Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  She gripped the portfolio of letters in her lap, wishing she were alone so she could read them. “Prince Olivier told me that you were my father’s personal secretary.”

  “I was privileged to serve him for the last three years before his death.”

  “You must have known him well.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say, Your Serene Highness.”

  Can’t? Or won’t? Rory wondered. “Did my father and mother ever talk—or ever meet—after their divorce?”

  Renald flushed from his angular cheeks to his thin pointy beard. “My apologies, madame, but I am not at liberty to divulge any details of my years of service with Prince August. As a member of the palace staff, I was required to sign a confidentiality agreement. The penalties are quite severe.”

  Rory found her face turning warm, as well. “But you gave my brother the letters after my father’s death.”

  “As the new sovereign it was his decision whether Prince August’s private letters should be preserved or destroyed.”

  And Olivier had chosen to give them to her. But she wondered uneasily if Renald’s attitude was a reflection of her father’s attitude toward her. “Well, I would like to learn more about my father and Estaire. May I have a biography of his life and a résumé of important dates in Estaire’s history? I want to brush up on my facts.”

  His hazy blue eyes considered her thoughtfully. Something about his expression reminded her fleetingly of her brother, Olivier. “I have already provided this information to Odette Schoenfeldt, Prince Laurent’s press secretary. You will meet her this afternoon.”

  Rory listened as Renald explained that when she returned to Estaire she would be assigned a suite of rooms in the palace and her own staff consisting of a personal secretary, a press secretary, a bodyguard, a butler, a dresser and a lady’s maid.

  Under consultation with Prince Olivier and Princess Penelope she would select a small number of public duties to ease her into her role as princess and introduce her to the people of Estaire. “Once the engagement is officially announced, we anticipate that your office will receive a large number of invitations and requests for appearances. Your personal secretary is to submit them to me for approval prior to accepting. I will coordinate any joint appearances with Prince Laurent through Sebastian Guimond.”

  Rory realized that Renald wielded a great deal of power in the palace with his weighty rubber stamp. By the time the limo finally squeezed into her driveway beside several vehicles, she was anxious to escape Renald’s protocol instructions and his condescending reminders that she was not to embarrass the royal family under any circumstances.

  Rory got the message. Renald considered her an embarrassment—a byproduct of her father’s imprudent marriage to an American.

  “Let me make myself very clear,” she said as she waited for the bodyguard to open her door. “I may not fit your ideal of a proper Estairian princess, but I have no intention of embarrassing my brother or his wife—or embarrassing Estaire, as you so evidently appear to think I will. I had no input into the choices my parents made—I’m just trying to deal with the impact of them.”

  Renald’s mouth thinned at her outburst. If he wasn’t her enemy before, he definitely was now. He’d probably only send her to tea parties in nursing homes where she couldn’t possibly say anything inappropriate. “With all due respect, madame, I am providing you with the necessary tools to smooth your reception in Estaire. Your mother disgraced Estaire and your father when she asked for a divorce and took you back to America. There are many who will remember...who thought her unworthy. Naturally, they will view your return with skepticism.”

  “Did the people of Estaire know about the marriage treaty?”

  “Certainly not. A sovereign prince does not need to explain his decisions to his people or to anyone else.”

  Especially not to his wife or daughter, Rory thought bitterly. “So they judged her without knowing all the facts.” As she said the words, Rory realized she was judging her mother’s decision to keep her from her father without knowing all the facts, too. Maybe the letters her mother had sent to her father would help her understand what had motivated Sophia’s actions.

  The bodyguard opened her car door. “Thank you for the lesson, Renald. It’s been enlightening.”

  Fuming, Rory wished she could be alone to decompress and read her mother’s letters. But if the house was as crowded as the driveway, she wouldn’t be given an opportunity to be alone. Not with Sebastian’s lesson schedule.

  And Brontë couldn’t possibly be getting the rest and quiet she needed.

  Rory shoved her house key into the lock. Or tried to, anyway. It didn’t appear to fit anymore. Giving up in frustration, she rang the doorbell.

  A butler opened the door. Her door.

  There was a butler in her house. A proper English butler with a bald pate, papery skin and craggy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Rory’s temper shot up another notch. She’d given Sebastian permission to arrange her lessons and order dinner, not change her locks and hire a butler.

  The butler bowed. “Welcome home, Your Serene Highness. My name is Pierce.”

  “Hi.” Rory gaped at him, conscious that Renald was watching her every movement. Waiting for her to do something embarrassing. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. “Pleased to meet you, Pierce.” She extended her hand.

  Pierce looked at her hand as if he didn’t know what to do with it, then shook it gallantly. Rory realized too late that she probably shouldn’t have shaken hands with the hired help. However, this was America, and she’d shake hands with whomever she pleased.

  “You are expected in the living room.”

  “Please show Mr. Dartois to the living room. I need a few moments to freshen up.”

  Ignoring whoever was in the great room, Rory went directly to the kitchen to check on Bronteë. Three strangers had taken over her kitchen. One was chopping vegetables, one was making fresh pasta and the third was operating a food processor.

