The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  She went first to the library to seek out d’Entremont, but found no one there. On her way out, she nearly collided head-on with Monsieur Fournier, the butler.

  “Good morning, mademoiselle. May I assist you with something?”

  “Yes. I need to speak with Lord d’Entremont, and it is a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “I am afraid the marquis is unavailable at present.”

  She regarded him unwaveringly. “He is here, is he not? He spoke to Prince Nicholas last night. It is almost noon. Surely he can find time to see me for a few minutes. That is all I ask.”

  The butler shook his head. “Please accept the marquis’s apologies, but he cannot see you now.”

  “Why not?” she demanded. “We had an agreement, and I have fulfilled my part of it. Now he must fulfill his.”

  The butler spoke with sympathy, which grated upon her nerves, for she did not want his pity. She wanted what belonged to her.

  “I am sure he will be pleased to see you, mademoiselle, but you must wait until he sends for you.”

  “Why must everything occur according to his schedule?” she asked. “Perhaps I am in a hurry to leave.”

  The butler’s eyes darkened with the first signs of his impatience. “May I remind you that his ‘schedule’ is very limited? He will not be long for this world, so pardon me if I do not consider your wishes this morning to be more important than his comforts.”

  She was taken aback by the butler’s uncompromising reply, and found it impossible to argue or make further demands.

  “When can I see him?” she asked, more gently this time.

  “I will send for you when he indicates that he is ready to accept visitors.”

  He turned and walked away, but she followed. “Please remind him that he owes me something, and I must see him today.”

  The butler continued without looking back. “I will deliver your message.”

  * * *

  Nicholas stood at the library window, looking out at the wide expanse of manicured gardens, rolling green hills, and the thick forest beyond. The windstorm the night before had left branches strewn about the lawn. A gardener was outside with a wheelbarrow, carefully raking around the shrubs and flowerbeds, gathering up the debris.

  The activity outside distracted him only briefly, however, from his thoughts about what had occurred the night before. When Véronique had held out her arms to him and invited him to join her on the bed, he had acted too quickly and surrendered to his desires.

  After the news he had received from Lord d’Entremont, he supposed he had wanted and needed a woman’s comfort—which was odd, for comfort was not something he ever sought from women. And he had not yet forgiven Véronique for her deception when she lured him out of that Paris ballroom.

  His bitterness toward her, however, had been shattered almost instantly by the scent of her soft skin, the sweet blush coloring her cheeks, and the breathlessness in her voice. The fact that she had kidnapped him a few nights ago seemed suddenly a thousand miles away.

  “Let me kiss you.” He had spoken the words across her lips as he settled his body on top of hers.

  She’d had too much wine; he had known it was the source of her bold invitation, yet he could not bring himself to behave as a gentleman should and suggest that he escort her back to her own room.

  No … that was the furthest thing from his mind when his gaze swept to her soft, lush breasts, and he found himself drawn in closer in a strangely emotional way that left him almost flustered—for it was a novel concept for Nicholas to feel anything outside of physical pleasure when in bed with a beautiful woman.

  The door to the library opened, and Nicholas turned to see the butler enter with Monsieur Bellefontaine, the estate steward. Introductions were made, and the butler left them alone.

  “You requested a private appointment with me,” Nicholas said.

  “Indeed, Your Highness. Lord d’Entremont has asked me to escort you on a tour of the grounds, if you would be so gracious as to accept his offer. I would like to take you to the village and show you the flour mill, which is part of the marquis’s holdings. Then I will show you the tenant cottages. We could finish up with a brief drive past the vineyard and winery.”

  Nicholas clasped his hands behind his back and took a long, scrutinizing look at the man. The steward appeared to be in his late fifties, and while not very tall, he was slender and fit-looking. His ginger-colored hair receded only slightly at the temples. There was an obvious air of pride and confidence in his demeanor, for he held his head high.

  “How long have you managed the estate?” Nicholas asked.

  “Twenty-one years, sir. I inherited the position from my father who served the former marquis for thirty-one years … until the Terror. He died under the guillotine. The marquis fled to England until it was safe to return and reclaim his property. I quietly managed everything in his absence.”

  Nicholas considered all of this. “A loyal bunch, your family must be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Turning back to the window, Nicholas looked toward the horizon. “I presume you intend to impress me today with the marquis’s possessions?”

  “That is the goal.”

  “At least you are honest,” Nicholas said.

  Bellefontaine bowed his head slightly to answer in the affirmative.

  Nicholas took time to consider his options. Part of him wanted nothing to do with Lord d’Entremont or his impressive land holdings. He just wanted to leave here and forget any of this had ever happened. He wanted to return to the world he knew in Petersbourg, where he lived a life of superficial, hedonistic pleasures, always believing himself to be the legitimate son of King Frederick I. Never questioning the past. Never revisiting certain memories.

  Now everything was turned upside down and he felt completely cut off from the man he thought he was.

  “I will go with you on one condition,” he said at last.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “You must extend the invitation to include Mademoiselle Véronique, who was my escort from Paris.”

