Marrying the Rebel Prince

by Janet Gover

  ‘I’ve got some blankets in the car,’ Josef said. ‘Two boxes. Ten blankets in each.’

  ‘That’s good. You’ll need them soon,’ Lauren said as she made a note on the list.

  ‘We will.’ Josef had his back to her as he spoke, pushing the boxes into a corner. ‘Much as I appreciate the help, shouldn’t you be out there sketching?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  Without another word or even looking at her, Josef vanished through the doorway. He was back in just a few seconds, carrying another box.

  ‘I haven’t seen you sketching at all since you came back,’ he said as he dropped the box.

  ‘Where did all this stuff come from?’ Lauren asked, hoping Josef wouldn’t notice the sudden change of subject. ‘I’ve never seen the storeroom even half full before.’

  Josef stopped his labours. He sat down opposite her on a box marked soap. ‘We’ve got a new benefactor.’

  ‘Great. Who is it?’

  ‘He has asked to remain anonymous,’ Josef said. ‘But I can tell you it is someone who can give us a great deal of help. He specifically wants to sponsor some sort of emergency accommodation. Somewhere a woman like Else could go to escape a violent husband. Even with a child.’

  ‘That’s good news.’ Lauren wondered why Josef was looking at her like that. With an expression of expectation on his face, as if she should be saying, or doing something. Was she missing something?

  At last Josef sighed. ‘Lauren, don’t you think it’s time you got over him?’

  ‘Josef … please. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem.’

  ‘Don’t try to counsel me, Josef.’ Lauren held her hands up as if to stop the conversation. ‘I don’t need a priest.’

  ‘Maybe you need a friend.’ Josef was obviously not going to be deterred. Lauren had a feeling he had been building up to this conversation for some time. ‘How long has it been now?’ Josef asked. ‘A month?’

  One month and two days. Not that she was counting. The worst one month and two days of her entire life. The press had found her the day after her return. She was coming back from the shops, her hands full of grocery bags, when she spotted the television cameraman outside the door to her building. She had no choice but to keep going. Her head low, she had pushed past him, ignoring his shouted questions. A second cameraman turned up soon after. Then a still photographer. After the video was shown on television, the number grew, until there was a whole press pack baying outside her doors. It was all over social media too. She hadn’t even bothered to charge her mobile phone. She didn’t want to go near the internet.

  Thank goodness for Maria. For those couple of days while Lauren had remained trapped inside her flat, Maria had run errands, brought groceries and books and kept her from going mad. She had lent a sympathetic ear and several boxes of tissues, as Lauren had poured out her story. She had chatted to Lauren’s mother when her friend couldn’t bring herself to answer her concerned phone calls. Once she had sent them both into fits of giggles when she tossed an apple core from the window into the press pack, ducking back behind the windows before anyone saw where it had come from. But nothing could save Lauren from the boredom and the humiliation. She was back where she had been before moving to the royal lodge. Only more so.

  Then one morning they were gone. Lauren had stared from her window, not wanting to trust her eyes. She feared they might simply be hiding around a corner, hoping to lure her out. Once more, Maria came to her rescue, coming back from work in her lunch hour to deliver the news. Prince Nicolas, apparently very drunk, had been involved in yet another altercation with a photographer. The item pointed out that Nicolas had been in the company of Lady Liza Villette, a socialite and model and also one of the prince’s many old girlfriends.

  Any relief she might have felt at her sudden freedom was overwhelmed by the terrible pain of realising that Nicolas had gone back to his old ways, to his old girlfriend, and so quickly. At least Liza was used to the attention. She’d be able to handle it.

  Lauren had remained inside her flat for another week, trapped by her heartbreak and the certain knowledge that there was nothing good left in her life. All Maria’s efforts to get her out had proved fruitless.

  At last, Josef had come to her flat and almost physically dragged her out of the front door and down to the shelter. At the time she had fought him, but now she was thankful to have such a friend. The shelter was about as far as she could be from the royal palace in almost every sense of the word. At the shelter there was always work to give her purpose. She had returned almost every day since, but not once had she brought the sketchbook that had always been as much a part of her as the clothes she wore.

  ‘I’m worried about you, Lauren. I’ve never seen you go so long without drawing or painting. That’s not good.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Josef. Honestly. I just exhausted myself doing that portrait. I’ll start work again soon.’ Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convincing.

  Josef’s words stayed with her as she walked home. She wouldn’t admit it to him or anyone else, but she was also worried. Where her head was once filled with ideas, there was nothing but emptiness. In trying to dull the pain of Nicolas’s betrayal, she had cut off all her emotions and destroyed her inspiration at the same time. As she approached her building, she almost wished the press had returned. If she got angry at least she would be feeling something.

  Inside the door she picked up a bundle of mail, which she dropped onto the kitchen table as she began making coffee. She flicked indifferently through it as the kettle boiled. Bills. More bills. She was starting to worry about that, too. She had been paid for the portrait of Nicolas. Pride had urged her to return it, but reality had stepped in. Whatever her feelings, she had to live. She had done the job and deserved to be paid for it. She had banked the cheque, but the money wouldn’t last forever. An unseen royal portrait was never going to give her career the boost she’d hoped for. Soon she was going to need a job, like the one she’d so joyfully given up when she accepted the commission. She shuddered at the thought.

