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Close in age, Reginald and Carrington had grown up together. But they had evolved into two men who were nothing like one another, he thought sadly. The young duke was serious, focused, aside from his riotous penchant for mischief that used to prompt him to play appalling practical jokes on unsuspecting victims, such as the poor princess. But despite that bent, Carrington had a good head on his shoulders, the kind that came from more than just obtaining an excellent education. The kind that came from an innate intelligence and a inherent sensitivity to the needs of others.
For a moment, Weston watched the yachts in the harbor. They were bobbing up and down in the choppy waters like slightly inebriated dancers. He tried to remember if the forecast called for a storm. The princess was coming in today. It would be a shame if her first day on Silvershire’s soil was marked with rain.
If he could have picked the perfect son, the perfect ruler, he was forced to admit, then he would have selected Carrington over his own son. What he had hoped would rub off from Carrington to Reginald had not. If anything, Reginald seemed to be even more determined to burn the candle at both ends, more determined than ever to sow his share of wild oats.
His share, Weston snorted. Reginald was sowing more wild oats than all the young men of an entire third world nation put together.
He had been much too indulgent when it came to Reginald, but that was all in the past. Reginald was thirty, he was going to have to put his reckless behavior behind him. The moment he took on the responsibility of wearing the crown, he would have to devote himself to Silvershire, not to the pursuit of his own pleasures.
And if he didn’t? a small, persistent voice inside Weston’s head demanded. What then?
Weston ran his hand along his aching head. He had no answer for that. All he could do was pray for a miracle, that somehow, his son would be transformed into the monarch that Silvershire needed him to be.
The king glanced at his watch. It was later than he had thought. For the moment, he tabled his thoughts of miracles and simply prayed that Reginald would show up at the airport to greet his bride. There was less than an hour to get ready. The plane that carried Carrington and Gastonia’s princess would be landing soon.
If there was something in his heart that felt sorry for the young woman who was to be his daughter-in-law, he wouldn’t allow himself to admit it.
The knot in her stomach wouldn’t go away, no matter how much Amelia willed it to dissolve. Not only that, but she couldn’t trust herself to look at Carrington, even though he sat in the seat adjacent to hers. Not yet. Not without risking having all her thoughts reveal themselves in her eyes, on her face. She couldn’t afford to have anyone suspect that there was something between her and the charismatic duke.
She’d been so very sure, only two days ago, that it was better to have one shining moment of happiness than none at all. To know what real love, real pleasure was—even if she couldn’t have it for more than a moment—than to endure a lifetime never having experienced it. But now she wasn’t so sure. Because to know was to want. And she couldn’t endanger everything she had been raised to accomplish just because of her own needs, her own desires.
Why? a voice within her demanded. Why not grasp the brass ring? Reginald has spent the whole of his adult life doing that, why not you?
But if she did that, if she indulged herself without thinking of the far-reaching consequences, then that would mean that she was just like Reginald. She wasn’t. She was different. Better, she liked to think.
As Gastonia’s princess, she had the people to think about. Keeping them safe, by means of an alliance with the stronger Silvershire, was her responsibility. She couldn’t bow out now, no matter how much her heart longed to.
The knot in her stomach grew larger as the plane touched down on the runway. Her fingers tightened around the armrests, her knuckles turning white.
She was here. At the place that she was going to have to refer to as home for the rest of her life.
For a moment, panic flared in her veins. She desperately wanted to order the pilot to pull up the landing gear and take off again. To turn the plane around and go back to Gastonia.
Amelia pressed her lips together, keeping the words unspoken. She wished with all her heart that life had not gotten so complicated.
She should have never done what she had, Amelia upbraided herself. But she only had herself to blame. If she had not given in to her curiosity, to her desire, she and Russell would have continued being friendly strangers, nothing more.
But now he was going to have a position of honor inside every dream she had. Almost against her will, she slanted a glance toward Russell. Their eyes met.
Her breath caught in her throat. Breathe, Amelia, breathe.
She looked away, only to see that Madeline was watching her. The redhead’s mouth moved into a quick, comforting smile.
