matters of state, beyond what the state coffers could yield into his private pocket. His son’s main pastime seemed to be the collection of women.
And that collection grew almost daily, if he were to believe the press. The newspapers referred to Reginald as the Playboy Prince as well as the Black Prince. The less upstanding tabloids called him something that was far worse.
And this was the head that was going to be wearing the crown of Silvershire in less than a month.
His hands on the railing, the king closed his eyes, feeling very weary and very old.
God, but he wished that his only son was more like the Duke of Carrington. His mouth curved again. Dear lord, he would have given his life if Reginald was anything like Russell. That was why he was constantly pushing the two together.
