by Carolyn Zane
“Your twenty-first birthday was yesterday, no?”
Marie-Claire’s gaze shot to his. “How did you know?”
“Math.”
“Math?” Her smile was quizzical.
“On this day, five years ago, you had been sixteen for a whole day.”
A charming flush crawled up her slender neck and settled in her cheeks. “You remember that day?”
“Vaguely.” Someday, when they’d been long married, he’d confess how the memory had plagued him, ruining subsequent relationships and making sport of his sleep. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thank you.”
“What did you do to celebrate this time?”
“For one thing, I stayed out of the pond.”
“Too bad.”
Again, the endearing blush. “Papa took me to Paris for the day. I went shopping for this gown.”
“Excellent choice.”
“You think so?”
“Mmm. I think you are easily the most beautiful cheerleader in the room.”
Marie-Claire heaved a heavy sigh and stared down at the floor. “So you heard that?”
Unable to restrain the grin that tugged at his lips, Sebastian ducked his head so that he could peer into her face. “Marie-Claire, thanks to the wonders of cable television, the entire world heard that.”
“How singularly mortifying.”
“I thought it was charming. Cute.”
“Cute?” She made a face. “Now everyone thinks I have a schoolgirl crush on you.”
He tipped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. “And do you?”
Suddenly seeming to forget her mission to prove herself the sedate lady, her candid laughter had his pulse surging.
“Well, since the entire world knows, I suppose there is no point in lying to you. I guess you could say I have an…infatuation, where you’re concerned. But…” she held up a finger, smiled brightly and blathered on, “I’m struggling to overcome that. I’m thinking of joining a twelve-step program. Not that I’m a stalker or anything—”
“Don’t do that on my account.”
“What?”
“Don’t abandon your…addiction.”
She stumbled over his foot. “No?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She stared up at him and smiled.
He smiled back, and her heart took wing. This moment was perfect. The musical medley picked up pace and segued into a driving rumba. Marie-Claire loved to rumba.
“May I cut in?”
Marie-Claire froze.
Eduardo, his teeth pointing at Marie-Claire from behind his eager smile, tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. His wild, rusty head of hair had been tamed with what looked like an entire bottle of styling gel and his tuxedo was inches too short in the sleeve and cuff. Fingers itching, he fairly pried Marie-Claire from Sebastian’s grasp.
She wanted to scream as Sebastian stepped aside and with obvious reluctance handed her over to the young Eduardo Van Groober’s arms. Darn! Just as things were getting interesting. Eduardo clutched her close and her back already ached from the pressure he exerted.
“Save another dance for me?” Sebastian called as Eduardo jerked her away, rattling her teeth in the process.
Marie-Claire nodded dumbly and watched with longing as Sebastian backed across the room and straight into the voluptuous—and morally emancipated—Baroness Veronike Schroeder of Germany.
Before Sebastian had time to react, Veronike cast out her web, snared him, and then dragged him out to the dance floor for the kill.
Eduardo made an awkward attempt at conversation and Marie-Claire listened with half an ear. And, when he wasn’t trying to impress her with his prowess on the high-school golf team, his nose was buried in her hair. Marie-Claire batted at him in a distracted fashion, straining to keep her sights on Sebastian.
And Veronike.
Euro-trash with pretensions to the Hapsburg dynasty, Veronike was a formidable personality and when she wanted something, she usually got it. And Veronike did enjoy the occasional dalliance with a handsome playboy.
Jealousy seared like a hot knife through Marie-Claire’s heart. Compared to Veronike, Marie-Claire felt quite the underdeveloped adolescent. Insecurity assailed her as she watched Veronike swivel seductively to the pounding beat. Veronike draped over Sebastian like a skimpy chiffon window dressing, all fluttering lashes and fat, blood-red lips.
The dress the German siren wore tonight seemed less a gown and more a figment of the imagination. Smashed against Sebastian’s firm chest, Veronike’s ample bosom strained to be set free of its wispy confines and her hips ground against Sebastian’s in a way that would have Marie-Claire’s molars reduced to dust before the end of the evening if she didn’t make a concerted effort to change her train of thought.
Ooo.
Wilhelm tapped Eduardo on the shoulder and cut in, no doubt feeling it was time to put in the appearance of caring, Marie-Claire thought churlishly. Eduardo obviously hated to let her go and there was an awkward scuffle as Wilhelm dismissed the hormone-ravaged boy. Where Eduardo was chatty, Wilhelm was stony, allowing Marie-Claire to drift.
She winced as she retraced the inane conversation she’d made just now with Sebastian, and wondered if she wasn’t better off eating her heart out over Veronike’s physical charms.
I’m joining a twelve-step program for stalkers.
Her sisters were right. She was certifiable. During her next dance with Sebastian, she hoped—if there was a next dance with Sebastian—she’d be able to control her idiotic tongue before she blurted out that she wanted to snatch Veronike bald.
Oh.
Marie-Claire’s eyes slid closed as she reflected on how unbelievably right it had felt to have Sebastian’s arms around her. She knew he’d felt it, too. She moaned, and an involuntary shiver wracked her body. Head back, she clutched Wilhelm a little tighter at the memory of Sebastian’s powerful body steering her around the dance floor. She immediately regretted the impulse as the rigid Wilhelm looked down at her with a curious frown.
