The Prince's Royal Dilemma

by Brenda Harlen

  “You’re right,” she finally admitted.

  Tan’s smile was smug. “Of course I’m right. And I know just the man to make you forget all about His Royal Arrogance.”

  She groaned. “Please tell me you’re not talking about a blind date.”

  “Actually, I’m not talking about a date at all, but a job.” She broke a peanut butter cookie in half and popped a piece into her mouth.

  “What job?” Lara asked.

  “Taking care of Luke’s kids.”

  “Your Luke?”

  “My boss,” her friend clarified.

  Lara had met him a couple of times at the art gallery and knew a little of his basic background from Tanis. A hunky widower with twin girls, if she remembered correctly. And the object of her friend’s secret affection. “I thought he had a nanny.”

  “He did. Until last week when she ran off with a sculptor whose work was on display at the gallery.”

  She managed a smile. “And you think he’s desperate enough to hire a nanny fired by the royal family?”

  “I know he’d be lucky to have you,” Tan said loyally.

  “In fact, I’ll give him a call right now if you’re interested.”

  Lara was tempted to say no, to let herself dream that the prince regent would somehow realize he’d made a mistake and ask her to come back, but she knew that would never happen.

  “But if you’re not sure, you can take some time to think about it,” Tan continued. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”

  “Thanks,” Lara said, grateful for the offer, though she knew she couldn’t accept it. Her friend’s apartment was barely big enough for one person, even without all the art supplies scattered around. “But I think starting a new job would be good. I need to move on.”

  “Then I’ll call Luke right away.” Tanis was already reaching for the phone.

  Lara sipped her wine while her friend made the arrangements.

  “He wanted to come over and pick you up right now,” Tan said when she disconnected the call.

  “I could go now,” she agreed.

  “No way. It’s a rare occurrence for us to have the same day off and I want to go shopping.”

  “Shoe shopping?”

  Her friend grinned. “Is there any other kind?”

  “I guess a new job calls for new shoes,” she agreed, but her eyes filled again with tears.

  Tan touched her hand. “It will get better.”

  “The worst part of this whole situation is that I wasn’t prepared and I should have been. I knew Prince Rowan never liked me—I just didn’t realize how much he actually disliked me.” She swallowed. “It was almost as if he was looking for an excuse to fire me.”

  “That’s because he’s an arrogant, pompous ass,” Tanis declared with such conviction that Lara had to smile.

  “Married?” Rowan stared at Henri Marchand, certain the information he’d just been given couldn’t possibly be true. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m afraid not,” his political advisor and longtime friend said solemnly. “If you don’t marry within six months of your thirty-fifth birthday, you risk losing the throne.”

  “Can I challenge the law? Change it?”

  “You could try, but it would be a difficult and time-consuming process and your birthday isn’t far away.”

  Rowan scanned the highlighted portion of the text again, shaking his head. “Which means that I have little more than six months to find a suitable bride.”

  The corners of Henri’s mouth curved just a little, and Rowan knew he was amused by the thought of his avowed bachelor friend finally sticking his head in the marriage noose.

  “That’s right, Your Highness.”

  “And if I refuse? Would the throne then pass to Eric?”

  It was a hypothetical question, really, because he wouldn’t ever ask his brother to give up the career he loved in the navy just to help him avoid a pesky little matter like marriage. And if the throne passed further down the line to Marcus—no, he couldn’t even imagine it. His youngest brother was barely old enough to be responsible for himself, never mind an entire country.

  “It’s not that simple,” Henri warned. “Because Tesoro del Mar is a cross between a hereditary and an elective monarchy, the appointment of your successor would need to be approved by the royal council.”

  “As mine was approved.”

  “Yes. Much to the annoyance of the princess royal.”

  Rowan frowned. “My aunt Elena objected to my appointment as prince regent?”

  “When a ruler dies without an heir of legal age, his successor is to be chosen from all eligible members of the royal family, and your aunt thought her eldest son, Prince Michael, should have at least been considered for the position.”

  “And Michael is already married.”

  Henri nodded. “I don’t know that your cousin is even interested in the position, but there’s no doubt his mother wants it for him, and if you choose to ignore this legislation, she will find a way to use it against you.”

  Rowan folded his hands on top of his desk, not wanting to give any further indication of the frustration churning inside. He understood that it was his duty to fill the role of prince regent until his eldest nephew was of an age to take his rightful place on the throne, but he sure hadn’t been thinking about marriage when he’d accepted the position. Now he was being pressured not just to find a wife but to do so within a specified time frame—or put the future of the monarchy in jeopardy.

  “Okay,” he said to his friend. “You’re supposed to be my advisor. Advise me. How exactly am I going to pull this off?”

  “With all due respect, while marriage seems to be a political necessity, the choosing of a bride should be a personal decision.”

  Rowan just scowled.

  “You’ve escorted any number of beautiful women to various social events,” Henri reminded him. “Surely it wouldn’t take much persuasion for one of them to accept a permanent position at your side.”