Madeline turned to look out the window. “We’re here,” she announced in a tone that the executioner might have used to tell Marie Antoinette that it was time to climb up the steps that led to the guillotine.
Aware that Carrington’s eyes were still on her, Amelia lifted her chin and took on a regal bearing.
“Yes, we are.”
If she sighed inwardly after the words, no one heard it. But she had a feeling that Carrington sensed it. As his eyes washed over her, she was certain she saw concern glinting in his eyes. She managed a smile that was meant to put him at his ease—and still maintain the distance between them.
As if there would ever be real distance between them, she thought ruefully. The night they had spent together had effectively burned away any kind of space that might have ever existed. Body and soul, she was his now. She always would be, even though they could never make love again. It only took that one time for the promise to be there. To be eternal.
Carrington was the first to unbuckle his seat belt. On his feet, he approached her respectfully. His voice was gentle as he said, “Princess, it’s time to meet your people.”
She took a deep breath, as if that would provide her with the courage that she felt ebbing away from her. She’d been to Silvershire before, but years ago and with her father. She wished he was here now, but he had made it clear that he felt she should come alone, signifying her new position. She was no longer his daughter but Reginald’s intended queen. He was going to join her in a day, but her first hours on Silvershire’s soil should be focused entirely on her and Reginald.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed.
With slow, deliberate movements, Amelia unbuckled her seat belt and then took the hand Carrington offered to help her to her feet. She tried not to think of how that hand had felt the other night, stroking her flesh. Bringing her pleasure that she had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined existed.
Madeline popped up, flashed a smile and whispered, “It’s going to be all right.” Amelia returned the smile, in her heart knowing that it wouldn’t be. Not while she had to be Reginald’s wife.
Turning on his heel, Russell led the way to the plane’s door. The steward preceded him, opening it for them before stepping back.
Russell looked at Amelia. “The people will expect to see you emerging first, Princess,” he told her.
“Then we can’t disappoint them, can we?” she responded gamely.
With Madeline directly behind her, Amelia stepped out onto the steps that had been brought directly before the opened door. Standing there for a moment, she raised her hand and waved to the people who had all gathered there. They didn’t look unlike her own people she had left in Gastonia.
A cheer rose, enveloping her like a warm blanket as the crowd greeted her. For a moment, she remained where she was, waving, absorbing the upturned faces. There were all manner of people within the crowd. Old, young, men, women and children, they were all waving at her. All cheering for this princess they were determined to welcome into their hearts.
Waving and smiling was second nature to her. It had been required of her for as far back as Amelia could remember. It was, she thought, the meaningless side of who and what she was. The meaningful part came from lending her support, her name and her efforts to charitable foundations, to actually accomplishing things. But because of the state of turmoil that her mind was in, she welcomed this distraction. It allowed her to go on automatic pilot.
And not to dwell on the fact that Carrington was standing much too close to her, causing her body to hum. Causing her to remember the other night, when she had been alive for the very first time.
“There’s King Weston.” Madeline said the words against her ear as she gestured toward the monarch standing proudly with his back to the crowd as he watched Carrington and the others disembark. “But where’s the prince?”
Madeline’s question echoed in Amelia’s brain as she scanned the area around King Weston. The tall ruler had some of his key people assembled with him. But the prince was noticeably absent.
This was entirely unacceptable, Amelia thought. It was not only thoughtless and rude, it was beyond insulting. Was he deliberately absent in order to publicly embarrass her? Was this a sign of the things that were to come? Or was he just out to show her how superior he was to her?
Amelia looked over toward Russell, her eyes reiterating Madeline’s question. If anyone would know of the prince’s whereabouts, it was Carrington. But she saw the duke move his head from side to side, silently telling her that he was just as much in the dark about Reginald as she was.
This was not good, Amelia thought. None of the princesses in the fairy tales she had grown up reading were ever stranded by their prince.
Maybe because he’s not really your prince.
The band began to play. Amelia shut the voice in her head out. She carefully came down the narrow metal steps. Despite the din of the crowd, she could swear she heard the click of her heels as she made contact with the metal over and over again. And with each step she took, she heard the same tattoo being struck.
