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To what? To kill Reginald?
No, Russell thought, murder wasn’t his way. And it certainly wasn’t an option, even if he were the kind of person who thought nothing of killing whoever got in his way. It wasn’t an option because Russell had always prided himself on his loyalty to the crown, and Reginald was the future king of Silvershire.
Which meant that he had to be loyal to Reginald, no matter what. Even though, despite all of his and the king’s efforts, Reginald would undoubtedly turn out to be a bad king. But whether Reginald was or not, it was not a matter for him to take into his own hands.
Just as he shouldn’t have taken Amelia into his hands, into his arms, Russell thought. That he had was his cross to bear. In silence.
He figured the almost bottomless longing he felt would make him pay for his transgression every day of his life. Even now, watching the princess as groups of men and women gathered around her, he felt himself wanting her more than he could recall ever wanting anyone before.
Hell of a cross to bear, he thought darkly, taking another drink.
“So where do you suppose he really is?”
The question came out of nowhere, as if echoing his thoughts. Glancing to his side, he saw Amelia’s lady-in-waiting, Madeline. He’d been so lost in his thoughts and in observing Amelia from what he’d initially thought was a safe distance—quickly learning that there was no safe distance when it came to being around Amelia—that he hadn’t heard the princess’s friend approach.
From the little he had seen of her, Madeline struck him as being very honest and straightforward. By no stretch of the imagination could the lady be called shy or retiring. She was outspoken and seemed a perfect match for Amelia.
For the princess, he upbraided himself. He had to stop thinking of her by her given name and just keep reminding himself that she was the princess. And would be, in a matter of weeks, his queen. Continuing to regard her as Amelia was out of order.
He inclined his head toward Madeline, pretending he hadn’t heard her. “Excuse me?”
Madeline gave him a look that said she knew that he knew what she was talking about. But for form’s sake, she elaborated.
“The prince,” she enunciated precisely, wishing she could grind the man between her teeth, as well. “Why isn’t he here?”
Russell paused. Protocol dictated that he say something in the man’s defense. That he tell this woman of less-than-royal blood that it wasn’t any of her concern what the prince did, or didn’t do, or where he was at any given moment. But he was far too modern in his thinking for that. And he liked the fact that Amelia had a friend to help her at a time like this. A friend who could be open.
You’re her friend. Except that, because of what had happened between them, he couldn’t allow himself to assume that role any longer. People would talk. He wanted nothing to sully her reputation. Nothing.
This was a very sticky situation they found themselves in, he thought ruefully.
“I don’t know,” he told Madeline honestly. And then, because he felt he could trust the young woman, he added, “This behavior is pretty reckless, even for the prince.”
Madeline had put her own interpretation to the prince’s no-show. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. “Is this his way of saying that he won’t go through with the marriage?”
That had never been in jeopardy, Russell thought sadly. “Oh, the prince’ll go through with the marriage. There’s too much riding on it for him not to. He might be reckless, but he’s not brave enough to oppose his father in matters that really count.”
Madeline frowned, taking offense for Amelia who was too kind-hearted to voice her own offense. “And not coming here doesn’t count?” she wanted to know. “You know, someone other than Princess Amelia would have been humiliated.”
“She’s made of finer stuff than that,” Russell commented, looking in Amelia’s direction again.
Unintentionally, he caught Amelia’s eye. For a moment, they looked at one another from across the room and he could almost feel a communion between them. But it wasn’t anything that either one of them could acknowledge, even fleetingly, without consequences.
He looked away first, before anyone could see. Or so he thought.
“Yes,” Madeline agreed, noting what had just happened between the duke and Amelia, even if everyone else was oblivious to it, “she is.” Moving closer to Carrington, she lowered her voice. “Maybe the princess is also lucky. Maybe the prince will find that backbone every living creature is supposed to have and use it to sail away to Tahiti.” She flashed a smile at him. “At least, one can hope.” She ended her statement with a wink, then excused herself before drifting back over toward Amelia.