  Bloody hell, he still didn’t know her last name.

  The steward remained silent. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed over some obvious discomfort. “I would be pleased to extend the invitation,” he replied nevertheless. “If you will give me a moment, sir, I will make the necessary arrangements with Fournier.”

  He left the room and returned a few minutes later.

  “Fournier has gone to knock on the young lady’s door. I have asked him to bring her out front to join us in the barouche. If you wish to accompany me now, we can wait for her there.”

  Disconcerted by how strongly he wanted Véronique at his side for this tour of the estate, Nicholas followed Monsieur Bellefontaine out of the library.

  Chapter Ten

  It was past noon when Véronique exited the house onto the shady step beneath the massive front portico of d’Entremont Manor. There was not a single cloud in the sky. The sun beamed hot and bright, forcing her to squint as she descended the wide stone steps.

  The open barouche, drawn by a pair of handsome white horses, stood parked at the curb with the hood down, waiting for her. Nicholas and the steward, Monsieur Bellefontaine, were already seated inside. As soon as Nicholas spotted her, however, he alighted from the vehicle.

  Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of his strong athletic form—which made her wonder if she would be able to keep her head and behave sensibly over the next few hours.

  But she must. She absolutely must.

  When at last she reached him, he held out a gloved hand to assist her up the iron step, which had been lowered by a footman.

  “Good afternoon.” His charming smile reached his eyes, and fleeting images of the night before flashed in her mind. She couldn’t help but smile in return.

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness,” she replied with a brief curtsy. “How good of you to invite me to join you.”

  “My
pleasure entirely.”

  Was he, too, thinking of last night? And what exactly had happened beyond the first kiss? Did he remember everything? Should she ask him?

  She stepped into the open carriage and took a seat across from the steward, who gave her a polite nod. “How nice to see you again, Mademoiselle Montagne.”

  “Greetings, Monsieur Bellefontaine. How is your family?”

  “Very well, thank you,” he replied.

  It was a forced courtesy on both sides, for the last time they met, she had begged him to convince the marquis to show her father mercy and not take possession of the card table winnings from the night before.

  Monsieur Bellefontaine had been contrary and uncooperative. They did not part on friendly terms. She had called him a swine.

  She found herself clenching her jaw slightly at the memory of that morning meeting and the pretense of their easy familiarity just now, when she would have preferred to jab a hatpin into his knee.

  Prince Nicholas slid onto the seat beside her and lounged back comfortably. “Mademoiselle Montagne…,” he said with eyes narrowing slightly, and she realized it was the first time he had heard her last name.

  She felt a shiver of unease while he studied her face in the sunshine, for her identity was now out in the open. He would be fully within his rights to charge her with kidnapping, if he so desired. Which was why she must maintain a cordial friendship with him, at the very least.

  He turned to the steward. “You wish to show me the grounds, Monsieur Bellefontaine?” he said, indicating that he was ready to begin.

  Véronique wondered if he simply wanted to hurry things up and be done with it, or if he was genuinely curious about what could belong to him if he accepted the marquis as his father.

  Would Nicholas be invited to tour her family home next? It was, after all, part of the marquis’s legal holdings. Perhaps that was why she had been asked to join them.

  The steward rested a hand on the ivory handle of his walking stick. “Do you have any preference about what you would like to see first?”

  Nicholas turned to meet Véronique’s gaze—as if he were seeking the wisdom of her opinion. “Tell me, mademoiselle, where should we go?”

  “It makes no difference to me, sir.”

  He turned his attention back to the steward. “I should inform you that Mademoiselle Montagne has been fully apprised about the reason I was brought here. She knows the marquis has named me as his sole heir and that I am—according to him—his natural son. I have explained everything to the lady, including the marquis’s claim that he and my mother were involved in an adulterous affair here in France many years ago. You may therefore speak openly this afternoon, Bellefontaine.”

  The steward shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “I see.”

  As the carriage rolled forward and started down the long tree-lined drive, Véronique raised a gratified eyebrow at Bellefontaine.

  “In that case,” he said, “we shall begin with the old oak tree on the hill. I believe, Your Highness, that you can see it from your guest chamber window.”

  Nicholas regarded him curiously. “Why there?”

  Bellefontaine lifted his chin. “Because it provides the most spectacular view of the house and the Channel, but most important, there is something very particular that the marquis has asked me to show you today. Something that may help you to accept the truth about your mother’s presence here.”

  The carriage suddenly picked up speed. Véronique was overwhelmingly aware of Nicholas’s thigh bumping hers. She made no move to inch away from him, however. Nor did he move away from her.

  * * *

  Nicholas stared at the tree for a long moment, then approached it and ran his fingers over the letters carved into the ancient bark. There could be no denying that the words—and the heart that encircled them—had been carved many years ago. Decades, most likely.

  Monsieur Bellefontaine approached and stood beside him. “It was your mother who carved this,” he said, as if reminiscing. “I also have an engraved ring to show you, and dozens of letters if you wish to read them. Lord d’Entremont saved everything from the year they spent together.”

