Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  As she moved through the room with Prince Nicolas at her side, Lauren was aware of people looking their way, wondering who she was. At first the attention unnerved her. Then she began to relax. She was safe on the prince’s arm.

  ‘Your Highness.’ A man approached, paying courtesy to the prince, but he was looking at Lauren.

  ‘Minister.’ Prince Nicolas acknowledged the man and guided Lauren on past him.

  ‘Good Evening, Prince Nicolas.’

  Lauren recognised the speaker: a leading churchman.

  ‘Good evening, Archbishop.’

  They moved on.

  ‘Aren’t you going to let anyone talk to me?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he replied. ‘You are far too beautiful to let these rogues talk to you. I plan to keep you to myself.’

  ‘But the Archbishop …’ she protested.

  The prince leaned forward and whispered in her ear, ‘Him most of all.’

  Lauren laughed aloud.

  A few more steps placed them in front of Queen Charlotte. Remembering what she had been so hastily taught, Lauren dropped in a deep curtsey.

  ‘Your Majesty has already met Miss Phelps.’ The prince’s words were formal, but his eyes smiled at Lauren.

  ‘Of course. You look lovely, my dear.’ The Queen turned to the man at her side. ‘Your Excellency, may I present my son, the Prince Nicolas, and the artist who is currently painting his official portrait, Miss Lauren Phelps.’

  The ambassador raised Lauren’s hand and kissed the air a millimetre above her skin. ‘Charmed.’

  ‘Your Excellency.’ Lauren smiled and retrieved her hand.

  The prince nodded at his mother and they moved on. Waiters eased among the crowd, offering champagne in crystal glasses. The prince delayed a waiter long enough to offer Lauren a glass of champagne, taking one for himself too.

  ‘I want to ask you something,’ Lauren said as she was guided through the crowd.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you get your mother to ask me to come tonight?’

  ‘Well, she is the sovereign. By law you aren’t allowed to say no to her.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Lauren said. ‘What would have happened to me if I had said no?’

  ‘As we no longer employ an executioner, I’m not sure what your punishment would be.’ He stopped walking and turned to look into Lauren’s eyes. ‘However, I do know that I would have been very disappointed.’

  Lauren’s breath caught in her throat at the intensity of the prince’s gaze. Before she could respond, a sudden and all too familiar click of a camera sounded close beside her. Lauren started back, fear twisting her face as she looked around for the source of the sound.

  ‘It’s all right.’ The prince put a comforting hand on her arm. He indicated a dinner-suited man standing not far away, a camera in his hand. ‘That is the official royal photographer. He attends all these functions. None of his pictures are released without approval.’

  Lauren forced herself to smile at the photographer. The man glanced at the prince and promptly vanished in response to some unseen signal.

  ‘I wish you could have done the same the other night,’ Lauren said.

  ‘So do I. Come on, let’s get some fresh air.’ The prince opened the French doors leading out onto a terrace.

  They strolled to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the gardens.

  ‘I feel like Cinderella at the ball,’ Lauren said.

  ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to run away from me at midnight.’

  ‘Not in these slippers.’ Lauren lifted the hem of her dress to show a foot clad in an elegant silver sandal with an impossibly high heel. ‘I’d probably break my neck on the marble stairs.’

  ‘That would be tragic.’ The prince raised a hand and ran the tip of his finger in a butterfly caress down Lauren’s neck. Her skin tingled with his touch. His eyes followed his hand, and they too were a caress.

  Lauren felt sure he must hear the thudding of her heart as she moved gently away. She turned to look out over the garden, at once fearful and pleased that he instantly stepped close behind her. She could feel his warm breath on the bare skin of her shoulders.

  ‘The gardens are lovely,’ she said, simply because she needed to speak.

  Of one accord they looked out across the manicured lawns and paths. Here and there couples strolled along the lighted paths. As they watched, one couple left the path and melted into the darkness, their hands already reaching for each other.

  Lauren shivered.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Prince Nicolas asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied.

