Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  Safe? Lauren wondered if she would ever feel safe again. Her eyes glued on the intersection ahead, Lauren took each slow step by sheer force of will.

  ‘When we reach the car, get in the back seat. Don’t wait for me. Shut and lock door. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nearly there.’ Girard took something from the pocket of his jacket and spoke a few rapid words into what Lauren assumed was a radio.

  They were at the corner. As they turned into the side street, Lauren risked a quick glance back the way they had come. The photographers and journalists weren’t looking her way. They were still gathered in front of her building, watching the door. They seemed relaxed, confident they had her trapped.

  Lauren felt a swift desire to lash out at the people who had invaded her life. Detective Girard grasped her firmly around the shoulders. He hustled her quickly forward, holding her upright in case she slipped. The car was a black sedan, its doors already open. Girard pushed her into the back seat. He leaped into the front. The doors slammed as the car surged forward.

  * * *

  ‘Lauren …’ Nicolas turned and started forward, then stopped as his equerry stepped into the room.

  ‘Courtauld?’

  ‘Sir, the press officer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nicolas didn’t try to hide his impatience. ‘Tell him to wait. No. Send him in.’ Nicolas walked to his desk. He might as well see Leo Falconer. It might help pass the time while he waited for news of Lauren’s arrival.

  ‘Your Highness.’ The press officer bowed slightly as he entered the office. ‘I have a journalist waiting to interview Miss Phelps after her arrival.’

  ‘Damn it, Falconer, I told you to wait.’

  ‘Sir, there are time issues,’ the press officer explained. ‘As soon as I knew Miss Phelps was coming here, I called this reporter. I wanted to be sure he could spend enough time with her and still meet his deadline. If it is to be effective, the story must appear in tomorrow morning’s paper as well as on the newspaper website. I also have a photographer standing by.’

  ‘And if she refuses to do the interview?’

  ‘Sir, surely …’

  Nicolas held up one hand, shaking his head. Falconer fell silent. The prince regretted his unaccustomed harshness with the man. Falconer was only doing his job. But this wasn’t just a job. This was Lauren. Nicolas knew she was safe. Thomas had called from the car. But that wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough until she was here and he could look into her face and know she was all right. He resumed his position by the window, his thoughts in turmoil. Behind him, he heard the door open and close. That would be Falconer leaving.

  ‘You might at least say something.’

  Her voice was like an electric shock coursing through him.

  ‘Lauren. I didn’t hear you. Come in …’ His voice trailed off as he turned to face her. ‘Are you all right? You look terrible.’

  ‘Well, thank you. That just adds to my great day.’ Her voice was dull and bitter.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean that.’ Nicolas moved closer to her, sensing that her emotions were teetering on the brink of total collapse. ‘The hair …’

  ‘It’s my disguise,’ Lauren said wryly.

  She pulled the brown wig from her head and tossed it with something like loathing onto his desk. The spectacular hair made famous by the front pages was dishevelled, making Lauren seem small and vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. He wanted to kiss her and see her smile up at him. He wanted to hear her laugh.

  But he couldn’t allow himself to do that.

  We are born to this life, Nicolas, but she is not. His mother was right and his own conscience was now echoing her words … Just what are you doing to this girl you claim to care for?

  He didn’t know the answer, and right now his problems didn’t matter. The important thing was to undo the damage that Lauren had unwittingly done, and that was something he couldn’t do for her. As he had been forced to do ever since he was a child, Nicolas buried his own wishes and focused on what was necessary.

  ‘What has happened is unfortunate.’ He spoke calmly and deliberately to hide his inner turmoil. ‘But I think the best thing at this point is …’

  ‘To say nothing!’ Lauren interrupted him. ‘Isn’t that the rule? Never lower yourself to answer them. Let them say what they like, no matter who it hurts.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Nicolas said. ‘Not this time. I think it would be best for you to give an interview to set the record straight.’

