Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  That smile, the supremely confident smile of a man who knows his attraction, shook Lauren from her artist’s reverie. She started to move back, to put a safer distance between herself and this disturbing man. She couldn’t. Prince Nicolas was still holding her hand. Lauren was suddenly conscious of the warmth of his flesh on hers. Carefully she extricated her hand and took that much-needed step back.

  It didn’t help. His Royal Highness seemed to fill the room. He was a tall man, made even taller by aristocratic poise and confidence, tempered by military fitness. Would she paint him in uniform, she wondered, or civilian clothes? A more casual painting would emphasise the broad shoulders and chest.

  Perhaps a setting that suggested his liking for sport and physical pursuits. Physical pursuits of all sorts, Lauren thought, as she noted the strong curves of his shoulders under the well-cut jacket. How she would love to sketch his bare chest and shoulders, to capture the curve of his neck. Her fingers ached to trace the line of his neck and his jaw. Her face flushed when he raised one eyebrow, almost as if he knew what she was thinking.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘I … what …’ Lauren blustered, feeling her embarrassment deepen into mortification.

  ‘What do you think?’ He stepped back and spread his arms wide, inviting her further inspection. ‘Will I do?’

  ‘Will you do what?’ Lauren’s confusion coloured her voice, making it almost shrill.

  ‘As a subject?’

  ‘Oh … of course,’ Lauren stammered. ‘I was just …’ Just what? Picturing him with his shirt off? Hardly something she could say to a prince, and her first paying customer.

  ‘I know, thinking about the painting.’

  ‘Yes I was,’ Lauren agreed. ‘I do hope I can do justice to the collection.’

  ‘So do I. So tell me, in what way do the Kneller portraits disappoint you?’

  With relief Lauren turned her back on the prince, not caring if that was also a breach of protocol. She pretended to study the matching portraits either side of the door as she took a long slow breath, trying to recover the wits scattered by the prince’s overwhelming presence.

  ‘They’re not that good,’ she said without thinking.

  ‘Not that good?’

  Lauren tried to read the prince’s tone. This wasn’t going at all well. ‘I mean … there are better paintings in the collection.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let the curator hear you say that.’

  It was too late now to back off. ‘I’ve never understood why these were considered the best. Kneller was never one of the greats. Not like Reynolds. Or Gainsborough.’

  ‘Ah, but you forget the subjects.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘To devalue the portraits would be to devalue the subjects. And that we must never do. Not after they did so much to find a place in a turbulent world for this small and rather unimportant country. Isn’t that right, Courtauld?’

  ‘Indeed, Your Royal Highness.’ Not one shred of criticism touched the functionary’s voice.

  ‘They did it by marrying off their many sons and daughters to ruling families the length and breadth of Europe,’ the prince continued. ‘Not an easy task, I should imagine, given their looks. But they did have brains. My older brother inherited the brains, which is rather appropriate as he will one day rule. My job, on the other hand, is to improve the family looks. Which means …’ he moved to her side, and leaned close ‘… you won’t have to work quite so hard to hide my imperfections.’

  He was so close that she could almost feel the warmth of his body.

  The arrogance of the man! Lauren bridled and spoke without thinking.

  ‘I do try to capture the personality of the subject, not just their appearance,’ she said in tone dripping with sugar. ‘So there might be some things to hide.’

  No sooner were the words out, than she regretted them. She could almost feel the equerry stiffen in his place near the door. She kept her gaze glued to the portraits, not wanting to see the reaction of the man at her side. Silence reigned for a few seconds, then Lauren heard the prince take a deep breath, as if to speak. Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock on the door. Another man appeared.

  ‘Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. They are waiting.’

  A slight pause.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  From the corner of her eye, Lauren saw the tall figure move away. He paused by the desk to retrieve his jacket. He slipped a tie around his neck, fastening it as he moved towards a large gilt-framed mirror to check his appearance.

  Lauren turned to face him, feeling safer now the expanse of the room separated them. Carefully avoiding the disapproving look of the prince’s equerry, Lauren opened her mouth to apologise.

  ‘You wait here.’ The prince spoke before the words even formed in her mouth. ‘I shan’t be long. We are not finished yet.’ With that promise, or threat, he followed his servant out of the room, leaving Lauren alone with her escort.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Lauren decided she should at least study some of the other paintings on the walls of the room. It would be her last chance to admire the collection that she had read about in college. After this disaster of a meeting, she would no doubt lose the royal commission. She would never return to the palace, see the paintings … or the prince … again. She sighed.

  ‘Would you care to be seated, Miss Phelps?’ The equerry indicted a large chair that looked like an antique.

  ‘Thank you …’ Lauren hesitated. ‘I’m sorry – what do I call you?’

  ‘You may call me Mr Courtauld, Miss Phelps.’ There was no trace of warmth or invitation in his tone.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Courtauld.’ Lauren moved to the chair he had indicated, realising only as she got there that her knees were shaking. Gratefully she sank onto the fine embroidered cloth. She clasped her hands in her lap, to overcome the desire to fiddle with her hair. A few more minutes of silence flowed, until Lauren felt she had to talk, or scream.