The princess’s lady had winked at him. Was that supposed to mean something? Was she flirting with him, or delivering some kind of a message?
God, but he did hate complications.
Turning away to refill the drink he had finally finished, Russell all but walked into a solid wall of a man. One of the king’s six bodyguards. This one was a tall, burly man who looked as uncomfortable in the tuxedo he was forced to wear as he would have been in a ballet dress fashioned with a profusion of tulle.
He gave a perfunctory nod of his head in place of a bow. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but King Weston would like to speak with you.”
“The king?” Russell looked around and saw that Weston was not anywhere in the ballroom. If the royals continued to disappear like this, he mused, Nikolas Donovan and his Union for Democracy would find that winning their battle took no effort at all.
“Yes. This way, please.”
They left the ballroom. Russell followed the bodyguard into the corridor and then to the king’s study.
“Here he is, Your Majesty,” the bodyguard announced. The moment that Russell crossed the threshold, the other man closed the doors behind him. Russell had no doubt that the man had positioned himself outside the double doors, barring anyone else’s entrance until the king was finished with him.
Alone, with no prying eyes to spy on him, King Weston allowed his smiling facade to fall away. He’d known Russell since the young duke and Reginald had played together in a royal, pristine white sandbox. He felt comfortable enough with Russell not to have to maintain a pose. The man was almost like his own son.
In some ways, he actually felt more comfortable in Russell’s presence than in Reginald’s. There was an honesty to Russell that was missing in his own son.
His frown went deep, almost clear down to the bone. As did his frustration and displeasure. “Where the hell is he, Russell?”
“I don’t know.” He was surprised to see that the king fixed him with a long, hard, penetrating look. “I would tell you, Your Majesty, if I knew.” He watched as the expression faded from Weston’s face. “But I’ve been gone these last few days,” he reminded his ruler, “bringing the princess back for the wedding.”
“The wedding.” Despair almost got the better of Weston as he threw up his hands.
Of late, the King had been battling the effects of what he took to be the flu. He felt feverish, at times dizzy, although he said nothing because he did not want the royal doctor fussing over him. But feeling the way he did, he was not up to Reginald’s latest display of inexcusable behavior.
“The wedding is taking place in three days. No, two and a half,” he amended. “Two and a half days,” he repeated.
Russell truly felt sorry for what he thought the king had to be going through. Every man wanted to point to his son with pride, not frustration. “I know that, Your Majesty,” he responded quietly.
“What if he decides to skip that, too, just like he skipped meeting her at the airport, just like he skipped attending the party in his and her honor?” The tension in the king’s voice kept building, fueled by ever-increasing agitation. “What if he doesn’t come? What am I to do then, marry the girl off to a piece of his clothing? Or to the royal sword?”
Though the situation was deadly serious, the question threatened to evoke a smile. Russell did his best to keep it at bay.
“Marriage by proxy has been done, Your Majesty,” Russell allowed.
“Yes, it has. During the Crusades,” the king retorted angrily. “What is he thinking?” The question was more of a lament than a demand for an answer.
Russell had been with the prince on more than one of his escapades and knew the pattern of Reginald’s behavior as the evening advanced. “Right about now, Your Majesty, since the prince is missing, I don’t imagine that he’s thinking much of anything.”
Weston’s pale complexion took on color. “Because he’s dead drunk?”
Russell deliberately kept his voice low, hoping to calm the king down. “That, too, I’m afraid, has been known to happen.”
The king shook his head, not in despair, but in final decision. He had indulged Reginald too long and too much. He had to put a stop to it and he would. Beginning now. The prince couldn’t be allowed to continue behaving like some rutting stag.
“Well, it can’t,” the king said with finality. “Not anymore. He has to learn that he has to grow up. Reginald’s thirty years old, for heaven’s sake.”
The king had begun to pace. Russell moved out of the way, giving the monarch a clear path. “Yes, I know that, too, Your Majesty.”
