by Janet Gover
Tradition had dictated the school he went to and his military service. There, at least, he’d found his own place. No – not found … he’d earned his place in the military. He’d felt like he’d belonged … right up until the terrible day that had changed everything.
Nick felt the darkness hovering at his shoulder, and he put up his own carefully constructed barrier. He would not allow his memories to darken this place that Lauren filled with light. Very few people knew the real story behind his exit from the military. Most thought he’d just moved to a ceremonial role. He would not disrespect the memories of his fallen comrades or the uniform they had all worn so proudly by having those events bandied about in public. Let them think what they wished. His family and those close to him knew the truth; he didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion.
Looking at Lauren, he wondered briefly if that was still true.
Most unusually for him, Nicolas was uncertain of what to do next. Normally there were rules for him to obey – or to deliberately break. But this time he was disadvantaged by his desire not to disturb Lauren. Instead, he contented himself with watching as her hand moved over the sketch pad with assurance and passion. Was she drawing him? Unable to contain his curiosity, the prince moved towards her.
‘Oh!’ Lauren jumped to her feet, brushing her hair away with one charcoal-stained hand. ‘You startled me. You should have …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Knocked? In my own apartments?’ Remarkable, Nicolas thought, how easily she blushed, and how lovely she looked as she did. ‘Actually, I did knock. You didn’t hear me.’ He smiled to take any sting out of his words. ‘I see you’ve already started working.’
He walked to the wooden table, eager to see her drawing. Courtauld’s face stared up at him from the sketch pad.
For the second time in just a few minutes, Nicolas found himself taken aback. All that devotion and passion hadn’t been for him! Slowly he bent to retrieve one of the crumpled pieces of paper from the floor. He smoothed it across the tabletop. This page showed a mounted figure in a uniform, which was instantly recognisable as the one he’d worn on parade earlier in the day. The horse was even recognisable as his. The face of the rider, however, was blank.
A second rejected sketch proved to be a rough outline of the palace courtyard, with a soldier holding a horse – his horse. This soldier had a face, carefully and cleverly drawn. Nicolas wasn’t willing to look any further.
‘So, you can draw my servant, and my horse. But you can’t draw me?’
* * *
Lauren wished the floor would open and swallow her. How could she answer an accusation that was essentially true? She had started out meaning to sketch the prince. She had even managed to outline his body. But each time she tried to draw his face, her hand faltered. Her talent, which had served her so well in the past, had failed for the first time, as the woman behind the artist exerted herself. Each time she tried to focus on light and shade or form and composition, a pair of deep blue eyes had returned to haunt her. The same eyes that were now staring at her demanding an answer.
Unable to defend herself, Lauren chose the only other option. Attack.
‘That’s a terrible word to use.’
‘What … draw?’
‘No.’ Lauren shook her head in disgust. ‘Servant. That belongs in a past century. He’s not a servant, he’s an employee and a human being, and deserves to be treated like one – with respect.’
‘You are right,’ he replied with a calm voice, ‘in all except one thing. If you ask Courtauld, I’m sure he would say that he is proud to serve –’ the word serve was slightly emphasised ‘– the House of Verbier d’Arennes.’
Lauren almost winced as her argument crashed down around her. Prince Nicolas had chosen the exact words Courtauld himself had used just yesterday.
‘He may serve, but that doesn’t make him a lesser human being. Those who are served –’ Lauren made certain he heard the emphasis ‘– have a responsibility to remember that, and to treat those who serve with due respect.’
Feeling that she had somehow lost an argument, Lauren turned away from Prince Nicolas and his unsettling gaze. She carefully removed the sketch of the prince’s equerry from her pad. Having nowhere else to put it, she laid it with great care on a clear corner of the worktable.
‘I’m going to need some sort of board, to display the sketches,’ she said abruptly, hoping a change of subject might break the tension that filled the room. ‘I do a lot of sketching when I’m preparing a portrait, and I like to have them where I can see them.’
‘Of course. I’ll ask Courtauld to arrange it today.’
‘Thank you.’ Lauren felt stronger now the topic was her undisputed area. Eager to maintain her sense of control, she turned back to the prince. ‘We also should discuss the portrait. We need to arrange sittings, and talk about the type of portrait you might want.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He nodded in acquiescence. ‘As my official duties allow, I am at your command.’
Lauren caught the lift in his voice and the glint in his blue eyes. He was laughing at her!
‘But first,’ Prince Nicolas continued, before she could think of a suitable retort, ‘I was going to suggest lunch. That is, if artists and their subjects are permitted to eat.’
She was hungry. Lauren realized it the moment the word lunch fell from those slightly mocking lips. An early morning tub of yoghurt wasn’t enough sustenance for the sort of day she was having. Lauren suddenly became aware of another rather pressing need. She would have to ask … Her face felt flushed at the mere thought.
‘Lunch is a good idea …’ She wasn’t really thinking about food. How could she broach that subject? Especially with a prince.
‘Excellent.’ Prince Nicolas seemed not to notice her growing discomfort. ‘I was going to send for something, but as you dislike being served, perhaps you would prefer the staff mess?’