  “Choosing a suitable companion for a state dinner or a few pleasurable hours behind closed doors is entirely different from deciding who will be not just the next princess of Tesoro del Mar but the person with whom I share the rest of my life.”

  “There must be someone who made an impression,” Henri said. “At least one woman you couldn’t stop thinking about after you’d said good-night.”

  Rowan tried to summon memories of the women he’d gone out with in the past year but found his efforts diverted by the image of Lara that hovered in his mind. He couldn’t remember any other woman’s eyes, only her vibrant green ones—the way they softened to the shade of moss when she talked about the children or sparked like emerald fire when she was angry. He’d kissed more women than he could remember, but it was somehow the lips he hadn’t had the pleasure of tasting that beckoned him—Lara’s lips, soft and full and so tempting. He’d dated women with long hair—some with flowing blond tresses, others with spiraling dark curls, but all he could remember now was the way the copper of Lara’s hair glinted in the sun and the way the short choppy layers emphasized her delicate bone structure and creamy ivory skin.

  “Obviously, there is.” Henri’s comment broke through his reverie.

  Rowan pushed aside the haunting image and forced himself to ignore the almost painful yearning that stirred deep in his belly. “No,” he lied. “There’s no one.”

  His friend responded by arching his brows but didn’t challenge his statement. “Well, then, you better start looking. Though I’ll warn that you will likely be inundated with bridal candidates as soon as the media gets wind of this, as you know they will.”

  He nodded, having long ago accepted the fact that every aspect of his life was subject to public scrutiny, even—or maybe especially—his choice of female companions. “You’re sure there’s no way around this?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” Henri reminded him. “But I’d assume that the law has stood as long as it h
as because it is supported by the people.”

  Rowan nodded again. “Thank you, Henri.”

  He bowed and retreated to the outer office.

  His friend’s comment about not being a lawyer reminded Rowan that Marcus soon would be. He picked up the phone to call his brother.

  Marcus Santiago was jolted from a dead sleep to wide awake on the first ring. A quick glance at the clock had his heart leaping into his throat as he grabbed for the receiver. The last time he’d received a call from home in the middle of the night, it was because his eldest brother and sister-in-law had been killed.

  “What’s happened now?” he demanded in a gravelly voice.

  “Everyone’s okay.”

  Marcus let out a sigh and sank back into his bed. “Then why couldn’t you have waited until morning to call?”

  “It is morning,” Rowan told him.

  “Barely.”

  “And I wanted to be sure to catch you before you headed off to class.”

  “I don’t have any classes that start earlier than 10:00 a.m. local time,” he reminded his brother.

  “I’m going to fax you some pages,” Rowan said, ignoring the complaint and pushing ahead with his own agenda.

  “What pages?”

  “A copy of an archaic piece of legislation that somehow still happens to be in effect. I need your interpretation of it and, more importantly, I need you to figure out how I can get around it.”

  Now this was unexpected…and interesting. “Tell me you haven’t violated Tesorian law.”

  “Not yet,” Rowan said, then proceeded to fill his brother in on the details of his recent conversation with Henri. By the time he was finished, Marcus was hooting with laughter.

  “I don’t care that you find this amusing,” Rowan said to him. “So long as you find me a loophole.”

  “Maybe instead of fighting this, you should look at it as an opportunity,” his brother suggested.

  “How is this anything but a disaster waiting to happen?”

  “You’ve been thrown into the roles of prince regent and guardian of our niece and nephews, which hardly leaves you any time for a social life.”

  “You have enough social life for both of us,” Rowan interrupted.

  “You can’t let one unfortunate and long-ago experience sour you on the prospect of marriage forever.”

  “I’m happy with my life, with the freedom to date a different woman every night of the week if I want.”

  While Marcus could certainly appreciate that option and did, he knew that his brother had once wanted something different—until Margot had killed those dreams.

  He also knew that Rowan wouldn’t want to be reminded of the ill-fated affair of which he still bore the scars, so he only said, “You used to envy Julian his luck in meeting and falling in love with Catherine.”

  “Turns out he wasn’t so lucky after all, was he?” Rowan said bitterly.

  “I’m just suggesting you could look at this legislation as an opportunity to find someone special.”

  “I’m not opposed to the idea of marriage—just to having it forced upon me, and within a legislated time frame, no less.”

  Marcus could certainly understand that. “Send me the paperwork,” he said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ten days after Miss Brennan left the palace, Rowan was still trying to convince himself that he had no reason to feel guilty. But every time he looked into Damon’s tear-streaked face or saw the abject misery in Alexandria’s big gold eyes, he wondered if the decision he’d made was really what was best for them. Even Christian, usually so stoic and accepting, seemed to miss the nanny. And then there was his conversation with Marcus—two days after he’d fired her—wherein his brother explained the circumstances behind the picture of Lara on the beach.

  He’d made a mistake—he’d reacted emotionally instead of rationally, and without having all of the facts. But the picture had done something to him, churned up desires he hadn’t even been aware of possessing. It was one thing to want a woman—he hadn’t lived well into his thirty-fourth year without experiencing the pull of desire and the pleasures of making love. But Lara was the children’s nanny, and he was appalled by the weakness within himself that he could want a woman who was so clearly off-limits, and want her desperately.

