by Elise Marion
If Isabelle didn’t marry him, she’d wed someone else. He would have to watch her recite vows and kiss him. Then, while getting good and drunk at the reception afterward, his memories would conjure their moment of reckless passion—only another man would be the one kissing her, touching her, making love to her and consummating heir union.
He pressed two fingers against his temple, trying to stifle the drumming that had started up behind his eyes.
“I need more time to think,” she said after a long silence. “Surely you cannot expect me to rush into such a decision.”
“Of course not,” Primus said with another one of his infuriatingly charming smiles. “In the meantime, we can make plans to journey to Barony. The sooner you are ready to leave, the better. We must ensure that all is in readiness for your coronation, and get you settled into your home. His Majesty and I must also see to the training of new soldiers and adding to the number of your personal bodyguard.”
Isabelle seemed overwhelmed by all this, but simply nodded in agreement. “I can be ready to leave immediately. Just inform me when the time comes.”
“It will take a few weeks,” General Adams chimed in. “Travel to Barony will be dangerous for you, and we must ensure you are adequately protected.”
“I will see to her security on the journey,” Serge found himself saying before he’d had a chance to think about it. He only knew he could not stand the thought of her being away from him.
Three pairs of eyes swiveled in his direction, surprised, as if they had forgotten he was there.
“Place a small contingent of men under my command, including her personal bodyguards. We will ensure that she and Lord Burnham reach Barony safely.”
Primus fixed him with a narrowed, dark stare, assessing him and obviously finding him lacking.
“Begging your pardon,” he said, his contempt undisguised. “But I am not certain you are the right man for this task. You are only recently recovered, and while I am glad for your miraculous improvement, I would hope you’d allow yourself more time to recuperate before volunteering your services for something you are obviously not ready to do.”
In an instant, Serge’s dislike of the man transformed into something else entirely. If he gripped the arm of his chair any harder, it might break under the strain. No one noticed because, as always, Serge was the consummate mediator, the one who always possessed a level head. He forced a smile.
“While I appreciate your concern Lord Burnham, I can assure you that I am completely rehabilitated, and more than fit to protect the princess.”
“Of course,” Primus replied. “I did not mean to imply that you were not. It is just that I’ve had much experience in these matters...”
“Well, of course. I cannot hope to compete with the experience of a man of your advanced years. However, as Cardenas’ second son, I have been well trained in matters of warfare and strategy. I assure you I am up to the task.”
“Actually, I see no reason why you cannot work together,” Damien said before Primus could respond, shooting Serge a warning glance. “With your mutual training and experience, I’m certain you will have no problem getting Isabelle home safely. General, have a hundred men readied to escort the princess, her servants, Prince Serge, and Lord Primus to Barony two weeks from today. I trust that will be enough time?”
Everyone nodded their agreement, and the meeting was adjourned. Serge sat seething as Isabelle turned to Primus with a gracious smile and invited him to have tea with her so they could talk and get better acquainted. He knew exactly how intimately Primus wanted to know Isabelle, and didn’t like it one bit. Even as confused and uncertain as he was about whether or not pursuing Isabelle would be a good idea, something deep within him rebelled at the idea of standing back and allowing Primus to take advantage of her vulnerability.
Allowing the other man to take her off to Barony without his presence was absolutely out of the question.
* * *
Serge tore his gaze away from the mirror, where he had been watching a reflection of himself trying to tie his own cravat and failing miserably. This evening, the royal family had been invited to attend a ball, and had collectively decided to attend. It would be his first public appearance since recovering, and proved a good opportunity to show the royal court that he was well and whole.
He’d sent his valet away after the man helped him don the rest of his attire. He’d done this hoping for a moment alone with his thoughts, but now realized it had been a stupid idea. He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d had to tie his own cravat, and in the process of dressing for the evening had completely botched it four times.
He snatched away the offending linen and tossed it onto the small pile he had going on the floor. His valet was sure to be annoyed with him for not having the sense to call for help, and ruining four clean and starched neck cloths in the process, but Serge would not be bested. He had just chosen another when he was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Your Grace, a word if you please.”
He turned to find one of Isabelle’s personal bodyguards standing in the doorway of his dressing room, arms crossed over his chest. For the life of him, Serge could not remember which of them was which. They were all effective at blending in, and most times one forgot they were even in the room. This was a remarkable talent, one that left Serge flummoxed when he tried grasping about his mind for the man’s name.
Vernon? Yes, that was it.
“Certainly. I hope you don’t mind if I continue this while we talk,” he said, turning back to the mirror. “What can I do for you?”
“I saw Princess Isabelle go into your bedroom last night.”
Serge’s hands froze, the cravat hanging limp in his hand. His stomach gave a violent twist, and he could have sworn tiny beads of sweat formed along his brow. He swallowed, forced his breathing to slow, and continued tying the cravat, speaking slowly as he responded.
“And this concerns you because…”
Irritation crossed Vernon’s features, his eyebrows snapping together in annoyance. “I think you know why. We’ve noticed how you look at her.”
“We?”
