A Royal Wedding

by Trish Morey / Caitlin Crews / Nina Harrington / Raye Morgan

  She was defying him and she was going to go on defying him. What was he going to do about it? Actually, the answer to that terrified her. He was the scariest man she knew. And yet her soul was filled with a pure, crystal-clear, female anger—the anger of a woman who felt she deserved a little more attention than she had been getting. If he thought he was going to start shooting orders at her and having people confined to their quarters and things like that, he could think again. Those tactics weren’t going to make her change her mind. This wasn’t the old dark ages of the royal world any longer. He couldn’t get away with the Anne Boleyn treatment these days. She had a few rights of her own, and he was going to have to listen to her point of view.

  She looked down the couch at where he was sitting. He hadn’t spoken for a long time and he was staring moodily out the darkened window. Dark curls had fallen over his forehead in a very sexy way. He was so handsome. Her anger began to melt away. She knew he was thinking over the situation and that he was trying to decide what to do with her, how to fix this dilemma. She had a sudden surge of sympathy for him.

  “Do you remember how we used to play chess?” she asked him.

  He looked up and met her gaze. Reluctantly, he gave her a half-smile. “Certainly.”

  “And how I used to let you win?” she added mischievously.

  “Let me win?” A look of outrage flashed over his face, and then he laughed. It was the first genuine laugh she’d seen from him, and a bubble of happiness burst in her chest. This was the Prince Andre she remembered.

  Rising, she moved down and sat very close to him.

  “I understand that I’m making waves. I understand that this is a problem that you feel you have to solve. But you know what? You don’t really have to solve it.”

  “No?” He searched her eyes as though looking for a hopeful sign.

  “No. I’m sure one of my cousins from my uncle’s second marriage would be glad to marry him. And that should fulfill …”

  He rose, making a sound of disgust. “Julienne, stop it. Your name is on the treaty. You are the only bride Alphonso will accept. And a marriage between the highest-ranked in our two houses is the only thing the Rubiat will accept. If they don’t see that happen, they’ll feel justified in attacking again.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do they care that much?”

  “Tradition. You can’t fight it. It’s in their blood.”

  She shook her head. “But why do they care so much about Alphonso and me? What do we mean to their lives?”

  “The two of you are nothing. It’s the Houses you represent. The royal families. The myths. And their need for power.”

  She sat very still, thinking that over, wishing she could pull it apart and find a flaw so that she would attack it properly. But very soon she forgot all about that. She was sitting very close to him, her thigh touching his, and little by little that became the whole focus of her mind, her senses, her emotions. She wanted to turn and touch him with her hand. She wanted to press herself to him. She wanted to taste his mouth, breathe his breath, feel his heartbeat against her skin. Her own heart began to pound so loudly she was sure that he must hear it. Her breathing began to pulse with the beat, faster and faster, and she wanted … she wanted …

  He rose, suddenly, and left the room, not saying a word. She turned beet-red where she sat, sure that she’d driven him away with her relentless need for him. It was embarrassing. But it was such a deep part of her she couldn’t really regret it.

  She knew she loved him. She always had. The fact that she could never have him was her own private tragedy. Tears welled in her eyes.

  And then the elevator dinged and she whirled, watching the doors open. In came an enormous rack full of clothes. Her jaw dropped as she watched it arrive.

  “Is this for me?” she asked, stunned.

  The older man who was pushing the rack stopped and leaned around to smile at her. “I don’t know if you remember me, Princess. I’m Rolfo, Prince Andre’s assistant. I want you to call on me if you need anything.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, though she couldn’t take her eyes off the clothes. She went closer, touching one fabric, then another. “What am I to do with all these? I can’t possibly wear them all.”

  “No.” He laughed. “You’re to go through them and pick out the ones that appeal to you. Try them on. And then make a few choices.”

  She looked at him, her eyes wide. This was the most delicious moment she’d had in ages.

  “How many am I to take?” she asked breathlessly.

  “As many as you like, Your Highness.”

  She shook her head. “But I don’t know …”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Take your time, Princess,” Rolfo said in his kindly manner. “The answers will come to you.”

  As she turned to begin sorting through the treasure trove she was overwhelmed. It was really too much. For a moment she couldn’t speak. She’d spent most of the last seven years wearing a crisp white blouse with a plaid skirt. She had no idea where to begin. Reaching out, she touched a white lace blouse, a red velvet skirt, a sky-blue fitted silk sheath, and she sighed.

  Rolfo watched her for a moment with a smile, then he left so discreetly she forgot he’d ever been there.

  Prince Andre reappeared, raising his eyebrows as he surveyed the scene.

  “I see Rolfo has brought you quite a stack of clothes,” he said. “Go ahead and have some fun choosing some things to wear for the next few days. I’ve got a couple more calls to make.”

  He realized that this was only fair. After all, he should have taken care that she’d gotten suitable clothes long ago. She was a princess. It was way past time to put away her schoolgirl clothes.

