The Awakened Prince

by Elise Marion

  “Idiot,” he grumbled at himself. “You moron.”

  What on earth had he been thinking? He had been seconds away from making love to her.

  Isabelle.

  His brother’s widow.

  Serge had dreamed of such moments with her for most of his adult life, but had never allowed himself to contemplate the possibility of them becoming reality. Isabelle was off limits to him for several reasons, all of which came screaming back at him now. It didn’t matter that his brother was dead, or that she might begin looking for a husband soon. It didn’t matter that he loved her so much his chest ached whenever he laid eyes on her. It didn’t matter that she had responded so eagerly to his kisses and caresses. Wanting her the way he did was wrong, and he would not forget himself again.

  Turning to his side and closing his eyes in an effort to find sleep again, Serge realized he still registered her scent in the room. Some sort of feminine, flowery aroma enveloped him as if she remained in his arms. Pounding his fist against the pillow in frustration, he shifted his position only to find a wad of fabric tangled up in his bedding. Lifting it toward the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the nearby window, he realized it was her shawl. She had used it to wipe the sweat from his brow, and left it beside him on the bed by mistake.

  Raising it to his face, he inhaled her scent, luxuriating in the way it made his blood sing before flinging it away altogether.

  Never again.

  He could not allow what had happened tonight to reoccur. The whole thing was inappropriate, and could only lead to trouble. But then, he wondered just before falling back to sleep, why had it felt so damned right?

  Chapter 4

  “Wake up, damn you!”

  Serge’s raised voice preceded him into his brother’s bedchamber. The heavy door swung wide, slamming against the wall as he shoved it aside and limped through the doorway without knocking. As it was not yet eight in the morning, he fully expected to find Damien still snoring beneath the bedclothes, even though he had been awake and fully dressed for hours himself.

  He had been unable to stop thinking about Isabelle. Her scent still clung to him, his sheets, and that damned shawl she’d left behind. His fingertips tingled when he remembered the curves of her breasts against his palms, and his mouth practically watered for another taste of their rosy tips.

  He’d lain awake for hours, unable to push the encounter with Isabelle from his mind. He had even allowed himself to think of all the things that could have happened if he hadn’t ended things before doing the unthinkable. What if he hadn’t stopped at a few kisses and caresses? What if he’d succumbed to his desires and made love to her? Would she still be laid in his arms even now, cheeks tinged pink, lips curved in a satisfied smile?

  Then, for lack of anything better to do, he’d begun to mull over Damien’s preposterous suggestion. The more he thought about it, the more hopeful he had become. Now that he’d made the mistake of tasting her lips and touching her skin, he couldn’t help but think of a lifetime of such pleasures. What made things worse was the way she’d responded.

  Oh, how she’d responded.

  He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Damien had been right. Maybe there was possibility there. After all, when he’d kissed her, she had kissed him back. When he’d touched her, she had wordlessly begged him for more. If they married, perhaps someday the desire he had been able to make her feel could transform into love.

  It’s not a foolish hope, he asked himself. Right?

  Wrong!

  By the time the sun lightened the sky outside his window, Serge had come to his senses. He’d leaped from the bed and rushed to the washstand to douse his face with water. With that frigid splash had come a cold dose of reality. What the hell had he been thinking? It was foolish to contemplate marriage to Isabelle for even an instant.

  This was why he stormed into Damien’s bedchamber at eight o’clock in the morning.

  He stomped up the three steps of the platform where the massive bed was located, and yanked the tapestries aside. He opened his mouth again to deliver a scathing lecture, but came up short when he realized the bed was empty, though recently slept in.

  “In here,” called a voice from the dressing room.

  He followed it through the open door, where he found his brother with Hopkins, his valet. Reclining in a chair wearing only his dressing gown, Damien lay back with his hands folded over his middle while the other man trimmed his beard with a pair of scissors. Serge’s brows snapped together in confusion and annoyance.

  “You’re awake before noon,” he snapped, for lack of anything better to say with Damien’s valet in the room.

  “Yes, and thank God Esmeralda is, too, or you might have found her in there,” his brother murmured.

  “She’s an early riser,” Serge argued back. “I knew she wouldn’t still be in bed. You, however …”

  “A great many things have changed over the past year,” Damien replied, careful not to move his head, though his gaze did connect with Serge’s across the room. “You bellowed?”

  “I need to discuss something with you. Privately.”

  As if on cue, Hopkins straightened, pulling the scissors away from Damien’s face. With a satisfied nod, he replaced his implements on the washstand and handed his master a gilded hand mirror.

  “All done, Your Highness.”

  Damien studied his reflection in the mirror and nodded. “Excellent work as usual, Hopkins. You are dismissed.”

  After executing a swift bow, the valet left the room and closed the door behind him. Damien turned his back to Serge, removing his robe.

  “You don’t mind if I dress while we talk, do you? I have a rather pressing appointment this morning.”

  “Why did you do what I specifically asked you not to do?” he groused.

  Damien arched an eyebrow at him while pulling a pair of breeches on over his smallclothes. “I assume you’re referring to the conversation we had yesterday about Isabelle.”