  ‘An interview?’ Lauren almost shouted the words. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

  A discreet sound from the doorway caused them both to turn. Leo Falconer had returned.

  ‘Miss Phelps,’ he said deferentially. ‘You should speak to one of the more reputable media outlets. To a journalist who can be trusted to be impartial and fair. And to get the facts right. The palace will issue a statement about the portrait commission and you can talk about your work.’

  ‘I’m not doing an interview.’

  ‘The journalist is already waiting.’

  ‘Already waiting? You didn’t even have the courtesy to ask me before calling him?’ Lauren turned her anger back to Nicolas. ‘I’m not going to do it!’

  ‘Lauren, it’s the best thing to do. Tomorrow, all the people who saw today’s gossip columns can read the real story.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Lauren’s voice dripped with despair as she sank onto the leather sofa. ‘Josef will read those headlines. And Mr and Mrs Haussmann. What will they think?’

  ‘They’ll know it’s a lie.’ Nicolas fought back the desire to go to her and put his arms around her. ‘You can call them, Lauren. But first …’

  ‘All right. I’ll do it.’ He voice was flat and resigned. ‘Just promise me there’s no photographer.’

  ‘Well. Actually …’ Falconer wasn’t quite brave enough to complete the sentence.

  ‘Great. With me looking like this.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ Courtauld spoke quietly from just inside the door. ‘If I may suggest, one of Her Majesty’s ladies could assist Miss Phelps to prepare.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s get this done.’ Lauren got to her feet. She started moving towards the door, but paused in front of Nicolas. ‘Will you be there with me during the interview?’

  ‘No. It wouldn’t be …’

  ‘I know. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have us both in the photograph. I hope you know how much I hate this.’ She walked out of the room.

  Nicolas watched the door close behind her. He could still see the look in her eyes. She might have said ‘I hate this’, but she meant ‘I hate you’. He closed his eyes against the pain.

  Chapter Ten

  The light sparked off the cut crystal and warmed the amber liquid as it swirled around the glass. Nicolas watched it, wondering why he had poured the whiskey. He certainly wasn’t going to drink it. It was the last thing he wanted right now. As to what he did want, well, that was a long list. He wanted some peace of mind. He wanted some sleep. He wanted the telephone to ring and this long silent night to end. But most of all he wanted Lauren to look at him with something other than hurt and contempt in her eyes.

  He leaned back in the armchair and stared up at the embossed white ceiling. He didn’t close his eyes. If he did, he would still see her face as she set out for that interview. See how much he had let her down.

  She had conducted herself well at the interview. According to Leo Falconer, she had answered the reporter’s questions well and gracefully, and allowed herself to be photographed. She baulked only once, when the reporter asked to see the unfinished portrait. No one, she said, could look at her paintings until they were finished. Nicolas had smiled as Falconer related the tale, imagining her face as she refused both the reporter and the press secretary.

  Lauren hadn’t been smiling when she returned to his office, looking like a stranger in an uncharacteristic plain brown skirt and cream button-
up blouse loaned to her by some woman at the palace. The stranger hadn’t argued with him when he told her they were leaving the palace and the city for the solitude of his family’s country retreat. She had simply vanished to return her borrowed attire and supervise the men who would move the contents of her studio.

  No matter how great her desire to avoid him, she had at least agreed to ride with him for the journey here. Or was it the reassuring company of Thomas Lawry she had wanted when they left the safety of the palace walls? She had sat as far from Nicolas as the car seat allowed, staring out of the window.

  At least for the start of the journey.

  Somewhere along the road, the early morning and emotional roller coaster had overcome her and Lauren had fallen asleep in the back of the car. As she slowly slipped across the seat, Nicolas had moved his body until she was resting on his shoulder. Careful not to move in case he woke her, Nicolas had spent the remaining hour of the journey listening to her slow gentle breathing and looking ahead, straining for his first glimpse of cream walls in the midst of the dark green forest.

