Laurent could think of only one crucial piece of information he’d left out. His real identity.
He read the top document. It was in German. Something she’d downloaded from the Internet. “You read this?”
“Well, duh! I used a dictionary. You didn’t mention that King Wilhelm was holding this treaty over Prince Laurent’s head. It says right there that the prince won’t become king until he’s married and has a family.”
“You figured all that out with a dictionary? Impressive.” He thumbed through the other documents, admiring her initiative and her thoroughness. She hadn’t accepted anything that he and Prince Olivier had told her at face value. She’d researched Estaire and Ducharme. And him. At least there were no pictures of him, thanks to the foresight of the palace press office, which had posted notices that the sites were under maintenance.
“You didn’t mention that Prince Laurent is a playboy, either. Do I strike you as the type of girl who would be happy married to a playboy?”
Laurent’s conscience stirred, rumbled like a fabled beast with dark grasping tentacles. He could give her everything she had told him she wanted out of a marriage: a family, children, a partnership. Even the dog and the cat. “Is that what you think marriage is about—happiness?”
“No, I think marriage is about love. Commitment. What does a playboy know about love?”
Enough, Laurent thought. Love had destroyed his mother. It had destroyed Marielle. And it had nearly destroyed him.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read. The press wants to sell papers. People would rather read about the ‘playboy prince’ out on the town than the ‘hardworking prince’ who carries out his duties.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Laurent’s gaze was drawn to the haunting blueness of her eyes. To the hunger and vulnerability that lurked there. His jaw clenched. Rory was so naive. He didn’t think he could bear it if their marriage destroyed her. He sought the right words. This was the lesson that would define their marriage and forge their relationship. “I think the prince will commit every day of his life to this marriage. To your future together. To your children. He will be your partner in every sense of the word.”
“You didn’t say anything about love.”
He didn’t hesitate. “No, I didn’t. So very few royal marriages founded on love are successful. A royal marriage is a business partnership founded on mutual respect.”
“So, no hot sex?”
The question stunned him and fed an image of making love to her on the beach, her body soft and golden beneath him, her hair fanned over the wet sand, her enchanting white gauzy dress unbuttoned to her waist and the surf foaming at their joined hips. Laurent had never entertained such an uninhibited assignation, not when he knew the paparazzi could be lurking anywhere, hoping to make his private life next week’s paycheck.
For the second time since he had met Rory, Laurent wished he wasn’t a prince. He was enjoying the anonymity of reacting to her like an ordinary man. He was tempted to run a testing finger along the plump curve of her bottom lip and ask her what she meant by hot. But he knew she was goading him. Testing him.
He hid a smile at her cleverness. “This would be one aspect of your American upbringing that needs toning down.”
She folded her arms across her chest, the movement stretching the gauze fabric tight across her breasts. “I’m not allowed to talk about sex? Or to have sex?”
Laurent felt uncomfortably hot under the collar—and under his briefs. She wasn’t wearing a proper bra for the dress. The pert tips of her nipples and the shadows of her areolae were apparent. And distracting. The afternoon’s lessons weren’t beginning quite the way he’d planned.
“I believe I have made my point.”
She clapped her hands, twice. “Very smooth, teacher. You appeared to answer the question and refrained from answering at the same time.”
He minutely adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. He easily commanded large audiences, and yet his control waffled precariously in her presence. “Glad you were paying attention.”
“Oh, I’m paying attention. I’ll be having sex with the prince, but only for procreating. And, by the way, my American ideals don’t need toning down. Your medieval ideas need updating. No wonder my mother left my father.
“Oh, God, I can’t believe I said that.” Rory’s throat swelled with tears. Her mother. Her quirky, vivacious mother, who could confidently choose the newest trends and yet never spoke about her personal feelings.
“Did your mother never talk to you about her marriage?”
She shook her head. “Once when I really pushed the subject, she said they hadn’t known each other well enough before they got married.” And yet, her mother had never uttered a desire to marry again. She’d socialized, but rarely dated the same man more than a few times.
Was it an inborn reticence or had her mother’s love for her husband never died? Had she held it all inside her, hoping that Prince August might see the error of his actions and return to her? Was that why her mother had told her she wanted Rory to marry for love? It occurred to her that her father had never remarried, either.
Rory sighed. She wondered if she would ever find any answers that would bring her peace. “I always thought my mother was my best friend. I thought I knew her better than anyone.” Resentment crept from her heart to her voice. “Now I feel as if I didn’t know her. How could she keep such a big secret from me? Everything I loved about her is colored by the lies she told me.” It hurt.
Sebastian cupped her chin firmly, his intense inky gaze studying her. “What if the answer is very simple, and how do you Americans say…staring you in the face?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if she was trying to protect you?”
“FYI, I can take care of myself.”
“FYI? What does that mean?” Sebastian asked her in a husky tone. A warm liquid rush, intoxicating as a fine liqueur, tingled through her body and spilled down to her belly, dangerous and exciting and inappropriate.
She had to remind herself that Sebastian was here on Prince Laurent’s behalf, to convince her to go through with the marriage treaty.