  Brontë was not in her favorite spot on the windowseat. Rory seriously considered strangling Sebastian with her bare hands. She hadn’t given him permission to invite all these people into her home. No doubt the noise and the strangers had sent Bronteë into hiding—most likely in Rory’s room.

  Rory hurried down the hallway to her room and encountered another invasion into her personal space. Her closet doors were wide-open and three-quarters of her wardrobe had been thrown into two garbage cans. Someone had gone through her dresser drawers, as well.

  Rory felt steam escape her ears. Sebastian was dead meat.

  But she’d deal with him after she found her cat. She hid the portfolio containing her mother’s letters under her pillow, then checked under the bed. “Are you under there, girl?”

  There was no answer. Rory searched her bathroom next. She finally found Bronteë curled up on the foot of the vibrant yellow silk throw that covered her mother’s bed.

  “There you are, kitty. Did you come in here to hide?”

  Thank God nothing in this room appeared to have been disturbed. Before she’d left for work this morning she’d hidden her mother’s evening bag, which contained her birthday necklace, between the folds of a blanket in her mother’s closet. She scooped Bronteë into her arms for a cuddle, then opened the closet to ensure the purse was still there.

  She slipped her hand between the folds of a woven Mexican blanket. The purse was right where she’d left it. After work tomorrow she would put the necklace in a safe deposit box at the bank.

  As she closed the closet door, she turned around to find Sebastian hovering in the doorway, a guilty expression making him look almost boyish. Less severe.

  He should look guilty. Her house was overrun by strangers!

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “I wanted to ensure you found Brontë safe and sound. I carried her in here—away from distractions.”

  “Distractions?” Hysteria crept into her voice. “There are str
angers inhabiting my kitchen and tossing out my clothes. And a butler answering my door!”

  “They’ve all signed confidentiality agreements.”

  Rory rolled her eyes. “Oh, that makes it all better. Where did the butler come from?”

  “He’s part of your new household staff. We are still working on finding you a lady’s maid.”

  “My household staff? I don’t need a household staff. I’m only one person.”

  “You need to become accustomed to having a cook, a butler and a lady’s maid. Consider it practical experience for your return to Estaire.”

  “Where are they supposed to sleep? Your bodyguards are already occupying the guest room.”

  “At their residences. They are day staff.”

  “And just when am I allowed to be alone with all these people around?”

  His gaze grew troubled. “I am afraid, Your Serene Highness, that you will find yourself far too alone in the days ahead.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rory snuggled Bronteë close to her, unsettled by Sebastian’s troubled gaze. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? Had they found another booby trap in the house? Or had Prince Laurent asked him to return to Ducharme?

  “The most difficult aspect of accepting your title will be coping with the isolation from the public and from those within the intimate royal circle. Your position will forever define and change the way you are treated—even by your closest friends and family. I would be remiss in my duty if I did not adequately prepare you for that.”

  Rory swallowed the lump in her throat that went down like a pinecone. Okay, that bit of insight was just as alarming as finding another booby trap. “How does Prince Laurent deal with the isolation?”

  Sebastian’s rich voice gentled. “He remembers how privileged he is. And he reads. Poetry, mostly. Goethe. Hugo. Longfellow. Byron.”

  “Thoreau.”

  He nodded, his dark eyes studying her intimately, unlocking the door to the private world inside her that was nourished by words. The world she’d never been able to share with anyone—until maybe now. “Yes, Thoreau.”

  A frisson of awareness danced through Rory, a kinetic connection with this man as if they were both plugged into the same channel. Both experiencing the push and pull of a growing attraction that swept her off her feet like an ocean swell. She didn’t want the connection to be severed.

  But Sebastian was the one man she could never have.

  Falling in love with him would cause an even greater rift between Estaire and Ducharme. She could imagine the tabloid headlines: Princess Dumps Prince for His Secretary!

  No she couldn’t fall in love with Sebastian. Renald would surely consider a scandal of that magnitude embarrassing to the royal family.

  Still, Rory took in the mouth-drying breadth of Sebastian’s shoulders clad in charcoal-gray wool and the sensual firmness of his lips. She ached to feel his bare chest against hers and the strong sureness of his fingers around her waist. With a bittersweet smile she wondered if Sebastian was as indispensable to his prince as he was becoming to her.

  “They are waiting for you, madame. I am curious to see you find yourself.”

  She flashed him a less-than-confident grin. “You and me both.” Rory kissed Brontë. “You’d better stay here, girl. This could get ugly.”

  RORY TOOK ONE LOOK at the two women sifting through a rack of clothes with Renald in the great room and wanted to hurry back to her bedroom to change. Except, someone had thrown out her clothes.

  One of the women was blond and reminded Rory of champagne in a slender crystal flute—refined, delicate. The other was ebony-haired, with vibrant velvet-brown eyes and tiny hands that moved expressively when she talked.

  They turned curious eyes on Rory as Sebastian made introductions. The white-blonde was Prince Laurent’s press secretary, Odette Schoenfeldt. Her English was flawless, her Continental accent charming and gracious. Rory had a sinking feeling she’d never live up to the press secretary’s expectations. The brunette was Chandale Allard, a Hollywood stylist to the stars.