  “The one where I asked you not to mention your asinine ideas about marriage? Yes, the very same!”

  Damien tucked his shirt in, then began buttoning his fall. “What was I supposed to do? Wait for you to declare your undying love? I’m sorry, brother, but I am not a patient man and we are running out of time.”

  “I never intended to declare anything,” he growled, pressing his fingertips against his throbbing temples. “And what the devil do you mean, ‘we’re running out of time’?”

  Buttoning his powder-blue waistcoat, Damien turned back to face him. “Isabelle needs to make a decision for the sake of her country, as well as herself. I’ve given her more than enough time to consider her options and come to some sort of decision. Marriage is inevitable. It’s going to have to happen. I know it, you know it, and she knows it. I was giving her the courtesy of allowing her what little time we have left to consider you as a potential husband. You are the perfect choice.”

  “Why? Because my marrying Isabelle and becoming King of Barony would soothe your guilty conscience?”

  Serge was purposely trying to needle him, but Damien refused to take the bait. He remained calm as he turned toward a full-length mirror and proceeded to tie his cravat.

  “No. Because you love her, and will take better care of her than anyone. You have been trained in military leadership and strategy, and possess the necessary skills to aid me in bringing the rebel army under control. Besides, I trust you more than I would anyone else.”

  “She’s Lionus’ wife, Damien.”

  “She was Lionus’ wife. Lionus is dead.” Damien turned away from the mirror and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “I know I’ve had more time to adjust to the idea than you, but she is no longer our brother’s wife. She needs a husband. Barony needs a king, and I believe you can be the ruler they need and deserve.”

  Everything Damien said made sense. It was certainly tempting, especially now that he knew he and Isabelle would have no problem crossing
over that tricky territory between friendship and intimacy. She had fallen so easily into his arms, Serge had no doubt they would deal well together as lovers as well as friends.

  Yet, some niggling fear held him back … the notion that she could never love him back—not the way she’d loved Lionus. As deeply as he cared for her, Serge knew that knowledge would only tear him apart over time. It would cause resentment to fester between them.

  “She doesn’t want to marry anyone,” he offered feebly.

  “Give her time,” Damien countered. “I think she may come around. Ruling a kingdom alone would be daunting for anyone, male or female, and she’s going to need someone at her side she can trust. She already knows, cares about, and trusts you. The ingredients for a successful match are all there.”

  “You are so sure of yourself and your little scheme, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Your arrogance is astounding.”

  “So I’ve been told. Now, I have an important guest from Barony arriving today, and much to do before my meeting with him. I had hoped you could join me.”

  “Who is the guest?” he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

  “Lord Primus Burnham, the Grand Vizier of Barony. I wrote him several weeks ago and asked him to come. We will meet with General Adams after breakfast, and I think you should be there. You ought to have some idea what you’ll be getting yourself into if you become King of Barony.”

  Serge relented, giving up on convincing himself that marrying Isabelle was not what he wanted. In truth, it was something he’d wanted for as long as he could remember. Now that it had become a possibility, he was both thrilled and terrified.

  Only time would tell which of those emotions would win out, and where that would lead him.

  * * *

  Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut tight to blot out the sunlight streaming through her bedroom windows. Gayle had flung aside the curtains in an attempt at coaxing her out of bed. She had even set a breakfast tray on the bedside table, knowing Isabelle would not be able to resist the aroma of food for long.

  She did not want to leave her bed for the entire day. Maybe even the rest of the week. Nor did she wish to face what she had done last night in the harsh light of day. Her plan was to avoid contact with a certain brother-in-law, and the only way to do that was to stay nestled safely beneath the bedclothes. As large as Rothchester Hall spanned, there was still the small chance she might encounter him and be too embarrassed to look him in the eye. Better to remain in her suite of rooms where it was safe.

  “Still abed?” scolded Gayle as she re-entered the room for the fifth time. “Your breakfast will grow cold!”

  Isabelle sat up and grudgingly allowed her maid to place the tray in her lap.

  “I suppose I could at least eat,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the short, heavyset woman who shook her head with disapproval while moving toward the dressing room. “Don’t bother laying out a gown for me, Gayle. I do not intend to leave this bed today.”

  “Why not?”

  Gale doubled back, pressing a cool hand to Isabelle’s forehead, her soft brown eyes filled with concern.

  “You are not feverish. Are you ill?”

  Isabelle stuffed an unladylike portion of toast into her mouth, forcing Gayle to wait as she chewed while trying to come up with a suitable excuse. She couldn’t very well tell the woman she’d almost made love to her dead husband’s brother in the middle of the night, and was now too embarrassed and ashamed to face him, could she? No, she thought as she choked the dry toast down with a forceful swallow. Gayle would probably drop in a dead faint, and Isabelle would feel even guiltier than she already did.

  “I began my courses this morning,” she said, blurting the first excuse that came to mind.

  It was as good a reason as any, since Gayle knew she often suffered debilitating pains and nausea on the first day of her menses.

  “Well, you do not seem to be in an excessive amount of discomfort,” said the maid, looking her over with a critical eye.

