How to Love a Princess

by Claire Robyns

  “Everything looks perfect,” he agreed, pushing away from the door to come inside the room. “To think I once accepted that you’d run our home into chaos and here you are, running an entire castle.”

  “Organisation and giving orders is a far cry from cracking an egg,” she responded, suddenly needing to know that he remembered every little thing about that day, demanding validation for the way he’d bared her nerves earlier.

  He did. She saw it in the way he quickly averted his eyes. The hardening of his jaw. She was at once ashamed of provoking the memory.

  Thankfully, he recovered almost at once. His gaze had settled on the table and he took his cue from there. “Where did you get fresh flowers from at this time of year?”

  “They were flown in from South Africa last night.” She backed into a cabinet as he changed direction and came toward her. “Sophia, Jonnal, see if Claustaud needs you in the kitchen,” she said, convinced there was about to be another outburst similar to the one at the stream.

  They quickly scuttled from the room and then there was just Nicolas and herself. He stopped a breath away, searching her face.

  “Have you come to accuse me of something else?” Catherine hissed into the tension. It didn’t help knowing that Nicolas had every right to his anger while she had none. She was responsible for his misery, while fate was responsible for hers.

  “Not at all,” he said, his tone conciliatory. “I was thinking of your mother on my walk and something came to mind.”

  His easy dismissal of their earlier argument brought a flush of heat to her cheeks, but she was determined to take a leaf from his book. “I’ll do anything to help.”

  “Is there anything specific that only your mother eats or drinks? Prescribed medicine or pills? Something she might have digested regularly before she took ill?”

  She started to shake her head on a frown, then remembered. “Hormone tablets. But she’s been taking them for years.”

  “Good. That’s definitely worth a look.”

  Her frown returned. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Poison,” Nicolas said grimly. “Where would I find these hormone tablets?”

  “In her medicine cabinet. In the bathroom leading off her—” He was already walking away even as she finished, “—room.” Catherine raced after him. “Surely you don’t think her pills are the poison.”

  Nicolas glanced her way without breaking his stride. “Something could have been injected into the pills.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. “Are you telling me that someone in the castle has done this?”

  He went rigid at her touch. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Catherine.” His eyes fixed on her hand and stayed there until she slid it from his arm. “We don’t know anything yet, but I’m keen to take a close look at those pills.”

  He continued walking and this time she let him go, still burning from his rejection. You’re getting ahead of yourself, Catherine. Oh, she knew exactly what he’d meant with that double entendré. Damn the arrogant man. He’d grabbed her down by the stream. If he carried on this way, she’d soon forget what she loved so much about him.

  Which wouldn’t be all bad, she told herself, trying for cheerful optimism. She failed. She didn’t want to stop loving Nicolas. She didn’t want to let him go from her heart.

  “Dammit all,” she exclaimed aloud to the empty hall. She was just stubborn enough to spend the rest of her life mourning a love lost rather than give him up from her heart. What was the matter with her?

  “Princess Amelia,” Serge called, slipping into the hall from a side door and hurrying closer. “I’ve received a call from the limousine. Master Geoffrey has arrived and they’re leaving the landing strip now.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Catherine threw her hands up in the air, drawing a curious frown from Serge who was not accustomed to seeing the royal princess lose her cool in public.

  Catherine hadn’t just lost her cool, she was hot enough to caramelise the volcano that was a mix of Nicolas’s tepid disdain and her own lost cause. “Put Geoffrey in the Freesia room and inform him that I’m indisposed for the afternoon. I’ll see him at the supper this evening.”

  She didn’t dare face Geoffrey in her current scathing mood.

  3

  Nicolas stood in the shadows at the bottom of the stairway, the breath knocked out from him as he watched Catherine descend.

  Her dress was silk, a shimmering blue that caught the fire in her eyes. The cut was plain, a modest neckline with spaghetti straps, the rest caressed her figure all the way down to the toes of her high-heeled sandals. The effect was astounding and it was her curves that did all the work. The seductive swell of breasts, narrow waist and slender flare of hips, and then there were those splendidly long legs. The silk embraced her thighs with every step, teasing his throat dry.