  From the look on her face, he could see this was something she wasn’t used to. But that didn’t make sense. Why wasn’t she amassing some sort of massive trousseau? She was supposed to be preparing for a wedding. Why wasn’t someone making sure she was going to her groom properly attired?

  With chagrin, he realized he was the one who should have been taking care of making sure that happened. Some guardian he was.

  And yet he knew why he’d been neglecting his duties. The more he thought about her, the more he wanted to think about her—and that was something he had to avoid. He’d stayed away for a reason, and it appeared others had not jumped in to take up the slack as he would have hoped. For a few seconds he indulged in a flash of anger toward his aunt, the Duchess of Fersuit, who lived with them at the castle off and on. Why hadn’t she taken over this task? Just how lonely had Julienne been these last few years? And all because he couldn’t trust himself to be near her.

  But those days were over. He was going to take over this project and get her married, come hell or high water. And once he got through with her she would understand the sort of life she could lead as a princess, as opposed to what it would be like for her if she chose to turn her back on her destiny.

  He watched her look happily through the clothes and only half listened to her chatter as she reacted to each piece, holding one up in front of herself in the mirror, then laughing at the effect. There was no denying it. She was enchanting, and he was tempting fate just having her here.

  But that was just how it had to be. He was strong enough to handle it. Not easy, but possible. He’d been through danger before. He grinned suddenly, laughing at himself and his preposterous comparison of this danger to those more immediate and physically damaging incidents, like being shot at by a sniper and having his car blow up in his face. He could handle one little twenty-one-year-old girl— couldn’t he?

  “Shot through the heart,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

  “I am so in love with all these clothes,” she said, holding up one outfit, and then another. Suddenly her smile dimmed as she had a thought. “Do you always do this?” she asked curiously.

  He looked up, surprised and not sure what she meant. “Do what?” he asked her.

  Sh
e took a deep breath. “Do you always have Rolfo run down and buy clothes for your girlfriends?” she asked, her eyes dark and luminous. And then she said something kind of mean, though it came out of the flash of pain she was feeling. “I suppose you probably have him buy them nightgowns.”

  “My girlfriends don’t wear nightgowns,” he said without thinking, then regretted it as she turned bright red.

  “Oh, Julienne.” He started toward her, ready to take her hands in his, then stopped himself. “That was just a joke. I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t resist when you gave me such a perfect opening.”

  “Okay,” she said, trying hard not to sound a bit shaky.

  He shook his head, looking at her with pure affection. “Julienne, you are just too … too …”

  “Young? Naive? Silly?”

  Actually, he’d been thinking more along the lines of adorable, charming, refreshing, delectable … And now he had to stop, before he said something he would really wish he hadn’t—even in his own head.

  “Never mind,” she said, waving him away. “Go make your phone calls. I’ll be here, having fun.”

  He hesitated. “You won’t make another run for it?” he asked softly.

  She flashed him a quick smile. “Not right now. I’ve got too much to do right here.”

  He grinned and retreated to the bedroom, though he left the door open so that he could keep an eye on her. And when he came back out ten minutes later he found the mood had changed drastically.

  No longer sorting through the rack, she was sitting on the couch, arms folded across her chest.

  “What’s the matter?” he said, startled by the transformation.

  She looked up at him, her gaze cloudy. “I can’t take any of these clothes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She shrugged—all tragedy, all the time. “For one thing, you’re trying to bribe me with them.”

  He stopped in his tracks, looking outraged. “Bribe you? What are you talking about?”

  She looked at him accusingly. “That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? The meal, the dessert, the clothes.”

  She seemed to have a unique gift of finding the exact wording that would make him the angriest. He had to work hard at keeping his fury at bay. Bribe her, indeed!

  “How much of a clothing allowance have I given you over the years?” he asked her carefully.

  “Clothing allowance?” She looked blank. “I never saw any clothing allowance. I just took what you had Mathilda, the housekeeper, get for me. She would go on shopping trips and come back with the ugliest clothes you’ve ever seen.”

  He stared at her, feeling a well of regret growing in the pit of his stomach. She really did have a point, didn’t she?

  “Julienne,” he said softly, “I’m so sorry. I never paid enough attention….”

  “No, no, it was fine.” She shook her head so hard her hair slapped her cheeks. “I had plenty of clothes. And the few times I really needed something special Mathilda found something for me at the Saturday market. Like for Christmas or my birthday.”

  That wasn’t really good enough. She should have had the best. What kind of a jerk was he, anyway?

  “You’ve been the perfect ward,” he said, really angry with himself. “And I’ve been the worst as a guardian. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugged. “Remember those emails I sent you?” she pointed out. “And the letters?”

  He shook his head. “You deserve some clothes. I owe you.”

  She began to put things back on hangers. “No thank you,” she said softly.

  He watched her, frustrated and annoyed—but mostly at himself, not at her. And he wanted her to take some of the clothes. Actually, he wanted a lot of things, but at least that was doable.

  “Are you going to wear your sundress to bed?” he asked archly.

  She looked up at him and made a face. “No.”