“Stiff knee,” she fibbed.
After a frightfully dull turn on the dreary Wilhelm’s arm, her father at last rescued her, just before Eduardo could reach her again. The boy’s disappointment was plain.
“You are looking well tonight, daughter. This gown suits you.”
Coming from her father, this was high praise. Though King Philippe was not effusive in speech, Marie-Claire knew she was loved. Cherished. And, because she was the youngest of three daughters by his first—and now deceased—wife a tad favored.
“Thank you, sir. You’re looking rather dapper tonight, yourself.” She gave his satin cummerbund a playful tug.
“Oh, I know you’re simply trying to put a bit of a bounce in an old man’s step.”
“Fifty-one is hardly old.”
“I’m sure it must seem that way when you are just twenty-one. You know, I was Sebastian’s age or thereabouts when you were born.”
“Oh?”
His smile was gentle. “I see the way you look at him.”
“I don’t suppose my ladylike caterwauling on the golf course has anything to do with your assumption that I’m smitten.”
A chuckle rumbled from deep within Philippe’s robust chest, and Marie-Claire couldn’t help but notice how handsome her father still was. The little cleft in his chin and the twinkle in his eye put her in mind of another of her favorite American actors, although Michael Douglas was perhaps not quite as tall. But the physical resemblance was something folks had remarked upon before. That and the fact that they both preferred young, beautiful wives.
Marie-Claire spared a glance in Celeste’s direction, and noted the raucous laughter and phony social-climbing demeanor her stepmother had assumed with the prime minister. Her father was blind when it came to Celeste’s rather lengthy list of foibles.
“I suppose you could do worse than Sebastian.” Though Philippe’s remark was offhand, as he looked at his daughter, his gaze ro
ved her suddenly burning cheeks.
“Papa!”
He ignored her weak protestations. “You are a beautiful woman, Marie-Claire. Unfortunately for me, the time has come to let go of you. To let you loose upon the world….” King Philippe pulled Marie-Claire close, the gesture at odds with his words.
“Heaven forbid!”
“You will do great things in this life, my dear. Always know that I love you, and am so very proud.”
Marie-Claire felt her throat tighten at his sweet words, and impulsively stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. This pleased the king and he blinked back the tears.
As the evening wore on, Marie-Claire and Sebastian were obliged to dance with other people. Thankfully, Veronike was a popular partner and had not been available for a second go at Sebastian. And, though they were not always in proximity, Marie-Claire could feel Sebastian’s proprietary gaze and her confidence soared. Unable to tear her eyes away from him for more than a moment, she found keeping up with the task at hand nearly impossible.
“So,” Charles Rodin, Wilhelm’s twin brother commented, “I understand you are a fan of old movies. Have you seen Adam’s Rib?”
“I have never eaten there, though I do enjoy American barbecue…”
“Oh?” Charles frowned.
Prince Etienne Kroninberg of Rhineland told her, “It is my understanding that your sister, Ariane, is planning to come to my country for a visit.”
“No, Ariane is around here somewhere, I think. I just saw her…”
Etienne opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better and shut it.
The prime minister said, “Your grandmother is looking well tonight. The king’s victory seems to have put roses in her cheeks.”
“Yes, she has ten green thumbs, at least.”
More than once, she trod upon her partner’s toe and had to beg pardon. And more than once, she caught Sebastian’s smile of amusement.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Sebastian finally made his way back to her and solicited her hand from a stodgy third cousin and whisked her off.
“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” Sebastian angled his head and cocked a playful brow.
“I think there is no chaste way to answer that question.” Marie-Claire returned his grin.
Admiration for her wit flashed in his eyes. “Shall we set the tongues to wagging and head out to the verandah for a breath of fresh air?”
“Why not? The tongues have been wagging all day.”
“Come on then. Let’s give them some more grist for the rumor mill.”
Marie-Claire’s heart bounced about in her rib cage at the intimate quality in his voice.
The verandah outside the ballroom was nearly as large as the ballroom itself. Made of concrete, it sported a low railing with balustrades as broad as small wine kegs. Light poured from the palace windows and the music—a lilting Vivaldi piece—danced upon the gentle night breezes. In the air, there was a hint of burning leaves and the last fragrances of summer’s flowers.
Never had Marie-Claire felt more vibrant. Alive. Pulsing with vitality. Sebastian’s touch on her hand was warm and this warmth spread up her arm and burned and swirled in her chest, making it hard to catch her breath.
This was the moment she’d been dreaming of. A moment alone with a man with whom she’d bonded, once upon a twilight evening in her youth. And, though before tonight they’d only conversed on the most superficial topics, it was an unbreakable bond, for whatever magical reason. Fate. Kismet.
Destiny.
Didn’t matter what one called it. Marie-Claire believed that God himself wanted them together and there was no use even pursuing other options.
A few dried leaves skittered across the patio’s floor as a warm wind flirted with Marie-Claire’s hair and skirts. A violent shiver wracked her body as anticipation rolled up her spine and settled in her throat.