  ‘How long have you worked for the prince?’

  ‘I have served the House of Verbier d’Arennes all of my life.’

  He had to be in late his fifties. That was a long time to spend with a single employer. ‘You must enjoy it.’

  ‘It is an honour to serve.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lauren still didn’t hear any warmth or encouragement in his tone, but his ingrained politeness would force him to converse with her. That was enough. The waiting would be impossible if she didn’t talk to someone.

  ‘And how long with Prince Nicolas?’

  ‘I have served in this capacity since His Royal Highness left the military to take up official duties.’

  ‘I see.’ Lauren was rapidly running out of things to say. Courtauld remained silent, so she plunged on again.

  ‘Do you know where the prince saw my work? Which piece did he like? Was it the painting that won the Academy portrait award?’

  ‘I don’t believe he has ever seen any of your work. Photographs of course, but not the actual work.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lauren was startled. ‘Then why am I painting his portrait?’

  ‘The curator of the royal collection had chosen another artist, but after some discussion His Royal Highness selected you.’

  ‘But if he hasn’t seen my paintings, how did he even know my name?’

  ‘I do not know, Miss Phelps.’ His tone told her that this topic of conversation was over.

  Lauren tried to read between the lines. Courtauld gave every impression of being fiercely loyal. If he said ‘discussion’ had taken place, she would assume an argument. She guessed that her selection was a deliberate act of rebellion by the notoriously difficult prince. He chose her to annoy someone, probably the curator. Possibly his family.

  Lauren swallowed her disappointment and her anger. She was used to being the wrong one. The wrong girl to date, the wrong person for a job. The wrong one – just because of her father and a social stigma that had always
been beyond her control. Not that it mattered any more. She would surely be fired after her earlier rudeness. Members of the royal family would not take kindly to having their faults remarked upon.

  Still, it was a great pity she wouldn’t get to paint the prince. He would be a fascinating subject. Any artist would relish the challenge of capturing the spectacular face and restless energy of the man. A well-received royal portrait would have been the making of her career. And then there was the money! The only thing she didn’t regret was being excused from his presence. She didn’t like him at all. He was arrogant and spoiled. Lauren ignored the tiny voice that added the words gorgeous and sexy to her summary.

  Lauren leaped to her feat as the door opened, driven by fear rather than any instructions from Mr Courtauld. Prince Nicolas strode into the room, shrugging off his jacket. He tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, and slipped off his tie. As the strip of colourful silk settled onto the jacket, Lauren found herself wishing the careless striptease would continue. That the fine white cotton shirt would follow the jacket and tie.

  The prince was the most stunningly attractive man she had ever seen. If she wasn’t going to paint him, just for a few minutes she would let the woman replace the artist, and enjoy the flutter he caused in her lower belly. She would also ignore that pesky inner voice reminding her that his personality didn’t match his looks.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  His voice, however, did match his looks. Strong. Low and very sexy. Wondering how it might sound coloured with emotion, or passion, Lauren waited for him to continue.

  ‘A photo call. It comes with the job I’m afraid.’

  ‘With whom?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘I’m not really sure. Some children’s group. Courtauld?’

  ‘Students from year ten, the winners of a national school competition – an essay on the history of the royal family.’

  ‘Ah.’ The prince dismissed that comment with a wave.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ Lauren couldn’t hide her disgust. She knew only too well what it felt like to be so carelessly dismissed. ‘Those children worked hard for this. And you didn’t care enough to find out who they were?’

  ‘They don’t care about me,’ the prince said. ‘They just care about their photographs, and the stories they’ll bore people with for years to come.’

  ‘That’s horrid.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Lauren sensed Courtauld almost flinch. His Royal Highness, however, just raised one eyebrow. That made Lauren even angrier.

  ‘You know nothing about those kids. And their lives and how important something like this might be to them. A bright moment in an otherwise difficult life. Maybe it’s a glimpse of something they only ever dreamed about. Those photos mean something to them, although if they could hear you now, they probably wouldn’t be so proud of them. Those kids deserve better treatment. Being rich and royal doesn’t excuse you from behaving well. Quite the reverse. If we are supposed to consider you to be so much better than the rest of us, you should at least have better manners than we do.’

  Something flickered in the prince’s deep blue eyes. Was it anger or shame? Lauren hoped it was the latter, but she seriously doubted it. Shame was not an emotion common to people who lived in palaces.

  ‘Well, Miss Phelps, you don’t mince words.’ The prince sauntered over to the leather sofa, and propped himself casually against one end. ‘You know, in the past my forefathers wouldn’t have taken such an attack lightly. Why, my namesake once had a servant executed for not much more than that. Isn’t that so, Courtauld?’

  ‘I believe one of the Archduke Nicolas’s servants was executed in 1687.’ Courtauld allowed no taint of emotion to colour his voice. ‘The crime was treason, sir. Perhaps a little more serious.’

  ‘Quite. Well, what recourse is open to me in this day and age, Courtauld, should I feel myself put out by Miss Phelps’s comments?’

  ‘The Royal Courts of Justice are ready to serve as always, Your Highness, but I doubt they would consider the matter too grave.’

  ‘What a pity.’