  Her whole body quivered as he ran his palm up the bare skin of her arm and then gently turned her to face him. His fingertips caressed her cheek as his eyes studied her face as if to imprint it on his mind forever. He cupped her chin in his hand and with infinite tenderness, lowered his lips to hers.

  His lips were firm, yet soft. The kiss was warm but sent a shiver down Lauren’s spine. After a whisper of time, Nicolas broke the embrace to look down at her. Lauren could see nothing but his deep blue eyes as they held hers, seeking her response. Something deep inside Lauren called out to him, and he kissed her again.

  Lauren closed her eyes and gave herself up to the feel of his lips as they moved against her own, caressing and teasing her. He tasted of warm winter nights and symphonies. Lauren felt his arms move around her. In response, her own hands slid around his neck, her fingers reaching into his hair to pull him down to her as the kiss deepened, tongues touching and tantalising. Nicolas pulled her closer, pressing her body against his own. She was lost in his heat and strength.

  After an eternity that was not enough, Nicolas stilled. He lifted his lips from hers, and gently eased the grip of his arms around her body. Lauren wanted to cry with loss as she felt his strong form ease away from her. The world stilled for a long heartbeat as neither of them spoke.

  Then a burst of laughter floated towards them from the direction of the ballroom.

  ‘Perhaps we should go back inside.’ Nicolas offered her his arm. Her fingers were shaking as she laid them on the fabric of his jacket, and felt the warmth emanating from the man within.

  They went back into the palace, but not to the reception. Their steps took them along carpeted corridors, towards more familiar surroundings.

  ‘Won’t they miss you at the reception?’ Lauren asked as they turned yet another corner, and the faint strains of music faded into silence.

  ‘No. They have my mother. I am unnecessary.’

  Lauren stopped walking and turned to look up into the prince’s face. She was about to rebuke him for his remark when she saw something akin to loneliness in the slight frown that creased his forehead and tightened his mouth. She had a sudden understanding of what life must have been for the boy who would always be second. She saw past the handsome officer to a lonely child, who had fallen in love with a painting of a free-spirited young woman who broke free of royal restrictions – if only for a fleeting moment.

  ‘You are very necessary to me.’ Lauren forced a note of humour into her voice. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d be sitting at home eating ice cream and listening to Maria complain about her latest boyfriend.’

  ‘I’m pleased to be of service.’ The prince bowed deeply, acknowledging her attempt to change the mood.

  They entered the long portrait gallery and Lauren smiled with remembrance. ‘You have no idea how nervous I was that first time I walked along here,’ she said.

  ‘That was only a few days ago.’

  ‘I know,’ Lauren said. ‘A lot seems to have happened since then.’

  ‘I hope you don’t regret taking the commission.’

  ‘No,’ Lauren replied honestly. ‘I admit there have been some … moments. But I don’t regret it.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  They walked slowly down the gallery, Prince Nicolas listening as Lauren occasionally remarked on a particular painti
ng. It seemed inevitable that they would return to the alcove where the Princess Sophia leaned against a gate, laughing.

  ‘The woman who stole your heart.’

  ‘My first love,’ the prince said close beside her.

  Was the second word slightly emphasised?

  ‘So – you’ve been unfaithful to her and fallen in love with someone else. Shame.’ Lauren meant the words to be a joke, but they didn’t come out that way.

  ‘Maybe I have.’

  Every fibre of Lauren’s being was tingling with awareness of the tall man standing so close to her in the intimacy of the alcove. Her heart was pounding so loudly, she thought Nicolas must hear it. Her heart was singing, but her mind was trying to force her feet back onto the ground. What had she done?

  To Nicolas, kissing a woman like that was nothing. But for Lauren, that kiss had tilted her whole world, and left her clinging on for dear life. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Nicolas, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. Or not see. Instead she kept her gaze on the painting of a princess and thought about the artist who loved her. Their love ended in sorrow. Was that a warning she should heed?