  “You’ll have to forgive me for raiding your closet,” Chandale said, her tone cheerful and businesslike. “It’s the only way I can research a new client, and there’s a rush on this job. But you’ll thank me in the end.” She clapped her hands together, then made a circle in the air with her index finger. “Turn around for me.”

  Rory reluctantly followed orders, aware that Sebastian had taken a seat in a leather armchair to watch, keeping himself rigid so his wounded back didn’t rest against the cushions. She could feel his eyes on her. Somehow it gave her courage. The truth was, when she finally met Prince Laurent she did want to look her best.

  “Uh-huh. Show me your hands.”

  Rory held out her hands for inspection. She’d never been a girlie-girl or into doing her nails.

  “Have you ever had a professional manicure or a pedicure?”

  Rory flushed, feeling unfeminine. Unprincessish. “No.”

  “Do you use nail polish?”

  “It’s too much maintenance. The sea and the sand chip it right off.”

  “What about makeup?”

  “Lip gloss and sunscreen—unless it’s a special occasion.”

  Chandale nodded. “Walk across the room now. These are the type of clothes you would normally wear to work. Clothes you feel comfortable in?”

  Rory studied the white sundress she’d worn to work. She’d bought it because she felt Bohemian in it. “Yes. The Book Nook is a casual environment.” She walked toward the wall of windows that framed the everchanging vista of the ocean. It was a beautiful afternoon—perfect southern California sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. She paused in front of the picture window, caught up in the warmth of the sun cascading into the great room. The sand on the shoreline glistened like white lace against the indigo ruffled water.

  She felt an urge to be out there in the surf, diving under the waves. She turned around, tripping on the edge of the zebra-striped area rug.

  “Obviously a few lessons in deportment are in order,” Renald said critically.

  Odette bestowed Rory with an encouraging smile. “She is understandably nervous. A swan evolves from a cygnet with careful nurturing. With the proper clothes, the right makeup and some coaching, she is going to be gorgeous. The question is defining her image. Prince Laurent is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. She will be a future queen. She must be seen as his equal in every way.”

  “She is a princess of Estaire first and foremost,” Renald reminded her curtly.

  “Naturally,” Odette allowed. “I did not intend to suggest otherwise. The challenge lies in downplaying her Americanism and emphasizing her Estairian heritage. Prince Olivier and Princess Penelope are a modern couple—young, outgoing, professional, hardworking. She must complement that image, Chandale. The polished long-lost daughter, returning to her country. It’s such a shame she isn’t more gainfully employed. There must be some sort of positive spin we can put on the book clerk job—”

  Anger burst in a hot flash in Rory’s chest. She wondered if her mother been told to downplay her Americanism. “Hey, people, I’m in the room. And I hope you’re not suggesting there’s anything wrong with working in a bookstore. Books educate minds. Where would society be without a record of its history? Or without new ideas, new experiences, new stories to entertain and teach us?”

  Sebastian steepled his fingers together, his elbows braced on the chair arms. His firm lips twitched. “I believe the princess has just given you your spin, Odette.”

  Color stained Odette’s pale cheeks. “So it seems. Renald, perhaps we could involve her in literacy causes. Do you read French or German, Your Serene Highness?”

  “A small amount of French,” Rory admitted.

  Odette shrugged. “No matter. You will learn. In European schools, children learn two or three languages as a matter of course. Americans always seem to think the rest of the world should learn English to accomm
odate them.”

  Rory bit the inside of her cheek and told herself that Odette was only trying to help her.

  Odette’s gaze traveled from the coffee table with the bronze dolphin sculpture leaping from its center to the clear acrylic shelves floating on the sunset-red walls that showcased the objets d’art her mother had collected. “Your home suggests you have an interest in art.”

  “That’s my mother’s doing. We traveled a great deal and she collected things wherever we went.”

  “So you enjoy travel?”

  Rory thought nostalgically of the trips she and her mother had shared. “Yes.” She wondered how her mother would have introduced this birthday adventure—happy birthday, Rory, you’re going to princess boot camp! Even though she was still angry with her mother, she would give anything right now for one of her mom’s hugs and an explanation. She hoped this image consulting would wind up shortly so she could read her mother’s letters.

  “Well, that is something at least,” Renald said. “Her duties will require travel. Do you have other interests or hobbies that we can optimize?”

  “I like to surf and in-line skate.”

  Rory could tell that answer went over big.

  “Volunteer work?”

  “I donate blood regularly.”

  Perspiration dotted Rory’s upper lip even though the air-conditioning in the house was functioning. She felt as if she were being interviewed for a job and failing miserably. Odette and Renald continued to pepper her with questions until Sebastian turned to Chandale, who had been listening intently to the interrogation with her chin propped on a balled fist.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Chandale waved a hand as if she were a witch casting a magic spell. “I’ve heard and seen enough. It’s time to try on some clothes and find her look.”

  Odette cleared her throat delicately. “What about her hair? Will it be a problem?”

  Chandale sent Odette a patient look that made Rory feel she wasn’t the only one sensing the press secretary’s mild antagonism. “Not in the right hands. It will become her trademark.”