  Her hair was unadorned and hung straight down her cheeks, the feathered edges reaching just below her breasts. As enticing a picture as she made, there was more. Her smile. Warm and wide and genuine, tipped at the sides with a hint of flirty mischief. The sparkle reflected in her eyes.

  “Geoffrey,” she called, holding out her arms as she took the last step.

  Startled, Nicolas spun about to see a well dressed, reasonably attractive blond man come from seemingly nowhere to take her hands in his and drop a kiss on either cheek. Who the hell is Geoffrey?

  “Catherine,” the man returned, standing back to admire her. “You are more beautiful than ever.”

  That he’d used her second name, Catherine instead of Amelia, was a red flag to Nicolas’s deteriorating mood. He’d quickly picked up that she let few in on her preference for her second name. In her very public life, it was a way, he realised, for Catherine to bind herself to a handful of intimate friends.

  And then there was that smile, the charging bull.

  Catherine took her hands back and gave a sultry laugh. “Charming as always, Geoffrey darling. Come, let’s find you a glass of champagne.”

  She tucked her hand into his arm, leaving Nicolas to stare after with a heavy scowl.

  “The others won’t be here for a while,” she was saying as they disappeared through a set of double doors thrown wide open for the evening.

  Nicolas tried to tell himself that she was hosting an official dinner. In all likelihood, Geoffrey was some or other dignitary that had to be entertained and charmed. Only, Geoffrey didn’t look like any ambassador he’d ever seen. The man was too young. Too smooth. Besides, his own presence was all the proof needed that not all the guests tonight were work related.

  “I don’t have to stay around to witness this,” Nicolas muttered, leaving his hiding place to go back up the stairs.

  “Nicolas, I almost didn’t recognise you in that suit.”

  One foot on the first step, Nicolas glanced over his shoulder to glare at Gascon. He did manage to refrain from saying that he wished the man hadn’t recognised or spoken to him at all. Instead, he said coolly, “Good evening, Gascon. I suppose I should know by now that wherever Catherine goes, you’re no more than a pace behind.”

  Gascon grinned at him. “That is the duty of a bodyguard.”

  “Be my guest.” Nicolas waved a hand at the doorway Catherine had passed through.

  “You were about to join us, weren’t you?” Gascon raised a brow that Nicolas found impossible to ignore.

  He brought his foot down from the step and turned about. “Of course. Where else would I be going trussed up like a penguin?”

  Gascon chuckled.

  “I wouldn’t have thought the hired help were invited to state dinners,” Nicolas commented dryly as they walked to the double doors.

  “I’m not. Don’t worry, once the official guests arrive, you’ll be pleased to see me make myself scarce.”

  “Scarce to the eye, maybe, but I doubt you’ll be far away.”

  Once again, Gascon chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He liked this Nicolas and he en
joyed matching wits with him in the truce of baiting each other just short of drawing blood that they’d arrived at during the weeks. “Afraid I’ll be skulking in the shadows?”

  Nicolas’s smile hardened at the reference to his own reticence. Gascon was like the proverbial chameleon that could blend into a wall, seeing and hearing all without one knowing he was there. A commendable quality for a body guard, but Nicolas would never forgive the man for plucking Catherine from his home; the chameleon had unrolled his tongue to snatch a tasty fly from the bosom of its family.

  They entered the receiving room and Gascon’s casual stroll toward the intimate pair by the fireplace brought home the unhappy confirmation that Geoffrey was pleasure and not official. He shouldn’t care, of course. But no matter what he said or did, what he wanted for himself or not, it would never be easy seeing Catherine’s affections turned to another man.

  “Nicolas,” Catherine drew him in with that warm smile as he approached. “Meet Geoffrey Talacon, a close family friend. Geoffrey, this is Nicolas Vecca, the brilliant doctor attending my mother.”