“You forget, at least one of us is near the Princess at all times. We’ve known about your feelings for her for a while now, but were content to stay out of it as she was promised to your brother and nothing ever came of it. But last night … She obviously did not know I was following her, but I couldn’t very well let her to go traipsing about the palace alone in the middle of the night without protection.”
He glanced at the bodyguard from the corner of his eye, raising one eyebrow in a mocking gesture. “And you think she left her room for the sole purpose of seeking me out in the middle of the night?”
“So it would seem.”
“You’re wrong.”
In his state of annoyance, Serge had ruined yet another cravat. He tossed it into his growing pile with an annoyed huff. Before he could reach for another, Vernon had crossed the room toward him.
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” he huffed, snatching up a new one.
Before Serge could protest, he had begun tying it with quick and efficient hands.
“Hold still. Don’t you have a valet to do this for you?”
“Certainly, but I’m out of practice and thought to do it myself for a change.”
“Getting back to the matter at hand,” Vernon said, his gaze focused on Serge’s cravat. “I came to tell you that as long as it doesn’t happen again, I will not tell anyone what I saw last night.”
“And just who are you to question me about my actions?”
“We are responsible for the Princess’s protection, even from you.”
“I have been her friend since we were children. How could you possibly think I mean to hurt her?”
The bodyguard finished tying the cravat and stepped away from Serge, crossing his arms over his chest
“Whether you would mean to or not is irrelevant. Just see to it that w
hatever took place in that room last night doesn’t repeat itself. I know a marriage between you has been discussed, but unless a betrothal is agreed upon, you would do well to keep your distance.”
“You would do well to remember your place,” Serge snapped. “My behavior is not subject to your approval. You can go back and tell your comrades that I said so. You may leave now.”
The bodyguard, clearly annoyed but intelligent enough to remember he was in the presence of royalty, turned and left without another word. Guilt washed over Serge as he turned back to the mirror. It was not his way to go about lording his title and status over the heads of others, but he’d been caught off guard.
As much as he wanted to look Isabelle’s bodyguard in the eye and tell him nothing had happened, he could not. As much as he wanted to promise himself he would never do it again, he could not.
They might have agreed that the whole thing was nothing to dwell on, but he’d had the devil of a time forgetting. When he allowed his thoughts to wander, they automatically strayed in her direction. The taste of her lips, the smell of her hair, the feel of silk over softly rounded curves; all were ingrained upon his memory. Try as he might, he could not pry those memories loose.
Did she think about him, too? When she was alone, did she imagine his hands touching her in places they never should have been? Did she wonder what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped?
Serge had been so sure marriage to Isabelle was out of the question, but the longer he allowed himself to consider it, the more he wanted it. The more he began to realize that to let her marry someone else would mean yet again suffering in silence, just as he had during her betrothal and short marriage to Lionus.
But then, shouldn’t that be reason enough to stay away? She’d loved his brother, and that love hadn’t died along with him. Being able to call her his own wouldn’t be worth it if he could never possess her heart. Would it?
He wasn’t so certain anymore. As he stuck a ruby tiepin into the snowy white linen at his throat, one thing he was sure of was that Isabelle’s bodyguard would make one hell of a valet.
Serge and his beautifully tied cravat entered the ballroom just a little past fashionably late. Of course, his being a prince ensured that anyone who noticed would keep their mouths shut about his tardiness. Besides, the unintentional lateness would ensure everyone saw him enter on his own two feet.
Lord and Lady Valon, members of the court and his hosts for the evening, materialized out of nowhere to greet him.
“Your Grace,” said Lady Valon with a wide smile and a low curtsy. “How lovely to see you this evening. You look quite well. I see the rumors about your miraculous recovery are indeed true.”
Serge took her hand and kissed the air above it before turning to acknowledge Lord Valon who bowed to him.
“So it would seem,” he replied.
“Indeed, the court has talked of little else the past few weeks. It is almost as if we have invited a ghost to our little gathering.”
Lady Valon realized her error before the words had finished coming out of her mouth. Though everyone knew he had always been the most easygoing of the Rothchester brothers, she had just crossed the line into the territory of inappropriate conversation. However, Serge found it hard to be annoyed with the charming woman, who was refreshingly honest. Besides, she was right. The room had gone eerily silent, and at least three hundred pairs of eyes bored into him shamelessly. As soon as they all realized he was staring back at them, they turned away, the buzz of conversation continuing just as quickly as it had ended.
He gave Lady Valon a genuine smile, and watched her deflate with the breath she must have been holding waiting for him to give her the cut direct.
“Well, I suppose I’d better go shake a few hands so they all know I’m real.”
The woman smiled back, giving a nervous titter, cheeks flushing.
“Enjoy the evening, Your Grace,” she said with another curtsy as he entered the ballroom.