Weston paused abruptly, as if to gather himself together. His complexion, Russell thought, was much too red. If the king was not careful, he could talk himself right into a heart attack or a stroke. He’d heard rumors, although as of yet unsubstantiated, that the king’s health was not what it used to be. No doubt, Reginald and his reckless behavior had something to do with that.
The king crossed to him. They were of equal height. The king looked at him imploringly, not as a ruler but as a father. A father who had been pushed to the limit of his endurance. “I want you to find him for me, Russell.”
Russell didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep. “I don’t—”
The king held up his hand, not letting him finish. “You know his haunts, you know what he’s capable of and with whom.” A sad smile curved her lips. “Probably much more than I do. I pride myself on being informed, but there are some things a father doesn’t want to know about his son.” His eyes met Russell’s in a silent entreaty for understanding. “So I have no idea where to send one of my bodyguards to find him. But you would know.” He paused, waiting for some kind of confirmation. “Wouldn’t you?”
Even though he didn’t go there himself, he knew the different places that Reginald liked to frequent, some he wouldn’t even repeat to the king. “There are a few places I could go to look.”
“Then go. Look.” The words came out like shots fired from a gun, quick, independent and lethal. “And bring the prince back, even if he orders you not to.” Weston squared his broad shoulders. “You have my orders and I can still overrule the prince.”
But for how long? Russell wondered. Once Weston gave up the crown to his son, Russell had more than just an uneasy feeling that there would be no safeguards that could be applied to the unruly Reginald. There would be no one to stop him, at least, not officially. Russell foresaw only turmoil in the months ahead. The way he felt about Amelia had nothing to do with his fears for the realm.
He studied his monarch’s face. The king was an intelligent man. Granted he loved his son, but he had to see that Reginald wasn’t really fit to take charge, no matter what his chronological age. They needed more time to make him ready to assume his responsibilities. Until now, Reginald had only been playing at being a royal. He had taken on none of the duties that went with his position.
For heaven’s sake, he couldn’t even show up somewhere on time.
The words burned on his tongue. Russell couldn’t allow himself just to stand by and say nothing. But he knew the path was one that was lined with mines. He picked his way carefully.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you might reconsider the coronation ceremony,” Russell suggested tactfully. “Postpone the official shift of power for a little while until such time as—”
The king wouldn’t let him finish. He raised his hand, stopping Russell. “I understand what you are saying, Carrington, and believe me, I have had the same thoughts. More than once,” he added heavily. “But I can’t go against tradition. I can’t simply break rules when it suits me and expect others not to.”
Russell knew that by “others” the king was referring to the troublesome Union for Democracy. There had been efforts, ever since the group had organized five years ago, to suppress it, to try as subtly as possible to force the members to disband. But instead, it had only grown. Not by any large degree, but enough to deserve further close surveillance. They called themselves a peaceful group, but more than one so-called peaceful group had been known to become the center of violent eruptions. No one wanted to see that happen in Silvershire.
Russell found himself wondering if perhaps having the Union of Democracy take over might not, in the final analysis, be preferable to having Reginald ascend to the throne.
But he kept this to himself as he inclined his head, symbolizing his acquiescing to his ruler’s wishes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Go find my son and tell him … tell him …” It was on the tip of Weston’s tongue to instruct Russell to say to Reginald that he was a disappointment to him. But that was between him and his son. No one else, not even Russell, as familiar as he was with the scene, was allowed to be privy to that. “Just tell the prince to hurry back to the palace and live up to his responsibilities,” he concluded.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Russell paused, reading between the lines. The gala was still going on, but he had no real desire to remain. He would rather be busy than standing around, left to his own thoughts. Thoughts he found difficult to deal with at the moment. “Do you want me to go this evening?”
“Yes, if you would. Now,” Weston emphasized. And then he confided, “I have this dreadful feeling that every moment matters.”
Russell thought of telling the king that he had no need to worry. That Reginald was just being Reginald, shallow and thoughtless and self-involved. That he was most likely in some estate, sleeping off a drinking spree, or availing himself of any one of a number of willing women who wanted to be able to boast to their friends that they had slept with an authentic prince.