  She stepped away from the alcove. ‘I am feeling a bit guilty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I haven’t actually started painting you yet.’

  ‘There’s no time limit on this, you know.’

  ‘I know. But I should start soon.’ Lauren was as surprised as the prince at her next words. ‘What about now?’

  ‘Now?’

  She hadn’t meant to suggest it, but now she had, Lauren realised it was a very good idea. This intimacy that was slowly wrapping her in a velvet embrace would be far safer in the context of work.

  ‘Why not now?’ she said. ‘You’ve gone to all the trouble of wearing that dress uniform.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  In just the few days she had been there, Lauren’s studio had taken on the reassuring clutter of artists’ studios everywhere, but the vast expanse of carpet was bare, as was the canvas on the easel. Only the notice board showed any signs of Lauren’s work. Everyone entering the room would be automatically drawn to the notice board, as Lauren and the prince were now. They stopped in front of her latest sketch.

  ‘I’m not really the devil, you know,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I was angry when I drew that.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that night.’

  ‘I’m not. Not really.’ Lauren turned to face the prince. ‘I think it helped me to understand you better.’

  ‘And that helps …?’

  ‘It helps me to paint you. Now, let me see …’ Lauren turned around, all business now. ‘I’ve been thinking about the pose. Do you have any preference?’

  ‘Not that I’ve thought about. Do you have any suggestions?’

  Lauren pointed to the marble fireplace. ‘Go and lean on that. It’s a fairly traditional pose but it’s a good starting point.’

  The prince did as she suggested. Lauren stepped back, her head on one side, and gave directions. ‘Try putting your elbow on the mantel. No. No. That’s wrong. Turn this way a little. Now lean against the wall and cross your arms.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No?’ Prince Nicolas asked.

  ‘No. It’s not right for you.’ Lauren turned slowly, looking around the room but not finding what she sought. ‘I need a chair. That high-backed chair in your office will do, I think.’

  Obediently, the prince went to fetch the chair. As he struggled back through the door, Lauren tried to stop herself laughing. ‘OK. Over there. A bit more to the left. Now, sit on it.’

  The prince raised an eyebrow at the command but did as he was told.

  ‘That’s better. Now, Nicolas— Oh.’ Lauren stopped in mid-sentence. ‘I’m sorry, Your … High …’ She stopped again. ‘What am I supposed to call you? I can’t call you Highness, not if I’m going to paint you.’

  ‘Nicolas is fine. Or Nick.’

  ‘I thought you hated to be called Nick?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mr Courtauld. I don’t think he approves of me.’

  Nicolas chuckled. ‘There are very few people Courtauld approves of, and I’m not one of them. But I think he does like you.’

  ‘The jacket,’ Lauren said, thoughtfully.

  ‘What about the jacket? I thought I looked rather dashing.’

  ‘Oh, you do.’ Lauren thought ‘devastating’ was a better word. ‘But it’s wrong for the portrait. It’s not the real you. Take it off.’

  Nicolas did as Lauren instructed.

  ‘Now, drape it on the corner of the chair.’

  Once Nicolas had resumed his seat, Lauren stood back and took stock. The crisp white dress shirt suited its wearer far more than the uniform jacket. But something was still wrong. Without thinking too much about it, she walked over to Nicolas. She crouched in front of him and started to unbutton the shirt. She stopped at the second button, and smoothed the shirt front. As she did, Lauren felt the curve of the muscles beneath the cotton, and the warmth of him.

  For an instant, the artist in her vanished. She took a long slow breath, inhaling the slight musky smell of the man who had suddenly become so much more than just a subject for her painting. She raised her eyes to his face, so close to hers. Unable to stop herself, she also raised a hand, and placed it gently against the side of Nicolas’s face. He turned his head and she felt his lips brush her palm. Slowly she trailed her fingers along the strong line of his jaw. As she lowered her hand, her fingertips stroked his shirt, and gently brushed the firm flesh on his chest.