Rory crossed her legs, the warmth gathering in her belly pulsed with awareness of Sebastian’s closeness. Of the hard muscle beneath the armor of his exquisite suits. Of his scent. She thought it would be immensely satisfying to wrinkle his clothes while she had hot sex with him. Here in the back of the limo…just for the fun of it. She had to smile in irony. Yeah. When pigs could fly.
She cleared her throat. “FYI means ‘for your information.’”
“I see.” He quirked a brow. “Would you like to hear your schedule for the afternoon, FYI?”
He was teasing her, his German-accented English sexy in the extreme. Rory wondered whose brilliant idea it had been to send him to be her teacher. “Enlighten me. I hope you arranged for some of the lessons to be done at my house so I can keep an eye on Brontë.”
“I have taken that into account. First, you will have lunch with your brother, followed by a palace protocol lesson. At two-thirty, you will meet with Prince Laurent’s press secretary, your brother’s personal secretary and a Hollywood stylist to consult on your image.”
“My image?”
“Yes, how you are going to present yourself to the world—clothes, hair, comportment.”
Rory squirmed. She knew exactly how she presented herself to the world. Bookish, klutzy and sincere. Obviously Sebastian and her brother didn’t think she was up to snuff. But submitting to the lessons was her ticket to understanding her father and the world he’d inhabited. She might even meet people who had known her mother when she was Princess Sophia.
“Now, at 5:00 p.m.,” Sebastian continued, “you will begin language studies. One hour of French, followed by one hour of German.”
She hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to learn how to order chicken from a menu in German.
“Then a brief course in t
able manners before you dress for dinner. Prince Olivier will join you.”
Rory stared at Sebastian as if he’d asked her to fly to the moon. “I’m afraid takeout and an ocean view are all the hospitality I can provide at this late notice.”
“Do not concern yourself with the meal, madame. The prince’s staff will see to everything. You need only concentrate on your lessons.”
“Well, we can skip the table manners. FYI, my mother showed me which fork and glass to use.”
Sebastian shot her an unreadable look. “In Europe, the continental style is preferred. And you will need protocol instructions for state dinners.”
“Believe it or not, I know the continental style is preferred.” She performed a fair imitation of his accent. “My mother taught it to me on one of our trips to France.” Rory had been thirteen. They’d made a game of it. Had her mother been preparing her for her future?
Rory sighed. She gazed out the window at the mustard, cream and salmon-colored stucco homes and the palm trees lining the streets. A young woman on in-line skates zipped down the sidewalk with the wind tousling her hair as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
This was the only home she’d ever known. Sure, she and her mother had traveled, but Southern California was home.
Rory imagined sleeping in the castle where her father had been raised—and his ancestors before him.
Sebastian tapped her on the thigh. “A princess crosses her legs at the ankle only.”
Rory suppressed a quiver at the touch of his fingers on her bare skin. She quickly uncrossed her legs. “You sound like my mother.”
“A photographer likely earned a year’s salary over a scandalous photo of your mother’s legs while she was married to your father. The paparazzi are infamous for climbing over walls, under tables, through windows to get a headline-grabbing photo.”
Rory’s brain fed her an image of a famous photo taken of Lady Diana Spencer’s legs. A photographer had coaxed her into posing for a photo. The sun was to her back, revealing her legs through her thin cotton skirt.
“Point taken.” Rory had no desire whatsoever to make headlines doing anything stupid. “How does Prince Laurent stand it? Photographers and journalists hovering around like vultures 24/7, waiting for the smallest mistake, the tiniest bit of scandal?”
An odd, sad look crossed Sebastian’s face. “Even after a lifetime, one never really gets used to it. And don’t forget the political detractors, and—”
“And what? The assassins?” A shiver flayed her spine. The world Sebastian painted of royal life was the extreme opposite of her common life. Marrying Prince Laurent seemed destined to make her unhappy and deny her the unconditional love of a husband.
Her heart clenched.
Was that a sacrifice she was truly willing to make?
CLAUDE DUPONT CURSED as he wove through traffic, trying to keep Princess Charlotte Aurora’s limousine in sight.
He’d slammed the bag of books he’d purchased onto the hood of a parked car and hopped onto his motorcycle when he’d spotted the princess exit the back door of the book shop and climb into a waiting limousine.
He had missed his opportunity with her earlier. He wouldn’t miss another. Time was running out. Prince Laurent would press for a quick engagement, and Claude owed it to Marielle to stop the wedding from taking place.
Chapter Seven
Despite her doubts and uncertainties, Rory was delighted to have a brother. As Prince Olivier greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, she gave him an impulsive hug.
When his arms slipped around her and hugged her back, Rory held on tight for a moment, regret filling her for the years they’d been strangers.
“Ça va?” her brother inquired. He studied her, his eyes reminding her of the pensive blue of the ocean at dusk. He was wearing slacks and a polo shirt and looked more like an ordinary big brother, caring and protective. She didn’t even mind when he called her Charlotte Aurora. It gave her a sense of shared history.
He touched her chin. “You are frightened, ma petite soeur. I am very sorry about your mother. We will not allow whoever killed her to go unpunished. You have my word on that. But you must not let fear govern you.