‘Yes, yes. That would be fine …’ She was too concerned with other needs to take umbrage at his jibe.
‘If you would like to refresh yourself first,’ the prince continued smoothly, ‘through the door. The second on the left.’
‘Oh.’ Lauren blushed. Had she been that obvious?
‘One of the disadvantages of living in a palace –’ he grinned as he spoke ‘– is that most of them were built before indoor plumbing. The facilities can be hard to find, and even the Verbier d’Arennes occasionally need to use the bathroom.’
The words echoed in Lauren’s head as she almost fled the room. The bathroom was exactly where he had indicated, and with relief she shut and locked the door behind her. The bathroom might have been a later innovation in an old building, but it certainly was luxurious. In fact, so luxurious that Lauren couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t the prince’s personal facility. At least the toilet paper wasn’t monogrammed. Lauren didn’t think she could have coped with that.
She washed her hands under taps that looked disturbingly like gold. Running her hands through her hair, Lauren looked at herself in the mirror.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
The face in the mirror stared back impassively.
‘You have got to get a grip on yourself. Just because he’s a prince, doesn’t mean you should be intimidated by him. Remember – he asked for you. He wouldn’t have done that if he knew about your father and jail and everything.’
Her reflection still looked unconvinced. Quickly she ran her fingers through her blue and white hair, remembering his words. The unusual colour really did highlight her eyes. If he noticed her eyes, that sort of put them on an even footing, because she certainly noticed his. When he looked at her, she felt a tiny disconcerting frisson.
‘Stop it,’ she told the face in the mirror. ‘You’ve got a lot riding on this. Stop thinking like some silly schoolgirl, and start thinking like an artist.’
That helped. As long as she didn’t think about the look on her subject’s face when he saw her sketch of someone e
lse. She would soon rectify that. This very afternoon she would do a sketch of him, just to smooth things over. Once that was displayed on her notice board, their relationship could settle into a steady professional pattern.
‘I’ll paint that face,’ she told the girl in the mirror, ‘not daydream about it!’
Her resolve thus strengthened, she unlocked the door.
* * *
Their entry into the room caused a moment’s surprised silence, followed immediately by a scraping of chairs as people leaped to their feet. Prince Nicolas raised one hand and shook his head, indicating the people should resume both their seats and their meals. They did, but it was obvious even to Lauren that the atmosphere in the room had changed.
‘You don’t normally eat here, do you?’ she couldn’t help but ask.
‘Not as a habit, no.’
‘Have you ever eaten here?’
‘No.’
That explained the whispered conversations, and the covert glances being thrown their way. The mess hall was just that – a hall. Tables filled the bulk of it, while at one end a collection of refrigerators and benches and serve-yourself hot plates made it clear that table service was not an option. The diners were a mixed crowd. Palace secretaries shared their meals with soldiers. Books and papers on some tables showed that working lunches were underway. At one end, a couple of gardeners were eating home-made sandwiches from plastic lunch boxes. All shared the same expression of utter surprise as they resumed their meals.
A woman hastened towards them. Looking flustered, she dropped a quick and inexpert curtsey.
‘You Royal Highness. We didn’t expect …’
‘That’s fine. Neither did I,’ Prince Nicolas assured her. ‘No formality, please. We’re simply looking for a table, and something to eat.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ The woman cast a curious glance at Lauren, then looked around. ‘If you would wait just a moment, sir, I’ll have the staff prepare a table.’
‘No. That’s not necessary,’ Lauren cut in. ‘Any table will be fine. How about that one?’ She indicated an unoccupied table in a quiet corner. It was identical to the metal tables used by the other diners.
‘Ah … yes. Of course.’ The woman looked at Prince Nicolas for approval. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
‘And,’ Lauren continued firmly, ‘there is no need to concern yourself with a tablecloth or any of the trimmings. We are not looking for anything more than anyone else gets.’
The woman looked shocked. She acquiesced to Lauren’s request, but only after another glance at the prince.
In a few short moments they were sitting at the table, the woman hovering anxiously nearby. Ignoring the royal personage at her side, Lauren proceeded to order a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, a slice of carrot cake and a chocolate milkshake. The woman made no notes, she simply nodded and turned to Prince Nicolas.
‘Your Royal Highness?’
‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Certainly.’ The woman backed away from the table, leaving the impression of a curtsey, even though she hadn’t actually bent her knees.
Lauren looked at the prince in surprise.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t take you for a ham and cheese sandwich kind of person.’
‘Really? What did you think I ate for lunch? Truffles? Roasted swan? Jellied larks’ tongues?’
Lauren opened her mouth to reply but said nothing at all. Because he was right. Well, not about the larks’ tongues, but certainly she had imagined a far more extravagant meal. But then, she had never imagined sharing lunch with the notorious ‘playboy prince’ on a bare table and metal chairs in a staff mess.
‘Why call this a mess?’ Lauren groped for a safe question.
‘Because it’s run by the army’s catering corps.’
‘I see.’ She was tempted to ask why, but decided she needed to maintain some sense of control over both the conversation, and her situation. Keep it professional, she told herself.