  He’d thrown the paper in the trash, but somehow that tempting image of her was burned into his brain. He couldn’t sleep at night without dreaming about her, fantasizing about that slim, sexy body wrapped around him. And when he woke in the morning, hard and aching with wanting her, he could only be grateful that she was gone—far out of the reach of temptation. But after the initial wave of relief passed, the guilt settled in—guilt that, while he might have made the decision that was right for him, he’d made it for all the wrong reasons.

  Of course, the decision had been made, so there could be no going back. Damon would cease throwing temper tantrums when he realized they had no effect; Alexandria would regain her appetite; and Christian would smile again. He had to remain firm in his conviction and trust that their rebellious behavior would pass. They just needed a period of adjustment. The new nanny had only been in residence for a week, and Rowan was confident that it wouldn’t be too much longer before life settled into a normal routine again—and Damon would, hopefully, settle down.

  He hadn’t hired Edna Harris because of her gray hair or long skirts or thick clunky shoes, but he considered those to be definite bonuses. She’d been in the business of caring for other people’s children longer than he’d been alive, and she wasn’t a woman he’d need to worry about going clubbing on her night off or sneaking out of the palace for a midnight rendezvous with a lover. And he definitely wouldn’t be distracted by the image of her laughing eyes, smiling lips or shapely curves.

  Yes, Edna Harris was the best thing for all of them, especially now that he was facing a deadline to marry. He had to focus his attention on the future and trust that his erotic dreams about Lara would fade and he’d be able to sleep again at night.

  His hopes in that regard were dashed by the sharp poke of a finger in his side.

  He shook off the fog of his restless slumber and pushed himself up, trying to focus through the darkness on the child standing beside his bed. “What’s the matter, Alexandria?”

  “Damon’s throwing up again.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Where’s Mrs. Harris?”

  “In the nursery.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because you can fix him.”

  Rowan frowned at the note of certainty in her voice.

  “What do you think I can do that Mrs. Harris can’t?”

  “Bring Lara back.”

  Mierda. “You have a new nanny now,” he reminded her gently.

  “She doesn’t know the song,” Alexandria told him.

  He was wide-awake now, but still not able to make sense of the conversation. “What song?”

  “The one…” Her voice faltered and even in the pale moonlight, he saw the shimmer of tears that filled her eyes. But she blinked fiercely to hold them in check and tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “The one Mommy used to sing to us. The one that Lara sings when we have bad dreams.”

  Rowan squinted at the clock beside the bed. It was three o’clock in the morning and he had a 7:00 a.m. meeting with the minister of state, but he somehow knew that his handling of this crisis could have more immediate and long-lasting repercussions than anything he discussed with Lorenzo over breakfast.

  “Damon’s been throwing up every night since Lara went away,” she told him.

  He frowned. “What do you mean—every night?”

  “Mrs. Harris didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  She sighed dramatically. “Damon’s been having nightmares since Mommy and Daddy died. Lara used to sing to him, but now she’s gone and he just screams and cries until he makes himself sick.”

  Rowan pulled his robe out of the
closet. “Miss Brennan has been gone for ten days.”

  Alexandria nodded.

  “Are you telling me that your brother has been waking up every night for the past week and a half?”

  “Every night since Mommy and Daddy died,” she said again. “But he’s only been throwing up since Lara went away.”

  The realization that no one had bothered to tell him about this was making him feel ill. “Let’s go see your brother, then I’ll call Dr. Marotta.”

  Despite Mrs. Harris’s entreaties, Alexandria refused to leave her brother’s side, and Rowan didn’t have the heart to force her. Instead, he encouraged the nanny to turn in, promising that he would wait for the doctor, then see to his niece himself. The woman pursed her thin lips in obvious disapproval but acceded to his wishes.

  Dr. Marotta arrived within thirty minutes of Rowan’s call. Unfortunately, he had no magical cure for the little boy, though he did give the child a mild sedative to help him settle. When Damon was asleep again, Rowan took Alexandria to her own room.

  It was rare for him to be home without guests or other obligations when it was time for the children to go to bed, so he wasn’t accustomed to sharing in the nighttime ritual. But as he helped the young princess into her bed and pulled the covers up under her chin, he found comfort in the routine—and sorrow in the knowledge that it should have been his brother tucking her in. He would give anything to bring Julian and Catherine back for their children, but not even a prince had that kind of power.

  “Good night, little princess.”

  Her eyes were already closing. “G’night.”

  On impulse he touched his lips to her forehead and saw her lips curve in response to the gesture.

  He was at the door when she spoke again.

  “You’ll get Lara to come back, won’t you, Uncle Rowan?”

  His fingers tightened on the knob. “I’ll talk to her.”

  It was the most he could promise, but it was enough for his niece, who smiled again as she drifted into sleep.

  Dr. Marotta was waiting for Rowan when he exited her room.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight, Doctor.”