  “Then you’re going to have to take something, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she said stoutly, though she was beginning to see his point.

  He was about to make a response, but his mobile rang and he flipped it open impatiently. “Yes?” he said.

  She went on putting the clothes away.

  “Good,” he said to his phone companion. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”

  She stopped, looking at him questioningly as he closed the phone and turned her way.

  He looked at her with a faint, hopeful smile. “I take it you understand you’re going to have to stay here tonight? But don’t worry. In the morning I’ll take you back.”

  She frowned and faced him bravely. “No. I won’t go.”

  His smile faded. “You will go.”

  She shook her head. He searched her eyes.

  “I can read the thoughts whirring in your clever little mind, Julienne. You have plans. But I’m afraid I’m still a step ahead of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Rolfo found your driver. I’ve sent him back to the convent.” He was smiling again. “So I’m afraid any run for the border you might have had in mind will have to be postponed.”

  She looked away, biting her lip. He was right. Without Popov, her plans were down the drain. Now what was she going to do?

  “Sorry about that,” he added, and she felt a shiver of outrage at his attitude. He could at least try to understand her point of view. But she had to admit his taunting tone put a different light on things. And now she was going to need some clothes, just to survive.

  But only a few. Looking back at the rack, she began to pick through all the things she’d loved at first sight, rejecting one after another and reaching for some simpler items—a pair of jeans, a jersey pullover, and of course a basic nightgown. It was time to have a more honest romance with fashion.

  Andre showed her the room she could use for the night. It was fairly plain, but the queen-sized bed looked like luxury to a young woman who was used to the thin, firm sleeping arrangements at the convent.

  He looked at her thoughtfully as she stowed her new clothes away in a drawer in the bureau.

  “We really should have a chaperone,” he noted, almost to himself.

  She thought he was nuts. “Of course,” she responded with a hint of sarcasm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with mock innocence. “Maybe you can call one of your lady-friends from the casino? I’m sure either one would be happy to come and be my pal for the evening.”

  He knew she was needling him, but he grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I see. Perfect companions for you, but not for me.”

  “Exactly.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you have staff with you?”

  “No. I prefer to be alone.”

  “But …”

  “I have Rolfo, my valet, and a couple of bodyguards available at a moment’s notice. But they are very discreet. You won’t even know it when you see them.” He hesitated over the term valet. After all, Rolfo was a lot more than that to him. Still, that wasn’t something he could explain to her right now.

  “They tell me you spend a lot of time gracing the pages of the tabloids. But, since I’m not allowed to read the papers until they’re censored, I don’t know that first-hand.”

  His mouth twisted. What could he say? He was perfectly happy that someone was keeping his lurid image and all the make-believe stories away from her. It was all garbage anyway.

  “Let’s talk about your wedding,” Andre said suddenly.

  “It’s your wedding,” she responded crisply, rising and going to the expanse of glass overlooking the lake. The lights of the city were reflected in the inky black water. “You’re the one who planned it.”

  “Most women love to talk about weddings,” he said, slightly exasperated. “Why don’t you want to talk about yours?”

  Turning to face him, she put her hands on her hips. “I’m not having a wedding, Andre. I don’t want to marry Alphonso.”

  “Prince Alphonso,” he corrected sh
arply.

  “Prince Alphonso,” she repeated dutifully. “Or, as I prefer to call him, Prince Dweeb.”

  He frowned. “Enough of that. He’s a perfectly decent and respectable young man.”

  “That may be, but I don’t love him.”

  “Love?”

  He had to bite back his original response. She was still so young. She had no idea how naive she sounded. Love had nothing to do with this. He searched her wide, innocent eyes, wondering how to explain that to her.

  “No one is asking you to love him,” he said carefully at last. “But you have to marry him. Everyone expects it. The two of you were betrothed years ago. It’s too late to change your mind. If you two don’t marry, all hell will break loose.” He shook his head impatiently. “The wedding will go forward as planned.”

  He waited for anger, or at least tears. That was the way most of the women of his acquaintance usually fought their battles. But Julienne was gazing at him levelly, as though searching for the chink in his armor, the weak spot she could use in her attack. Walking over to the couch, she flounced down not far from him.

  “Just how well do you know Alphonso?” she asked him at last.

  He blinked at her, nonplussed. “I know his mother.”

  “There you go. You don’t know him at all, do you?”

  “I’ve seen him. I’ve met him.” He avoided her gaze. Actually, now that he thought about it, he knew where she was coming from. The young man had been no paragon of manliness the last time they’d been together. But he was young. He would grow into his role quickly enough. He turned back and looked at her.

  “But, Julienne, that isn’t the point. It doesn’t matter what Alphonso is like. He’s a symbol.”

  “I’m supposed to be satisfied marrying a symbol?” She threw out both hands. “That’s it? That’s my life?”

  “You think I don’t understand what you’re going through? Am I not royal? “

  “Yes, but you … you …”

  “I have to abide by the rules and the responsibilities just like you do.”

  She shook her head, looking at him rebelliously. “But it seems like you like it.”