‘You wanted to talk about the portrait,’ Prince Nicolas said, leaning slightly forward, his eyes fixed intently on Lauren’s face. ‘So, what do you want of me?’
What did she want of him? Well, mostly she wanted him not to be quite so close or quite so handsome, and most definitely she wanted him to stop making her heart beat in such a strange way.
‘I need to spend some time observing you in your daily routine,’ she said. ‘If it’s possible, I’d like to attend some of your official engagements.’
‘You are most welcome to do that.’
‘And …’ Lauren paused, aware that her next request might be much less welcome. ‘I need to see you outside your official role. I need to understand my subjects’ personalities and how they think. What makes them tick. If I’m to do a good portrait, I need to get close to … you.’
‘How close?’ His voice was low, almost flirtatious.
Lauren found herself leaning towards him, responding in a purely female way to the animal magnetism. She suddenly understood why so many supermodels and society girls fell so easily into his arms and his bed. To be the object of this man’s attention was to be the most desirable and beautiful woman in the world.
‘Excuse me,’ an embarrassed voice came between them. ‘Your lunch, sir.’
Prince Nicolas didn’t so much as flinch. He leaned back. ‘Thank you,’ he said without looking at whoever served the meal.
Lauren was pleased at the excuse to look away. She nodded her thanks at the waiter who placed her sandwich in front of her. His face remained carefully blank as he unloaded cake and chocolate milkshakes from a small trolley.
‘Will there be anything else?’ The question was directed at the prince, but it was Lauren who replied.
‘No. Thank you.’
With a half bow, the waiter backed away. Lauren looked down at her plate, and giggled. ‘That has to be the fanciest ham and cheese sandwich I’ve ever seen.’
Prince Nicolas looked down at the plate, with its blinding-white embossed napkin cradling a toasted sandwich that looked as if every crumb had been individually toasted and positioned for maximum effect. An artistic garnish edged the plate, and the silverware was ornate.
‘Do you think it will taste as good as it looks?’ Lauren giggled a second time, hating both the sound and the nervousness that prompted it. Quickly she raised her glass and took a deep draught of the rich chocolate milk. If she giggled again she would just die! She had to find a safe subject. Something that didn’t involve disturbing thoughts of getting close to the man sitting opposite her regarding her with almost predatory eyes.
‘Can you tell me some of the official events you’ve got scheduled for the next few days?’
‘Let me see …’ The prince picked up his sandwich, seeming to see nothing unusual in it. He took a bite, and chewed while he considered his reply. ‘This afternoon, I’m meeting with a delegation from the Society of Genealogists. Afterwards, I shall attend Her Majesty as she receives a visit from a newly appointed ambassador …’
The rest of the meal passed in a whirl of discussions about official engagements and which of these Lauren could attend on short notice. She was certain none of the information would remain in her curiously addled brain, but that didn’t matter. Some efficient palace functionary would no doubt steer her in the right direction. At least a conversation about a meeting of the Royal Hospital Board seemed safe.
Lauren was running out of chocolate milk and carrot cake when she happened to glance at the doorway. Courtauld was standing there, staring at Lauren and her companion. He looked shocked and began to stride in a determined fashion across the room.
Lauren realised that she had only a few more moments alone with Nicolas, and there was one more thing she had to ask.
‘Why me?’
‘Sorry?’ The prince seemed unaware of his approaching servant.
‘Why did you pick me to paint this portrait?’
The prince hesitated.
‘And don’t tell me you’ve seen my paintings and like them.’ Lauren wanted to stop him before he could speak the lie. ‘I know you haven’t.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Prince Nicolas looked slightly abashed, then thoughtful. ‘If you study the royal collection you’ll find British artists, and French and Dutch and Italian. But none of our own artists have ever painted a royal portrait. I thought it was time one did. I made some phone calls, and your name was mentioned.’
‘So you didn’t do it just to annoy the curator?’
‘No.’ A slow grin spread across the handsome face. ‘Well, perhaps a little. Now that we’ve met, I feel confident in my choice.’
Lauren was afraid to ask whether his confidence was in her ability to paint, or her ability to annoy the curator.
Chapter Three
Nicolas stood gazing out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Below he could see the last of the genealogists’ delegation filing through the ornate palace gates. They were talking among themselves and he could almost guess what they were saying after their meeting had been cut short by a prince who seemed to care little about them or their work. At best, they’d be disappointed. At worst, they’d be annoyed. He couldn’t really blame them. His mind had not been on that meeting.
As he turned away from the window, his eyes fell on the simple white envelope on his desk. The letter inside that envelope had haunted him since he’d read it this morning, leaving him unable to engage with the genealogists or anyone else for that matter.
He didn’t have to open it and read it again. Every word of it was engraved in his mind. It was from the mother of two small children. The widow of a man who had served under his command in the army. A man who had died far too young, in a country too far from his home and the people he loved. She had written to say thank you to him for attending a memorial service at which her fallen husband had been among those honoured for their sacrifice. She wrote that her husband had often spoken to her of his admiration for Nicolas, and his pride and honour to be serving in the same regiment.