  Then she saw it, at the bottom of the pile. The thick white parchment envelope. She didn’t need the embossed golden crest to tell her where it had originated. Forgetting everything else, Lauren sat down and with trembling fingers opened it. The card was edged with gold. In beautiful flowing black script, the card invited Miss Lauren Phelps to attend the unveiling of a royal portrait to mark the thirtieth birthday of His Royal Highness, Prince Nicolas Gerard Verbier d’Arennes. The ceremony would take place in the portrait gallery of the Royal Palace.

  She should have been overjoyed that her painting would hang in the portrait gallery rather than be hidden from view in some back hallway. Instead, all she felt was the familiar pain at the sight of his name, quickly followed by something very like relief. Maybe this was what she needed. Perhaps once the painting was hung it would all be over and she could resume her life. She might even begin painting again.

  Of course, she wouldn’t go to the ceremony.

  * * *

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’ Maria was outraged. ‘Of course you’re going. You’ve got to.’

  ‘No. I really can’t go. You should know that.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort.’ Maria waved the card around. ‘You have a chance to see him again. You have to take it.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him.’ Lauren was pleased her voice sounded steady.

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘Maria!’ Lauren shook her head in protest.

  ‘Lauren, you’re not fooling anyone. Least of all yourself. You’re still hung up on His Royal Highness.’

  Hung up on him? That didn’t even begin to describe it. Lauren got up from the sofa and took the empty coffee cups back into her kitchen. She put them in the sink and leaned on the bench, her eyes closed. Hung up on him? She longed for him every moment of every day. Her beating heart drummed his name over and over until
she wanted to scream. She tossed and turned each night in her lonely bed, her body aching with need of him. Lauren took a long slow breath.

  ‘See, I’m right.’ Maria’s voice dragged her back to reality.

  Lauren didn’t answer. She pushed past her friend and walked back into the living room.

  ‘I’m not going,’ she said.

  Maria followed her. ‘And what about that?’ She pointed to Lauren’s sketch pad, which was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room.

  ‘What about it?’ Lauren could feel her hackles rising. She was on the defensive now.

  Maria didn’t answer. She walked over to the sketch pad, picked it up and flipped open the cover. The sketch had never been completed. It was exactly as it had been when Thomas Lawry and his security team had interrupted the intimate session in her studio and the royal lodge. Nicolas looked out from the page, a slight smile on his face. The dark slashes of charcoal that outlined his body gave an impression of sensual strength and beauty.

  Lauren could hardly bear to look at it. Nor could she look away.

  ‘The only time you’ve picked up this pad is to look at this,’ Maria said gently. ‘Tell me, where are the rest of your things? The paints. The brushes.’

  ‘Still in the boxes they came back in,’ Lauren said. All the contents of her studio had been sent back to her weeks ago. The sketch pad was the only thing she had unpacked.

  ‘You’ve got to get past this, Lauren,’ Maria said. ‘You’ve got to start working again. Going to that launch is just what you need to get you out of this slump. You have to go.’

  Lauren stood up and took the sketch pad from Maria’s hands. Firmly she closed the cover and leaned it back against the wall. ‘The launch will do it,’ she said. ‘Once that painting is hung, it’s over. But I don’t have to be there. I’m not going!’

  Lauren kept telling herself the same thing over the next few days. She didn’t need to go to the launch. She certainly didn’t want to go. Just knowing the portrait was accepted and hung would be enough to let her move on. And she would move on. She made the effort to unpack the boxes of painting materials delivered a few days after her abrupt departure from the lodge. She cleaned her brushes and palette knives, and sorted the half-empty tubes of paint. It was a task she seldom completed. Normally, the act of sorting her tools was enough to set her working. This time, however, inspiration didn’t come. She finished the job and sat looking at the result in dismay.

  Perhaps she would be inspired if she went to the art supplies shop – there was nothing like a new brush or some new and unusual colours to get an artist going. But if she did, she would have to talk to Mr and Mrs Haussmann. Much as she liked them, she didn’t really want to answer their questions. No. She would just wait a little longer. Until the launch was safely past.

  The phone call came a week before the launch.

  ‘Miss Phelps, it’s Leo Falconer from the palace press office.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Falconer.’ Lauren’s stomach churned.

  ‘I’m just calling to talk to you about the unveiling of the portrait.’

  ‘There’s not really anything to talk about, Mr Falconer.’ Lauren’s voice held no trace of the emotional turmoil that a simple phone call had set off.

  ‘I am just finalising the event. I wanted to let you know that I have tentatively allowed three minutes for your speech.’

  ‘What?’ Lauren was shocked.

  ‘I know that is short. I thought you could spend more time afterwards. Answering questions from the press.’

  ‘Questions?’ It was almost a shout.

  ‘Miss Phelps, I understand your reluctance,’ the press secretary continued quickly, ‘in view of past events. But you understand this is a different matter altogether. These will be invited press only. There are rules to such royal occasions and they will be adhered to. Questions will be limited to the subject at hand – the portrait. There is no need for you to be concerned.’