Run. Run. Run.
Except that there was nowhere to run to.
The king and his entourage approached, meeting her halfway. Stepping forward, Weston embraced her, then kissed her soundly first on one cheek and then the other. Finished, he stood back and beamed at her.
“Welcome, Princess.”
There was warmth in the monarch’s eyes, but there was something more there, she realized. There was just a hint of discomfort.
The king was embarrassed that Reginald wasn’t here, Amelia thought. He was embarrassed for her and for the realm. She took heart in that.
In his mid-sixties, King Weston appeared to be in the prime of his life. Distinguished, he looked like a man at least ten years his junior. Six feet one inch tall, with a strong build, he had a full head of silver-gray hair and kind blue-gray eyes. Amelia had always liked him. She fervently wished she could have felt the same way about his son.
Stepping to the side, he gestured, presenting her to his people. “Welcome to your new home.”
After a push from her mother, a little girl of no more than six approached with a huge bouquet of flowers. The little girl held it up as high as she could, offering the bouquet to her. There were carnations, perfect specimens of pink and white, mixed with several other delicate flowers that Amelia knew were native to Silvershire.
When Amelia accepted the bouquet, the little girl curtsied, then stepped back and buried her face in her mother’s skirt, suddenly shy.
Amelia bent down to her level and said, “Thank you.”
The little girl half turned her head toward her again and offered a small, hesitant smile.
Rising to her feet, Amelia looked at the throng that had gathered to see her. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, raising her voice in order to be heard. “I’m very happy to be here.”
In response, the crowd cheered and clapped. All except for a cluster of people over on the side. There was almost a militant appearance about them, even though they were all wearing civilian clothes. There was a dark-haired young man dressed in black, standing in the center. He seemed to be the rallying point around whom the others gathered. Behind him was a banner that loudly proclaimed Down With the Monarchy. Seeing it was a shock.
So, she thought, this is not quite the paradise the king wants me to believe it is.
It took her a moment to realize that Madeline was at her elbow. “Didn’t realize you were an actress,” her friend whispered to her, barely moving her lips.
“Every princess is,” Amelia responded in the same low whisper. The smile she’d summoned remained on her lips as she looked out on the crowd. Turning toward the king, she nodded toward the small cluster of dissenters. “Who are they?”
“No one you need concern yourself about,” Weston replied dismissively.
“That’s the Union for Democracy,” Russell told her. “Nikolas Donovan is their leader. He would be the one you see in front.”
All she could see was Russell. But she was a princess and knew she had to conduct herself as one—as if nothing was crossing her mind but the information he was telling her, as if her pulse was not accelerating, even now. “Are they dangerous?” she wanted to know.
“Peaceful,” he countered.
She nodded. “I hope they stay that way.”
“I won’t have them ruining this occasion,” the king told her firmly. He extended his arm to her. “If you’ll permit me, Princess?”
Amelia slipped her arm through his. “Of course.” As he led her to the long, sleek, black limousine that was to take them back to the palace, she inclined her head toward his and asked the question she could no longer keep back. “Where is the prince?”
She felt the king stiffen, saw the smile on his lips grow just a little brittle around the edges. Clearly this was a sore point. And then she understood that by not being here, Reginald was not only insulting her, but the king, as well. He paused as they came to the limousine. “No one knows.”
The driver hurriedly opened the door for them, then stood back.
“I see,” she murmured, slipping into the limousine first.
The king followed, taking his seat beside her. By rights, Russell should have come next, but he stepped back, gesturing for Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. Madeline gave him a wide, appreciative grin before ducking her head and taking the seat opposite Amelia.
Manners before protocol, Amelia thought. In her heart, she knew that it would have never occurred to Reginald to surrender his position and allow Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. She could hear his young voice taunting her.
When we’re grown, you’ll have to mind me and do everything I say. You won’t have a choice.
He’d been a dictator even then. Was he one now? Was she going to find life with him unbearable? She strove not to let depression absorb her thoughts, strove not to think beyond the moment. She should be relieved, not insulted, by Reginald’s absence, she told herself.