  And ex fiancé, Nicolas added grimly to himself. He shook the man’s outreached hand quickly, then stood aside.

  “I’ve heard of you,” Geoffrey said with a congenial smile. “Then again, who hasn’t? We’re grateful for your help and time.”

  Nicolas didn’t like that royal we. He nodded abruptly and, when a server came up to him bearing a tray of crystal chutes filled with bubbling champagne, he asked him, “Any chance of a whiskey?”

  “It’s okay, Alfred,” Catherine intervened. “I’ll show Dr. Vecca the bar and he can select his favourite brand.”

  Nicolas fell in line with her as she crossed the room, her heels clicking on the polished oak floorboards. “Should I be insulted that you’ve forgotten already?”

  She glanced at him, a sparkle in her blue eyes, but said nothing as she pushed a button on a wall panelled with the same oak as the floor. The wall slid apart on a thin railing cut into the floorboards to reveal a built-in bar that stretched the width of the room.

  “Four years is a long time,” she said, going behind the bar. She dipped out of sight, then came up with a bottle of the eighty-year-old single malt he favoured. “Some things, however, are impossible to forget.”

  Content to be served, Nicolas hitched a leg over a nearby stool and rested his elbows on the counter. He watched her spin about and reach up for a tumbler, agreeing whole-heartedly with her sentiments. Some things were impossible to forget.

  The wave of her auburn hair falling down her back.

  The touch of her slender back beneath his fingertips.

  He wasn’t just remembering. He was feeling the satin softness of her skin, reliving the trembling passion he’d awakened in her, that she’d awakened in him. He took a deep breath as she turned about to slide the heavy crystal tumbler over the counter with delicate, slim fingers.

  “Two cubes of ice,” she murmured. “Three fingers of whiskey.”

  His gaze settled on her lips as she described what she was doing. Soft, firm, delectable. How was it possible to have had so much and lost it all so quickly? For one insane second, he almost wished that she had died. Because every time he was in her presence, he felt as if he were losing her anew.

  She lifted the tumbler, attracting his gaze to the expensive clear-cut glass and golden liquid. “One gentle swirl.” With a soft laugh, she held it out to him.

  Forcing away his dark musings, stamping out the nostalgia that swamped him, Nicolas grinned and met her eyes. “If the kingdom of Ophella ever collapses, at least you have a promising career as a bartender.”

  “You taught me well,” Catherine responded lightly. Their fingers brushed as he took the offered glass and shot a warm tingle up her arm. She lost her smile in his dark, lingering gaze. “Nicolas.”

  “Hmmm?” He put the tumbler to his lips and took a shallow sip, watching her all the while over the glass rim.

  He looked so darkly handsome. His face was shadowed in the angles and planes of his strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. His eyes held a touch of vulnerability, softened to the edge of anger and disdain she’d come to accept as inevitable.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, horrified that she’d almost blurted out what was in her heart. She tried to summon up her earlier anger, but she’d already had the argument and Nicolas won hands down. Her quick temper might flare now and again, but Nicolas had just cause for everything he said and did and she was fair enough to admit it each time the stew of guilt, rejection and despair settled. “Nothing. We should get back to the others.”

  As she turned, he caught her wrist. He set his glass down on the counter to take both her hands in his. When he spoke, his voice rumbled the air between them. “You look very beautiful tonight, Catherine.”

  “So do you,” she whispered, barely able to breathe. “Handsome, I mean, you look very handsome tonight.”

  “Then we’ll make a perfect couple.”

  Her heart buckled. Even as she opened her mouth to protest, he released her, slid from the stool as he lifted his glass and walked back to the fireplace. Leaving her to stare after. They’d never be a couple again. Not even for one night. She couldn’t have it and he didn’t want it.

  What game was he playing? Her eyes turned to the bottle of whiskey, knowing a sudden urge to down a couple of mouthfuls straight from the bottle for courage.

  And then she laughed. At herself. At this ridiculous situation. At this rate, she was the one on the path to self-destruction. She had to focus on the future. On her destiny.