  ‘I’m not concerned, Mr Falconer,’ Lauren said quietly. ‘I am not going.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, I am not going to the event.’

  ‘Perhaps you didn’t understand. This is a ROYAL INVITATION.’ His tone gave the words capital letters.

  ‘I know. I’m still not coming,’ Lauren replied, glancing at the bookshelf where the white envelope lay in clear view. ‘I would have sent an RSVP, but there was no address on the card.’

  ‘That’s because you can’t refuse a royal invitation.’

  ‘I can and I am.’

  ‘But no one ever has …’ Falconer sputtered a little down the phone.

  ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘His Royal Highness has—’ Falconer had one last card to play.

  ‘His Royal Highness has no need of me.’ Lauren cut him off. ‘He is most capable of dealing with the press on his own. Goodbye, Mr Falconer.’

  Lauren gently replaced the receiver back in its cradle. Then her hand started to shake. She flung herself down on the sofa as the first tears pricked her eyes. She angrily wiped them away. Then stopped. Why should she deprive herself of that release when she had just severed the last thin strand of connection between herself and the man she loved? She gave herself over to her tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘What is this? Some kind of intervention?’

  ‘Do you need one?’

  Queen Charlotte’s voice had regained its strength, but to Nicolas, she still looked frail. According to the doctors, her recovery was almost complete, but for the first time Nicolas began to see that his mother was no longer young.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I was drunk and I was stupid. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Yes it will, if you don’t come to your senses.’

  Nicolas blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I am talking about. Or rather who I am talking about.’

  ‘No, Mother. I don’t want to go there. It’s over. I just want to get that portrait hung, preferably where I can’t see it, and then I will go back to being a dutiful family member.’

  ‘Go back to being the black sheep of the family?’

  ‘No. I guess I have finally grown up. I’ll take my duty a bit more seriously now. Get involved with some more charity work, and I’m sure you can find some things for me to do.’

  ‘What I want you to do, Nicolas, is stop feeling sorry for yourself. I think it’s time you learned a few home truths.’

  Again Nicolas was surprised. ‘That’s a strange thing for you to say.’

  Charlotte sighed and for once her iron control seemed to slip. Nicolas had a feeling he was really seeing his mother for the first time in a very long time.

  ‘This life I live is not my choice. I was an only child. I was going to be Queen whether I wanted it or not. So I did what was expected of me. I married your father because that was expected. I produced an heir and a spare as required … No …’ She held up her hand as Nicolas started to speak. ‘I love you and your brother with all my heart. There are many things about my life I would change, but not that.’

  ‘And Father?’ Nicolas had never heard her talk like this.

  ‘Your father and I made our marriage work. We didn’t really love each other, not the way you should love the person you marry. He was not the great love of my life.’

  Subconsciously, Nicolas had always known that, to some degree, his parents’ marriage had been dictated by their position. But to hear his mother speak like this was a shock.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Mother. I’m sorry …’

  ‘Why? It was nothing to do with you. And I didn’t say I have never been in love. I have. And I gave it up for duty, because back then I had no choice.’

  ‘Who …?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. I didn’t come here to confess to you. I came to tell you that unlike me, you have a choice. The world has changed. Perhaps not every change is for the good, but the old ways are gon
e. You and your brother have freedoms that I never had. And remember – you are the second son. Your brother will wear the crown, not you. You have to find your own place in the world. And you can share it with anyone you want. Do not give up your happiness because of some misguided sense of duty.’

  ‘But she hates this world.’

  ‘Yes she does. So do you. What are you going to do about it?’

  Nicolas had no answer.

  ‘Just do it before it’s too late.’

  Slowly, Queen Charlotte rose to her feet. As she approached the door, it magically opened and Courtauld stood holding it for her.

  ‘Mother …’

  She paused but did not turn around.

  ‘Is it too late for you?’

  Queen Charlotte didn’t answer. She hesitated a moment, then she stepped through the doorway. Courtauld followed her, closing the door on Nicolas and his solitude.

  * * *

  Six days later, Lauren was sitting staring at nothing when a knock came at her door. She wondered dully who it could be, then shrugged. It hardly mattered. She opened the door to find a familiar and not exactly welcome face.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Miss Phelps. May I come in?’ Courtauld almost pushed past her into the flat. For him, it was an uncharacteristic lack of manners. More than anything else, that lifted Lauren from her self-pity.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Do come in,’ she said.

  He ignored her sarcasm and moved to stand in the middle of the room. ‘I understand you will not be attending tomorrow’s ceremony.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Lauren did not sit down. Nor did she invite Courtauld to do so. They faced each other across the faded carpet like two boxers.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘You may not.’

  Courtauld didn’t respond. He just stood there, looking at her.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Lauren finally blurted out, ‘but I don’t enjoy formal occasions. I was commissioned to paint a portrait. I did so. My involvement is ended.’

  ‘I see.’ His tone made it clear he didn’t accept her answer. ‘I thought perhaps it was something personal.’