  From his earliest childhood, Nicolas had loved the family estate in the foothills of the mountains that marked the eastern boundary of the tiny kingdom. It had originally been a hunting lodge for his forebears. The house was very large but not a palace, and it was certainly not as formal as the official residence in the capital. This secluded place had at some time or other been used as a shelter by every member of his family. Here, they could be themselves, with as many flaws and weaknesses and secrets as any other family, and they all considered the estate to be both private and safe. As the car turned in through the massive iron gates, Nicolas could only hope Lauren would feel the same.

  Well past midnight and now alone in his study, Nicolas still had no idea how Lauren felt. About the house. Or the events of the past day. Or, most importantly, about him.

  Lauren was continuing to distance herself from him. When she had finally woken in the back of the car, she had once again moved as far from him as possible. After their arrival, the need to supervise the setup of a new studio had taken her away. When the bag of clothing from her flat was delivered, she had taken it to her room, declining dinner. He hadn’t seen her since. He hoped she was sleeping. She certainly needed the rest. So did he, but he couldn’t sleep just yet.

  The beautiful wooden grandfather clock in his study was an antique. It had kept near perfect time for more than two centuries, and it was keeping perfect time now, Nicolas knew – it only seemed like the hands were frozen.

  Nicolas left the whiskey glass on a table and moved to stare out the window. A few lights shone in the grounds, where he knew security men patrolled out of sight. Beyond the gardens there were few lights, just the bulk of the mountains looming above him. When the moon was full, the snow-capped peaks shone with a cold and awesome beauty that he loved. But tonight the sky was dark and the mountains merely a deeper black on a midnight blue sky.

  The shrill summons of the phone called him away from the window.

  ‘Well?’ He didn’t need to ask who it was. This could only be the call he had been waiting for.

  ‘It’s good. Just what we wanted.’ Leo Falconer sounded almost cheerful, which was rare for a man who seemed habitually morose. ‘It’s been posted as lead story on the website, and will be also be the lead story on page one of the physical newspaper. Miss Phelps is quoted frequently. She comes across as intelligent and likeable. The story hints that she had been victimised by the tabloid press, without making it seem like she’s complaining.’

  ‘Excellent. Please make sure the newspaper is sent to me here as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have emailed the web links to you as well. I do expect some queries from other outlets for similar interviews. Or at least a photocall.’

  ‘Miss Phelps will not be available. You may release the official statement to them. And the photos.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Falconer.’ Nicolas was eager to get the man off the phone and check the website, but Falconer deserved praise for his efforts. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you. Sir …’ The press officer hesitated a moment. ‘I do expect this will help, but you realise of course that I cannot guarantee the paparazzi will leave Miss Phelps alone.’

  ‘I understand.’ Nicolas hung up.

  Perhaps Falconer couldn’t guarantee Lauren’s protection from the paparazzi, but he certainly could. What was the use of a title and a palace and bodyguards if not to guard someone he held precious?

  The report was everything Falconer had said. Lauren was described as a talented young artist. Her modelling effort in multi-coloured hair and torn lace was a selfless act to help a friend’s career. The report said her unguarded reaction to the media showed an appealing innocence. He hoped Lauren would feel better when he saw the reports in the morning. But for now, maybe he might be able to get some sleep.

  His soft-soled shoes made no sound as he walked along the thick carpet in the hallway. His bedroom was near the far end of this second floor. Lauren’s was also on this floor. Close, but not too close. In his mind he imagined her tucked up in the large bed, safe under his protection. The picture in his mind comforted him enough for the sight of the grand staircase up ahead to raise a slight smile. As boys, he and his older brother had driven his parents and nurses to distraction sliding down the elegant curved banister. He almost felt like doing it again – but at his age, he’d probably break his fool neck.

  He glanced down the staircase and the smile froze on his face.