But in the end, he decided that perhaps discretion was the better road to take. So he bowed and withdrew. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Russell sighed, relieved to have an excuse to go home and change out of the tuxedo that fit him like a dark glove. He didn’t care that he looked good in it, it was stiff and uncomfortable. He’d never liked formal attire. His rank in life called for it, so he put up with it when it was called for, but he was far happier wearing jeans and a sweater. He had the soul of a commoner, his father used to chide him. He suspected that his father was right.
As he turned the corner on his way out of the palace, he almost walked directly into Amelia. The unexpected contact was quick and sharp, as were the pins and needles that shot all through his body.
Without thinking, he’d reached to grab for her, to steady her in case she was going to fall. Reflexes had him doing it even before he realized who it was that he had bumped into, although his body immediately recognized the familiar feel of the impact. All it took, he thought, was once, and the feel of her body had been indelibly pressed onto the pages of his memory.
God, but he was waxing poetic. At another time, it would have been enough to turn his own stomach. Was this what love did to you? Turned you into someone you wouldn’t normally associate with if you had a choice? He had no answer to that. No answer to anything, except that he was being turned inside out.
Did it get better with time? He could only fervently hope so.
But something told him that he was hoping in vain.
Attempting to collect himself, he retreated to the shelter of formal decorum and released Amelia.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that, but I was afraid you’d fall. Are you lost, Princess?” He congratulated himself on his formal tone. One never knew who might be listening in the palace and he wanted no hint of a stain upon her reputation.
She raised her eyes to his. “Yes,” she answered quietly, “I’m afraid I am lost.” After a beat, she added, “Very lost.”
As her eyes held his, Russell knew she wasn’t talking about finding her way through the palace.
Chapter 8
He was a man who prided himself on remaining cool under fire. And although standing in the hallway with the Princess of Gastonia could hardly be designated as being under fire, Russell felt himself growing more than a little warm.
As was she, he thought. Her cheeks were flushed and the temperature within the palace was moderate at best. The king liked it brisk. He maintained that it got the blood moving.
His blood, Russell thought, was having no trouble moving. Close proximity to the Princess Amelia had seen to that.
He realized that several seconds had passed and he hadn’t responded to her words yet. His brain felt as if it had been taken hostage. It took effort and concentration in order to free it.
“It’s a little overwhelming until you get used to it,” Russell finally managed. “The palace,” he added in case the princess misunderstood his meaning.
Damn, he sounded like some thick-tongued fool. He’d never possessed Reginald’s silver tongue, but he’d never been a babbling idiot, either. Not until now.
But then, he’d never slept with a princess before. That changed things.
He had to put that behind him, Russell insisted silently. And what’s more, they couldn’t just stand in the corridor, exchanging nonsense like this. There was no telling who might see them and misconstrue things.
Or construe them correctly, he thought ruefully.
The lighting in the corridor was sufficiently bright, yet it paled in comparison to her, he thought. Everything paled in comparison to her.
He felt the long, slender fingers of temptation reaching for him. Threatening to ensnare him again. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t want her; he did. All he could do was struggle for control.
But a man’s control only went so far and not nearly enough time had gone by for the embers of the fire that had been lit between them to have cooled.
Not enough time had gone by for him to have cooled, either.
Just looking at her made him long for a different place, a different time. A different life.
“I just wanted to get a little air.” She touched his arm as she spoke and he could literally feel the heat flaring through him. He did his best to bank it down and ignore it.
“There isn’t much to be had in the corridor,” he pointed out with amusement.
“More than there is in there.” She nodded in the general direction of the ballroom she had just left. “Too many questions, too many people,” she explained and then looked up at him. “Too many doubts.”
He tried to focus on something other than her lips. On something other than the way he wanted to taste them again. “Princess—”
Second-guessing his response, she held up her hand to stop him.