  The nanny turned lady’s maid had been caring for her all her life, and at times felt like more of a mother than anything else. The day Isabelle had been smuggled from Barony under the cover of darkness, she had been tucked into Gayle’s arms, entrusted to her for safekeeping. Because of this, she felt guilty for lying to the other woman, but her sense of self-preservation won out over honesty.

  “You can rest until noon, but you really cannot stay abed much longer than that. Have you forgotten Lord Burnham arrives today? It would be rude of you not to greet him. Once he has finished his audience with the king, he will expect to meet with you.”

  Isabelle stifled a groan and turned her gaze back to her tray. She had forgotten about the grand vizier’s visit, even though the man had written weeks ago to inform her of his travel plans. An old friend and most trusted adviser to her father, Burnham had been acting as steward to the throne in Isabelle’s absence. He’d assured her in his letters that he looked forward to vacating the position as soon as she felt ready to take her place as queen … hopefully with a king at her side, he hadn’t forgotten to add.

  Gayle was right, unfortunately. She would have to get out of bed and prepare to receive the grand vizier.

  “Very well,” she relented. “Get out the best black bombazine for today. You know, the one that isn’t as ugly as the others.”

  Gale paused in the doorway, hands braced on her hips and disapproval clear in her expression.

  “Do you think it entirely appropriate to greet him dressed in your widow’s weeds?”

  “Lord Burnham will understand,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea. “He knows I still mourn my husband.”

  “You have long passed the time to move out of mourning clothes. Perhaps you should consider half-mourning instead, since you’re obviously not ready to come completely out. I grow weary of watching you shroud yourself in those hideous gowns.”

  “The black will do for today,” she answered sharply, not lifting her eyes from her tray.

  Gayle had been pressing her for weeks to put aside her bereavement attire. Isabelle had even been about to relent, but after last night it would feel wrong. She had allowed herself to be kissed and touched by another man. She’d enjoyed it more than she had enjoyed anything for a long time. Therein lay the problem.

  Isabelle had never kissed another man; no one else had come before or after Lionus. She never would have thought anyone else could cause her insides to melt in that same mysterious way, yet she had experienced it with Serge. She felt like the worst sort of traitor for it.

  So, she would not further betray her dead husband’s memory by casting off her black bombazine, as if being kissed and touched by another man proved enough to push Lionus from her mind and heart.

  This morning she would don her mourning attire once again. The decision of moving to half-mourning could wait. There were more important things for her to concern herself with.

  Gayle busied herself with laying out the ugly black gown, and the necessary undergarment and accessories. Then, she took Isabelle’s empty breakfast tray and placed a kiss on the girl’s forehead.

  “I’ll give you a moment to wash up, then I’ll help you dress.”

  After washing her face, making use of her tooth powder and brush, and using a sponge and warm water to fresh up, she submitted to Gayle’s attention. Her maid helped stuff and cinch her into the various layers of her undergarments before draping her in the shapeless black gown. Then she sat at the vanity table to have her masses of waist-length hair combed and arranged into a simple style.

  When she could stall no longer, she left the bedchamber, greeted by the two bodyguards on the morning shift. There was Vernon—the leader of the pack and the one she felt closest to. It might have to do with their fencing sessions several times a week, a skill he’d begun teaching her in the event she ever needed to defend herself.

  I’ll probably never have the chance to use it, she thought as she glanced
over at her other guard—Timothy, who was the largest of the four with arms that looked large and strong enough to snap a man in half.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said before proceeding to the staircase.

  They fell in step behind her without speaking, their footsteps so light they made not a sound upon the rug. As she neared the landing of the second floor, the flurry of activity she encountered told her Lord Burnham had arrived. She hoped to greet him before he went into his meeting with Damien, and invite him to take tea with her afterward. Perhaps while she waited, Vernon could be convinced to indulge in a quick sparring session. She wasn’t properly dressed for it, but she quite liked the idea of challenging herself by fencing in a gown instead of old breeches.

  Stepping off the bottom stair, she gave in to her girlish habit of gripping the balustrade and swinging around to her left. She’d been doing it since she was a girl, and Lionus had found it amusing to watch her leap from two steps up, while recklessly swaying her body in a move that made her feel as if she took flight for a few seconds.

  Only, this time she collided with something solid and nearly fell. A pair of strong hands gripped her arms to steady her, and her face fell against a man’s chest, the fabric of his waistcoat rasping against her cheek.

  “Oh, forgive me! I wasn’t watching…”

  She trailed off as her eyes traveled upward to connect with a pair of familiar dark blue ones.

  Serge stared down at her with his mouth set in a grim line, as if he had dreaded bumping into her, too. And here, she’d practically thrown herself into his arms.

  Well, it could hardly be helped when they lived in the same home. As much as she’d wanted to hide, she realized that this had been inevitable, and likely would have been uncomfortable no matter what. Best to get the unpleasantness out of the way now.

  He set her away from him and quickly dropped his hands to his sides.

  “It’s all right. I wasn’t paying attention either.”

  Clearing her throat, she darted a gaze at Vernon, who took this all in with a curious gaze, while Timothy scanned the corridor, seemingly oblivious.