The king’s bodyguard closed the door and the vehicle began its journey to the palace, less than five miles away.
Progress was slow. People lined both sides of the streets, waving frantically even before the limousine passed them. Some held tiny Silvershire flags. A few clutched both the flags of Silvershire and Gastonia, symbolizing the merger of the two kingdoms. The mood was festive.
Everywhere but within the interior of the limousine.
Amelia sat closest to the window, waving to the faces of her new people. Though she tried not to focus on it, the significance of the prince’s continued and very glaring absence from the scene weighed down on her.
This didn’t bode well for the marriage, she thought, her smile never faltering. But then, she had already sensed that. Otherwise, she would have never invited Russell to her bed, no matter how drawn to him she felt.
Hers was not destined to be a fairy-tale marriage, Amelia reflected sadly, struggling to accept what she knew was her fate. Still, she continued waving and smiling at the people who wished her well and who were already, from all appearances, taking her to their hearts.
All except for the small band of dissenters.
Chapter 7
Discreet questions as to the prince’s whereabouts were asked once the limousine arrived at the palace. But no one seemed to know where Reginald was. The king’s anxiety continued to mount even as he prepared to attend the gala being held at the palace in honor of Princess Amelia’s arrival and the young royals’ upcoming wedding.
The hours slipped by. The prince was nowhere to be found.
Russell frowned to himself, returning his cell phone to his pocket. Reginald wasn’t answering his personal phone. Voice mail picked up immediately, which meant that the prince had shut off his phone, something he was prone to doing whenever he was busy gratifying his sexual appetites. Dutifully, Russell informed the king that his son couldn’t be reached.
On the advice of his chief counselor, King Weston changed the theme of the celebration at the last moment to center exclusively around the princess who had come to join together the two kingdoms.
Outwardly, the mood at the party was festive, but beneath the thin layer of gaiety was an underlying knot of tension. Because they cared for their king and had taken to the princess, everyone at the affair pretended that there was nothing wrong.
As he stood back and observed the guests, Russell was convinced that the prince’s glaring absence was the talk of every small gathering he saw at the celebration.
At least Amelia was a hit, Russell thought fondly. But then, how could she not be? Coddling the scotch and soda he had been nursing for the last half hour, Russell smiled to himself. The change in Princess Amelia had been incredible. It was hard to believe that this was the same young girl who’d been the target of his practical jokes whenever he’d visited Gastonia.
Taking a sip from his glass, he felt the liquid spread a deep, burning sensation through his chest, warming everything in its path. It was the same sort of sensation he experienced each time he now looked in Amelia’s direction.
All evening, Amelia continued to be the center of attention. At the moment Russell watched her engage several of Silvershire’s leading businessmen in conversation. The perfunctory smiles on the men’s faces quickly changed to looks of interest. Russell knew for a fact that the princess, in addition to being fluent in five different languages, had a business degree to her name. The five languages put her four and a half up on Reginald, he thought with a touch of cynicism.
It seemed that there was nothing, Russell thought with more than a little pride, she couldn’t accomplish if she set her mind to it.
She was charming the pants off everyone, Russell noted. God knew that she had certainly done that with him. Even before they had spent the night together.
He felt a pang stirring within him, born not of guilt but of need. It was followed by a wave of anger. The prince should be horsewhipped for standing her up this way. Reginald had known about this gala, known that it was to have celebrated their upcoming marriage. How could he do this to Amelia?
The very thought of the marriage, of Amelia being intimate with Reginald, made something in the pit of his stomach rise up in his throat. Russell took another sip to wash the taste of bile from his mouth.
He had no business feeling like this, no business feeling anything beyond a mild pity for whoever officially graced the prince’s bed. But he couldn’t help himself. This was personal. It would always be personal no matter how much he wanted to divorce himself from the situation. He realized that his hand was tightening around his glass and he forced himself to relax his grip.
Were this another time, one of intrigue and secret pacts, when daggers rather than words were used to settle matters of discord, he might have been sorely tempted …