“Just before I left for university notre père told me that I would encounter many people who, for one reason or another, might resent me for my birth. He warned me that if people who would be your enemy smell fear, it gives them power over you.”
Rory swallowed the lump in her throat. “Are you afraid sometimes, Olivier?”
“Yes. My greatest fear is that I will not live up to my responsibilities.” His face took on an ashen tinge. “Penelope is taking my inability to get her pregnant very hard. There is a fertility clinic she wants us to visit next week, to get another opinion.”
“Will you go?”
“Of course.”
“What is Penelope like? I looked up Estaire’s Web site and saw pictures of you both. And of Estaire. Your wife is very beautiful.”
“Beautiful and smart.” Olivier guided her to a sofa. “She’s British, the daughter of an earl. I met her at Oxford. She’s a lawyer, an expert in international business. She is exceedingly good at winning a point.”
Rory knew her brother considered Penelope’s business experience a plus for Estaire. Had her father married her mother for similar reasons? “Are you in love with her?”
Her brother smiled wryly. “I assume this has something to do with the marriage treaty. When you are a royal, your first inclination is to be wary of anyone’s intentions toward you. Penelope and I were honest about what we hoped to accomplish together. Since our marriage, she has devoted herself to Estaire, which makes me love her more every day. She is the best partner I could ever hope to find.” Olivier met her gaze, his expression frank. “I think if you and Prince Laurent are honest with each other, you can come to an arrangement that will satisfy you both. He’s a good man. I have a great deal of respect for him. And I have a great deal of respect for our father’s judgment.”
Unfortunately, Rory didn’t share Olivier’s opinion of their father’s judgment. “What was my father like?” she asked.
“Very disciplined. Very private. He didn’t like to show weakness of any kind. He worked very hard to give his people a high standard of living, employment, good medical care, education. When he died, there was hardly a man, woman or child in Estaire who didn’t attend his funeral.”
“Except for me,” Rory said, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her voice. “His own child.”
Olivier tilted her chin up, apology in his tone. “He thought of you often. I found pictures of you in his wallet after he was gone.”
Grief mixed with the bitterness that gnawed at her soul. Her father had carried her picture everywhere, and she hadn’t even been allowed to know him. “Pictures?”
Olivier nodded. “Your mother sent them with annual reports of your progress, telling him about your birthday trips. Renald Dartois, my father’s secretary, gave me the letters after my father died. I brought them with me because I thought you might like to have them. The trips were his gifts to you.”
“They were?” Rory gave up any pretense of trying to hide the tears blurring her eyes.
“Mais, oui. You will meet Renald after lunch. He is my secretary now. We will ask him for the letters.”
Rory sniffled and wiped the flood of tears from her cheeks. Why did she never have a tissue when she needed one? Olivier offered her a snowy handkerchief from his pocket. She took it gratefully.
“Did my mother know when he died?”
“Yes, but she chose not to attend the funeral. After that, she stopped sending the yearly updates.”
Probably hoping Olivier would forget all about the marriage treaty. Rory angrily wiped her tears. You guessed wrong, Mom.
RORY DIDN’T HAVE much appetite for the grilled mahi-mahi salad. She sipped a glass of iced tea and asked Olivier questions about his life. Her brother loved speed and the outdoors. He lov
ed to ski, race power boats and mountain bike. She promised to teach him how to surf and to in-line skate.
After their lunch, Olivier introduced her to Renald Dartois, his private secretary. Rory judged Renald to be a few years older than her brother. He had a sharp, pointed face, his jaw outlined by a thin, meticulously trimmed beard and a haughty expression that made Rory feel as if she had dirt on her nose.
Her spine stiffened.
He was judging her on her mother’s choices, not hers. But she wondered what her reception would be like from the rest of Prince Olivier’s staff. Sebastian had told her she would need to win their hearts, and their loyalty. She could see that he was right.
“Renald, do you have the letters for the princess?”
Rory’s fingers trembled as her brother’s personal secretary offered her a portfolio from his briefcase.
“They are organized by date,” he explained.
“Thank you. These letters mean a great deal to me.”
“Renald will be escorting you home and giving you a lesson in palace protocol.”
Rory felt alarmed by the prospect, then remembered what her brother had told her about not showing fear to her enemies. “Will Sebastian be coming?”
Sebastian had discreetly disappeared when they’d arrived back at the hotel. Somehow she felt safer when he was with her.
Her brother’s personal secretary gave her a cold, polite smile as if he could read her thoughts. “He is already at your residence with the others. There were several tasks requiring his attention.”
“Enjoy your lessons. I’ll look forward to our dinner and tour of your home,” Olivier said. “I have a golf game with representatives from the motion picture industry to discuss incentives to encourage their continued filming in Estaire.”
Rory wished him good luck and allowed Renald Dartois and several bodyguards to escort her to the limousine. She bore Renald’s continued disapproving silence until they reached the privacy of the limo. Then she decided she was going to take matters into her own hands and make conversation. She was not going to allow her brother’s secretary to intimidate her. Besides, Renald had worked for her father, as well. And she ached to know whatever he could tell her.
Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love Page 32