  Bracing her shoulders, Catherine left the bottle out for him and slipped from behind the bar counter. By the time she reached the fireplace, her smile was intact. A genuine smile that came from her heart and reached her eyes. After all, she’d had so much practice, so many years of pretending that everything was all right, that she was content and happy with this life, that it was as close as real to the genuine thing. And if she forgot for a moment or two… She shrugged a shoulder and smiled a little harder.

  “Geoffrey was just telling us about his skiing weekend in Austria,” Gascon said as she joined them. “They were caught in a blizzard and forced to take refuge in a cabin they came across. Luckily, they had a convenient supply of alcohol in their backpacks. To keep them warm and stave off a chilly death, naturally.”

  The caustic bite in his tongue was completely lost on Geoffrey, who laughed and turned to Catherine. “Good God, we had an amazing time. You should have been with us. Promise you’ll come sailing with us in Barbados next weekend?”

  “I wish I could,” Catherine said, inserting a wealth of warmth and intent into her words. “Unfortunately, with my mother’s illness…”

  Not to mention a little country that needed to be run, she thought dryly. Then again, his single-minded pursuit of pleasure was his one redeeming quality as far as her needs went. The second son of a second son of an American billionaire, Geoffrey had no ambition, no arrogance, no backbone, no desire at all to do anything other than sail his yachts and party through the night.

  Nicolas caught her eye and raised an arrogant brow. She matched it, aware that he was judging her by the friends she kept and reminding herself how very irrelevant his opinion should be.

  “The official guests will be here shortly,” she told Gascon. “I’m going to freshen up.”

  Once she was safely inside the guest bathroom on the ground level, she fisted her hands at her sides and sucked in a deep breath.

  Of course Nicolas judged her. He probably believed she’d given up the domestic bliss he’d offered in return for highlife socialising with the likes of Geoffrey.

  What did it matter? What did it matter what he thought of her? Her tummy clenched and she almost heaved. It mattered so very much.

  She crossed to one of the gilt framed puffed chairs on legs that felt disconnected from her body and made herself sit down and relax, flexing the cramps in her fingers and taking long, st
eady breaths. Her eye caught the clock on the wall and she saw that time was running out. She looked about her and laughed at her silliness. If anyone could see her now, Princess Amelia Catherine Theresa de’Ariggo, locked up in a bathroom and too scared to go back out.

  She jumped up and smoothed her hands down her thighs. Nicolas didn’t make her feel twenty-one again. He made her feel fourteen.

  At least she was laughing, even if it was at herself, most of her composure restored. She let herself out of the bathroom and, as she turned from closing the door, walked straight into hard chest. Before she looked up, she knew. She knew his scent. Her body had its unique way of reacting to his presence. Tingles, tremors and shivers.

  He backed her up against the door, raising one arm above her to put his hand to the wall. His knuckles grazed underside her chin, then nudged it higher until she was looking into his eyes.

  “What—what are you doing?” she stammered. She hated it when he did this. She swore he knew exactly how devastatingly he affected her, erased her mind and nullified her convictions. The barest hint of intimacy had the power to slam her straight back into the past.

  He brought his head down, his lips a breath away from hers. His brown eyes were intense, burning a heat into her soul. “You made a pact with the devil four years ago,” he murmured, his fingers leaving her chin to stroke fire down the sensitive skin of her throat. “Maybe I’ve come to claim my due.”

  She swallowed hard and tried to laugh, tried to pretend that everything was normal and her knees weren’t instantly hollow. “Do you have to be so dramatic?”

  “You bring out the best—” His thumb pad paused at the base of her throat, applying a gentle pressure, “—and worst in me, dolce cuore.”

  “Nicolas—”

  “Catherine,” he interrupted in that deep baritone. His thumb was moving again, across her collarbone, edging beneath the strap of her dress, tugging it along as he moved to the curve of her shoulder. “You’re trembling. You’re not afraid of me, surely?”