  ‘Lauren.’ Nicolas spoke softly in her ear. He reached for her.

  Fighting down something very like panic, Lauren rose to her feet, and backed away. ‘No. Don’t move.’ She tilted her head slightly to one side. ‘That’s perfect.’

  She turned and crossed to the workbench, and started moving items around on its surface. She had to keep her back turned to Nicolas, or else he would see that the artist had fled, leaving behind only the woman. Her hands were shaking and she grasped the brushes and tube of paint as a drowning person might take hold of a life raft.

  ‘You can’t do this, Lauren.’

  I have to, she screamed inside her head. I have to paint you, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll regret. Lauren set a neutral look firmly on her face and turned back to face Nicolas. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘You can’t paint me now. Dressed like that.’

  Lauren creased her brow. What was he talking about? Then she looked down at her beautiful white silk gown.

  ‘Oh.’ Maria would kill her if she got paint on the dress, which she had borrowed from a designer she sometimes worked with. And Lauren certainly couldn’t afford to pay for it if she ruined it. Lauren carefully laid her tools back on the workbench. ‘I’ll change.’

  She retrieved a bag from under the bench, mumbled something about being quick, and fled to the safety of the bathroom.

  * * *

  Nicolas watched the door shut with mixed emotions. He was sorry that she was gone, but also relieved. The evening had been a delight. Lauren was so beautiful. The silk gown seemed to have unleashed a flirtatious and sensuous side to her nature that he had suspected but never seen. Their kiss on the terrace had left him breathless. All he wanted to do now was take her in his arms and kiss her again. To kiss her and much, much more. But he was afraid that if he did, he might chase her away.

  He felt a moment’s regret that the alluring woman he had kissed was about to be subsumed back within the artist. At the same time, Nicolas knew his own weaknesses. Had Lauren stayed beside him for one more second, her face so close and inviting, her body so alluring in the low-cut gown … For once, Nicolas was reluctant to go where his body urged him, because in his heart, he wanted this to be different. He was nervous and uncertain, which was not a familiar feeling, but neither was it unpleasant.

  When Lauren re-entered the room, she
was once more in her working clothes – faded blue jeans with a paint-stained top – and he watched her walk across the room, carefully carrying the ivory gown. After looking around for a moment, Lauren hung the gown from a wall lamp. Nicolas chuckled. The lamp, like so many other things in the palace, was several centuries old and worth far more than the gown. Courtauld, he knew, would be horrified to see it used as a clothes hanger.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  He couldn’t tell her. Instead, Nicolas pointed at his ears. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’

  ‘What?’ Lauren reached up to her own ears then smiled as she felt the silver earrings still hanging below her chestnut hair. She removed and stowed them before picking up her pencils and moving to stand in front of the easel.

  ‘What do I do?’ Nicolas asked.

  ‘Nothing. You sit. I draw.’ Her head was on the side as she gazed at him intently.

  ‘Am I allowed to talk to you? To move?’

  ‘You can talk, I suppose. But try to remain still.’ Lauren already sounded far away. ‘Can you move your head a bit to the left? Yes. Look towards the window. There. That’s good. Stay like that.’ Her attention and her hand moved to the canvas.

  Nicolas kept his face turned the way he’d been instructed, but moved his eyes to watch Lauren. She was dividing her attention between him and the canvas. Her hand paused occasionally, as if she was taking stock, then would move rapidly on.

  ‘I meant to say how much I liked your new hair,’ Nicolas said, just because he wanted to hear her voice again. ‘It’s a vast improvement on the olive green.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did Maria do it?’

  Lauren just nodded, her concentration elsewhere.

  Nicolas let the conversation end. He was content just to watch her and the intensity with which she worked. Her passion for her art was boundless. Once more she built her unconscious barriers, walling out the world. This time he was inside that barrier with her. Nicolas had never been under such intense scrutiny. He felt as if Lauren were looking past his face, through him and into his soul. He was very afraid she might find him wanting.