  Throughout the exchange, Prince Nicolas had not for one instant taken his eyes from Lauren’s face. She was quivering, with suppressed rage and mortification. He might be a prince, but she didn’t take this sort of thing from anyone. She gathered the remnants of her pride to her, like thin and battered armour.

  ‘If you are quite finished, Your Royal Highness, perhaps you could call someone to show me out. I will give you no further need for your executioner.’

  To her surprise, the prince started to laugh.

  ‘Miss Phelps, if you are as eager to paint my portrait as you are to argue with me, we no doubt have an interesting time ahead of us.’

  ‘You still want me to paint you?’ Lauren was astounded.

  ‘I certainly do. More than ever.’

  Lauren had no answer. He mind was racing, trying to understand what had just happened. Had she made the prince her enemy, or her friend? She was still trying to decide when he rose gracefully to his feet and glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’m afraid I must leave now. Other duties. And before I attend to them, I must take time to learn about the people I shall be meeting.’ His lips twitched with a hint of mischief. ‘Courtauld will show you out. Please tell him what arrangements he needs to make for your studio.’

  ‘My studio?’ Lauren had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘I imagine you will need to spend a certain amount of time observing me, doing preliminary sketches. That sort of thing?’

  Lauren nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘Then it will be much easier on all of us if we find you a studio here in the palace. Somewhere close to my own rooms, I think.’

  ‘Yes. Yes … of course,’ Lauren stammered.

  ‘Good. That’s settled. It’s been a great pleasure. Miss Phelps.’ One long stride and he was next to her. He reached down to take her hand. ‘A very great pleasure, indeed.’

  Her hand felt very small as he took it. Lauren was very conscious of the warmth of his hand, and the promise of great strength in his firm but gentle grasp. She raised her eyes to meet his, and felt a curious sensation stir in her chest. After a long, long moment, he released her hand and turned away. Pausing to collect jacket and tie, he moved quickly to the other door. He opened it, and passed through. Almost. He paused for one second, and turned back to where Lauren was standing, still too confused to move.

  ‘By the way, Miss Phelps, I do like your hair. The stripes are interesting and the blue suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes.’

  Then he was gone.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You didn’t really say that?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ Lauren almost wailed, and dropped her forehead onto the wooden tabletop with a distinct thud. ‘Ow!’ Just another small pain to add to the many she had endured since she walked through the palace gates yesterday.

  To her surprise, Maria laughed gaily. Lauren lifted her head from the table and glared at her friend. ‘How can you laugh?’

  ‘How can I not laugh?’ Maria chuckled as she held out a cup of steaming coffee. ‘Here, drink this.’ She settled into the seat opposite Lauren. ‘It can’t possibly be as bad as you say. He did invite you back.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the worst part!’

  ‘Of course it is. Being offered a lot of money to paint a portrait that will make your career. Shocking. I don’t know how you can even consider it!’

  Lauren looked up at her friend’s face. Maria’s brown eyes were alight with laughter. She felt a weight slowly lift from her shoulders, and grinned back. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Maria pushed a tub of fruit yoghurt and a spoon across the table. ‘Now tell me, what’s he really like? Is he as handsome as he looks on TV?’

  ‘Oh yes, and then some.’ Lauren dipped her spoon into the creamy yoghurt. ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ Her friend prompted her.

>   ‘He’s everything I thought he would be – rich and spoiled and arrogant and rude.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t start that,’ Maria said.

  ‘Start what?’

  ‘Don’t play innocent with me. You know what I mean. Tell me you didn’t get all socialist on his rather lovely arse.’

  ‘But he’s just proved that I’m right!’ Lauren was determined not to be distracted by thoughts of the royal rear end. ‘He sits up there is his fancy palace, paid for by our taxes. All he has to do in return is be nice to a few schoolchildren and get his photo taken. He can’t even be bothered to do that well. If he was that bad at a real job, he’d be fired in an instant. But we can’t fire him, because he was born into …’

  ‘Enough.’ Maria held her hands up in mock surrender. ‘There’s no need to storm the barricades. I get it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lauren said. ‘I do get carried away sometimes, I know. But it’s just not right for him to think he’s better than everyone else, just because of the family he was born into. A person should be judged by their own actions, not by the circumstances of their birth.’

  Lauren believed that with all her heart. She had to, because it was the only way she could believe in herself.

  ‘You did say you needed the money.’

  ‘I know,’ Lauren said, her shoulders sagging. ‘And I do. He has a wonderful face that’ll be a real challenge to paint, but I might prefer his less pretty relatives if they were better behaved.’

  ‘Maybe he was having a bad day.’

  ‘Does someone in his position ever have a bad day? Even if he did, it doesn’t excuse him,’ Lauren declared. ‘He’s getting a free ride. He should at least have good manners.’

  ‘Careful. Start talking like that and he will have you executed.’ Maria took a mouthful of yoghurt. ‘At least give him a chance, Lauren. After all, you’ll be working pretty closely with him for the next few weeks.’

  Lauren sighed. Maria was right. Again. It seemed that whenever she climbed the stairs to this tidy apartment one floor above her own, she found both friendship and common sense in equal measure.