“Are you cold?”
She swallowed against the excitement that burned in her throat. “No. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Sebastian untied his bow tie and unfastened a collar stud with his free hand. “Same.”
As they strolled, other couples, seeming to find the climate in the ballroom confining, began to wander out of doors looking for a bit of fresh air and some privacy. Inside the ballroom, Eduardo could be seen, bobbing about, peering out various windows, obviously searching for Marie-Claire.
“Come on.”
Sebastian took her hand and tugged her into the shadows and down an immense stair. A sea of rolling lawn unfurled before them, and Marie-Claire bent to remove her high-heeled slippers so that she could better keep up with his rangy stride.
“So. Last time we were alone together, you were sixteen, and of an age to begin dating.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and cast a disarming grin down at her. “Did you?”
“Did I?” Marie-Claire could barely think. The wool of his jacket made a pleasant swooshing sound against the verdant satin of her gown. “What?”
“Date?”
“Oh.” How embarrassing. How could she couch the truth and exude the worldly persona she longed for Sebastian to see in her? Her mouth went dry and she touched her tongue to her lips. “Uh…Well, not right away. Actually, Papa caught wind of my plans and shipped me off to an all-girl boarding school.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I may have inadvertently mentioned your intention to begin dating to him after I escorted you home that night.”
Marie-Claire’s jaw dropped, and a guttural gasp escaped.
“Apparently, your father was not aware of your plans.” Amusement quirked in the corners of Sebastian’s lips. “I didn’t realize you meant to keep these plans secret.”
“Oh, sure.” Bristling, she stared at him through narrow eyes. “So. You are the reason I suffered through two years in that horrendously stuffy all-female boarding school?”
“Sorry.”
“You should be. The experience was quite scarring.”
Sebastian hooted. “I can see that it left you socially retiring.”
To keep from being affected by his infectious laughter, she hiked her chin and ignored his teasing tone. “In any event, my dating career had to be postponed until…er…college.”
“Ah, but you went to an all-girl college.”
Her bravado flagged some. “Don’t tell me. All-girl college was your idea, too.”
“Of course not.” Sebastian shrugged. “I may have had some input but the final decision was always your father’s.”
Bemused, she stared up at him. How was she ever going to convince him that she was worldly when—thanks in part to him—she’d been cloistered away like a cultured pearl?
Images of Veronike’s seductive red lips, puffy and pouty, taunted her and she refused to let him go on thinking of her as some kind of inexperienced virgin.
Even if that’s exactly what she was.
“Well, it may have been all girls, but there were men.” She wracked her brain for the roster of professors. “There was, um, let’s see…Alonzo, and Barnaby and uh, and umm.” She frowned. What was his name again? “Cedric! And, uh—”
“An alphabetical accounting of your lovers?”
Her chin jerked up and she could make out the twinkle sparkling in his eyes by the light of the harvest moon. “You don’t think I’ve ever even had a date, do you?” There was a heat in her tone that she struggled to squelch.
“I hope not.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Why?”
“Because,” he answered simply, as they reached an immense yet shallow reflecting pool, “you’re mine.”
Marie-Claire was dumbstruck. For a moment, everything went fuzzy, and little pinpricks of light danced before her eyes. Her heart palpitated, and a wild joy sprung from deep within the vicinity of her stomach and, like a flash fire, spread throughout her body.
“Oh.” The breathy utterance hovered on the air between them.
“No.”
“There is something. It’s been there since that night.”
“Yes.”
“Something special. It’s almost as if we were…” He squinted off into the night sky and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he searched for the words, “…somehow kindred spirits.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He dipped his head back toward her and they stood in a shaft of moonlight, regarding each other. Discovering the truth in each other’s eyes. It was a powerful moment, fraught with a tension so palpable it generated heat that radiated between their bodies.
Marie-Claire could see that Sebastian was as stunned by the power of their chemistry as she was. For an instant, he seemed to lose his perennial confidence. There was vulnerability in his expression that endeared him impossibly closer to her soul than ever before.
In front of them, seeming to float on the vast surface of the reflecting pool, Le cheval du roi—a statue of her great-great grandfather’s royal steed—reared, flanked on each side by two equally impressive mares. Years of weather had given the cool, dark metal a streaked green patina. The fountain was especially spectacular when it was lit for a party, as it was tonight.
Seemingly unable to endure the tension that shimmered between them, Sebastian abruptly turned and tugged her to the edge of the pool. He stepped up to the top of the two-foot high wall rim, then helped her up behind him. Off in the distance, strains of an orchestra sounded over the fountain’s spray.
Sebastian stepped out of his highly polished wingtips and kicked them to the ground below. Then, reaching for the slippers that dangled from Marie-Claire’s fingers, he dropped them on top of his own shoes. “I never did get another dance.”
Marie-Claire lifted her arms and draping them over his shoulders, let her wrists dangle. “And so you did not.”
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Marie-Claire whooped in surprise as he took her by the waist and stepped into the pool’s knee-deep water. Her gown ballooned on the surface before it sank to swirl about her ankles. Sebastian drew her close and they began to move about their watery dance floor.