  Lauren was lying on her back on the landing midway down the stairs, her bare limbs akimbo, her face turned towards the ceiling.

  ‘Lauren …’ Nicolas took the stairs three at a time.

  * * *

  ‘What …’ Lauren shook herself out of her daze as a herd of frightened elephants seemed to thump down the stairs at high speed. She raised herself on one elbow as Nicolas threw himself to the carpet next to her.

  ‘Are you all right? What happened?’ Nicolas seemed almost frenzied.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d come and take a closer look at that.’ Lauren pointed to the ceiling.

  ‘Did you slip? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No … I just lay on the carpet to get a better look at the mural.’

  An explosion of pent-up breath next to her gave Lauren a sudden understanding of what was going on. ‘You thought I’d had an accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doing what? Sliding down the banister?’

  ‘Well … my brother Ed and I did it a few times when we were younger.’

  His Royal Highness looked positively sheepish, and Lauren laughed. ‘It’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  His voice was stern but his eyes were laughing with her.

  ‘About everything …’

  ‘Lauren, I am so sorry that you had to go through all that. It’s all my fault and I …’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Lauren said. ‘It’s not your fault. You weren’t the one who splashed my photos all over the internet.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t for me …’

  ‘Stop it.’ Lauren’s anger was gone. ‘I was simply worried they would start digging into my past and upset my mother. I spoke to her a little while ago. She’s fine. That’s all I care about. It’s over and I don’t want to think about it any more.’

  Beside her, Nicolas took a low slow breath.

  ‘All right. Instead, you could tell me just what are you doing wandering around the place dressed like that?’ he asked, as he cast a slow and lingering look down the length of her body stretched out on the landing next to him.

  Lauren was suddenly acutely aware that she was still wearing the clothes she had been trying to sleep in: a pair of old grey cotton shorts and a faded blue tank top, liberally covered with paint stains and so short it didn’t quite reach her waist.

  ‘Courtauld would be horrified if he
saw me like this,’ she giggled, fighting back the urge to tug at the clothes. As if that would make it any better!

  ‘The man has no taste. I think you look quite fetching.’

  Perhaps he meant it to be a joke. But in the seconds after Nicolas spoke the words, Lauren saw his eyes change with a sudden stir of desire. She was acutely aware that Nicolas was close beside her, his body just inches from her own. His head, like her own, was propped on one elbow. Their eyes were level. Their lips … They were alone in the silence of the early morning, and Nicolas was close enough now to kiss her again. If either of them moved just a few inches their lips could touch. Their bodies would touch.

  Lauren wished she had chosen something different to wear that night. She didn’t own any sexy lingerie, but even a paint-free cotton nightgown would have made her feel better when Nicolas looked at her. No. No it wouldn’t. Nothing could make her feel better than she did right now with his eyes fixed on hers, his breath slow and deep and warm against her cheek. His firm body just a moment away from her fingertips.

  In a flare of panic, Lauren rolled away from the danger.

  ‘I wanted to have a closer look at the mural.’ She fought to keep her voice from shaking as she lay flat on her back and pointed upwards.

  Nicolas didn’t follow her gesture. He looked from her face slowly along the length of her body, his body leaning closer to her as he turned back to look at her face.

  Lauren felt even more exposed like this. The bare flesh of her stomach and thighs was tingling, as if his glance had been a caress. She could barely breathe, as Nicolas slowly moved his head … and looked up.

  The ceiling above them was covered with a brilliant mural. A golden sun blazed in a sky too blue to be real. Rocks and trees hung over white-tipped water where dolphins played. Two mermaids, their long hair tinged with green, lay half submerged on a beach, the water lapping at their bare round breasts. Their hands were stretched towards the ocean, where Neptune was rising from the sea. A wisp of windswept foam covered his groin, serving only to highlight his nakedness. The god was muscular and handsome, glowing with power. His wet dark hair fell past his ears. His eyes were blue. He looked like …