  A knot formed in Nicholas’s stomach, for he had been clinging to the possibility that all this was a lie … or some sort of malicious scheme to smear his late father’s reputation and topple the Sebastian monarchy from the throne of Petersbourg.

  Nicholas, Randolph, and Rose had lived most of their lives under the threat of an overthrow. Their father, the king, had died from one such plot little more than a year ago, poisoned by enemies who hoped to seize his crown.

  But this—a box of love letters, jewelry, names carved into trees—this was something else entirely, and all his instincts and intuitive powers told him that his mother had truly been here, and there were secrets that his father had never revealed.

  As a child, he never felt as privileged, cherished, or loved as his older brother, Randolph, or even Rose, who had been spoiled rotten and doted upon by their father.

  Nicholas had always assumed it was because he was not the heir to the throne, but merely the spare, but there was so much more to it than that. Perhaps he should have known. Why hadn’t he? Had he consciously chosen not to look more deeply into the roots of things?

  He had always assumed it was his fault that his father despised him—because he was badly behaved. Irresponsible. Wild. Perhaps he had simply been too young to see through the layers.…

  * * *

  “Boy, come in here.”

  Nicholas approached his father, who was seated at the giant desk in the Privy Council Chamber. He had never been summoned to this room before. Randolph had been, many times, but not Nicholas.

  He was distracted briefly by the oversized portrait of his father that hung on the wall behind him. In it, his father sat on the throne like a proud and mighty conqueror on his coronation day. He was draped in heavy fur robes, and he gripped a golden scepter in his fist.

  “Your mother is dead,” his father said.

  Wrenched out of his reverie, Nicholas sucked in a breath. His widening gaze met his father’s.

  “She died an hour ago, giving birth to your sister. I have named your sister Rose.”

  There was a ringing in Nicholas’s ears … a weakness in his legs.…

  No, not Mother. She cannot be dead.

  “That is all,” his father said, picking up his quill and returning his attention to the pile of papers on the desk. “Go now.”

  Burning panic shot into Nicholas’s belly and overwhelmed him with its vigor. He took a step forward, closer to the desk, and pounded his fists upon it. “Where is she?”

  His father’s eyes lifted, and he glared at Nicholas impatiently. “She is with the angels.”

  “No!” Nicholas stared at his father with furious rage, then strove to bring his shock under control and speak in a calmer voice. “I mean … Can I see her?”

  “No, you cannot. They have already removed her body.”

  Nicholas backed away from the desk. He felt dizzy and light-headed. He began to hyperventilate. “But I need to see her.”

  He needed to touch her hand, to feel her comforting arms around him, to bask one last time in the warmth of her embrace.

  “She is gone now, boy. You won’t ever see her again.”

  * * *

  Later Nicholas learned that Randolph had been permitted inside the birthing chamber to see their mother shortly before she passed. Though she was weak, she had held Randolph in her arms and kissed him on the head. “You will be a good king,” she had whispered to him. As far as Nicholas knew, they were her last words.

  There had been no such words for him.

  He found himself wondering what his father would have done if anything had happened to Randolph. Would he have allowed Nicholas to take the throne? Or would he have revealed the truth to the world? Would Rose have been crowned queen instead?

  Nicholas felt a hand on his shoulder just then, and was star
tled by it. Turning, he looked into those deep green eyes that never failed to quicken his blood.

  “Are you all right?” Véronique asked.

  Nicholas took note of Monsieur Bellefontaine climbing back into the carriage, a short distance away on the lane.

  “I told him to leave us alone for a moment,” she explained.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” Nicholas tersely replied.

  “I disagree,” she argued, “for you failed to answer him when he asked if you were ready to see the flour mill. He asked you twice, Nicholas, but you ignored him.”

  Nicholas glanced back at the carvings in the tree. “Did I indeed? I suppose I was recalling the past.”

  “I suspected as much.” She touched his arm and stood quietly beside him, then lowered her hand to her side and cleared her throat. “I just realized that you are as much of a victim of d’Entremont’s greed as I am.”

  He frowned. “I am not his victim.” He turned toward her. “And our situations are not the same.”

  Too late he realized he had spoken rather harshly.

  “No, of course not,” Véronique replied while regarding him with a furrowed brow, as if she were disappointed by his response. “For you are about to inherit all of this. It is your choice to make, whether you accept it, or leave it all behind.”

  Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts. To think rationally. He was not the only person here with something to lose. “I apologize,” he said. “You are correct. I do have choices, while you are waiting for others to choose their fates and determine your future, as if it were merely incidental to theirs.”

  Véronique looked down at the grass. He found himself staring at the top of her bonnet, realizing that she was indeed at everyone’s mercy here. Today she was powerless, waiting for someone to be charitable enough to hand over her father’s property, which was allegedly worth a great deal of money.

  Nevertheless, only one thing was occupying his mind at present—and it was not the value of her father’s property.

  “I did not take advantage of you last night,” he assured her. “I slept in the chair. You must have seen that when you woke, whenever that was.”