Sidestepping the wide skirts and trains of colorful ball gowns, Serge scanned the ballroom for his family. He paused every few seconds to acknowledge friends and acquaintances, trying his best to ignore the open-mouthed stares of some. As annoying as it was to be gawked at, he understood how shocking his appearance might be. They’d all thought him in a deathlike state, so to see him in their midst would likely take an adjustment—especially considering his altered appearance. The scar on his face itched and burned, but he did his best to keep from touching it. The sensation was all in his mind, caused by his awareness of the stares of others upon it.
At last, he spotted Damien, his height and light blond hair helping him stand out in the crowd. He stood conversing with Primus, Esmeralda on his arm and a champagne flute in his free hand. Serge couldn’t control the frown that pulled his mouth downward at the sight of Barony’s grand vizier. It was irrational for him to wish Damien had left the man at Rothchester Hall, but there you had it.
“Ah, here at last,” Damien remarked as he approached. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”
“I was held up,” Serge replied with a shrug, procuring a glass of champagne from a passing footman.
Damien eyed him with something akin to amusement in his eyes, but he couldn’t fathom why.
“Will you dance tonight, Serge?”
He frowned, his leg twinging at even the thought of dancing. He hadn’t thought of that. Surely he would be expected to, since he usually did and enjoyed it, but he hadn’t given any thought to how difficult it would be.
“I doubt it,” he replied, deciding to walk on the safe side.
His leg had been a bit sore earlier, and he did not want to risk embarrassing himself and having some young miss stare at him with sympathy in her eyes.
“I thought I’d go to the billiards room and find a friendly game to join.”
“That’s really too bad,” Damien said with a shrug, pointing toward the dance floor with his champagne flute. “You’ll miss out on dancing with the belle of the ball.”
He followed Damien’s gaze with disinterest, until his eyes fixed upon a figure in powder-blue satin. His tongue suddenly felt like a piece of cotton in his mouth, and his gut clenched with longing. Isabelle, out of mourning attire and looking like some sort of heavenly vision, was being twirled about the dance floor by a strapping young courtier. The shoulder-baring design of the gown put far too much smooth, creamy flesh on display—her breasts thrust upward by the cinch of her bodice. The flare of her wide skirts made it seem as if she floated in her partner’s arms, and he half expected a cloud to appear at her feet, taking her up to Heaven like the angel she resembled.
She smiled with polite interest at something her partner said, then laughed. The sound—sweet, light, and still somehow hearty—caused the back of his neck to tingle.
The orchestra ended their song, the last few notes giving way to polite applause. Isabelle allowed her white-gloved hand to be kissed and exchanged a few more words with her partner before turning to converse with an acquaintance. Serge decided he could be coaxed onto the dance floor, even if only for one dance.
One dance was all he wanted.
A murmur of appreciation sounded off beside him, and Serge remembered Primus was present. He glanced over to find the man fixated upon the same sight that had enraptured him, his dark eyes glittering in a way that set Serge’s teeth on edge. Before he could set off in Isabelle’s direction, the grand vizier excused himself and headed toward her, leaving a fuming Serge behind.
Damien laughed, clapping him on the shoulder in a playful gesture. “You’re not just going to lie down and let him beat you, are you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through clenched teeth.
Despite his carefully constructed mask of control, he felt his hand curling into a fist at his side as he watched Primus’ lips linger too long on Isabelle’s hand before he led her onto the dance floor.
“Pretend indifference if you wa
nt,” Damien whispered, all traces of humor gone from his tone as he leaned close. “But you and I both know what Isabelle’s coming out of mourning means. Primus is in the perfect position to offer his suit to Isabelle. He’s already been ruling Barony for years and is familiar with the land and the people. He also happens to be handsome and charming. If you don’t do something, he’s going to ruin all my carefully laid plans. More importantly, you are going to miss your only chance to make her yours.”
Before Serge could form an appropriate retort, Damien had taken Esmeralda by the arm and twirled her onto the dance floor.
Damn him, but he was right. In the moment Serge had seen Isabelle from across the room, he had come to his decision. He could no longer pretend not to want her more than anything, or stand idly by and watch her fall into someone else’s arms. He’d been lying to himself, but now he was through. He had to have Isabelle, and if a kingdom just so happened to come along with her, so be it. Ruling was something he’d been raised for, and would likely prove less of a challenge than earning Isabelle’s love.
If he succeeded, it would be worth every bit of effort he would have to exert in order to win in the end.
That decision made, he began moving toward the dance floor at a leisurely pace, keeping his eyes on Primus and Isabelle as they twirled together across the floor. Finding a comfortable place to wait near the dance floor’s perimeter, he took up another glass of champagne. Taking a slow sip, he settled in to wait.
* * *
What had she been thinking? Isabelle had thought herself ready to come out of mourning. But, now that she twirled in the arms of Lord Primus in the Valons’ glittering ballroom, Isabelle wasn’t so sure. When she had asked Gayle to prepare her blue satin ball gown for tonight’s soirée, the woman had nearly suffered an apoplexy.
After this morning’s meeting, she’d decided to take the matter of marriage under serious consideration. The fate of Barony’s people hung in the balance, and an appropriate amount of time had passed in the eyes of the public for her to marry again, even if her heart told her she was not ready.
