The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  She promised Pierre that she would not tell the marquis what he had done if he promised never to do anything like it again. He had agreed, of course, and she gave him his supper.

  Now, as she sat down across from Gabby before the fire, she had to work hard to relax.

  “Perhaps you should ring for some brandy,” Gabby suggested.

  Véronique shook her head. “No, I must have my wits about me tonight.”

  Especially when she slipped the key into the lock, opened the door, and found herself back in the presence of Prince Nicholas.

  That kiss had rattled her brain. Whenever she thought about it, her body fairly trembled with excitement and desire.

  She mustn’t allow herself to become swept away by it, however. She was not helping him escape to satisfy her own pleasures, or to enjoy acting the part of a harlot. She was doing this for her family. Gabrielle, especially, who was now in a perilous situation.

  The only way out of this was to rely on the generosity of Prince Nicholas, who had more power than their enemy.

  The clock began to chime. Her gaze flew to the mantel. “It’s eleven o’clock. Will you be ready to leave when the time comes?”

  “Of course,” Gabrielle replied. “I’ve been ready since the supper trays were collected. Will you be ready?”

  Véronique slid her sister a sidelong glance.

  “Of course you will be,” Gabrielle added with a knowing look. “I daresay you’ve thought of nothing else since you walked out of his bedchamber this afternoon with your cheeks flushed the color of a ripe tomato, and your hair all tousled.”

  Véronique frowned. “What are you implying, Gabrielle?”

  Her sister shrugged innocently. “Nothing at all, for surely you would tell me if there was anything important to relay. You would share your feelings with me, since we are sisters and so very close.”

  The windowpanes rattled in the storm. “I have no feelings about Prince Nicholas whatsoever,” she insisted, but Gabby raised an eyebrow at her. “Fine, I do find him attractive, but you know I am not like you. I am not romantic. I am practical. His appeal matters not, for he is just a means to an end. He will help us get our home back.”

  “Just because you are practical,” Gabby argued, “does not mean you feel no passion. I saw him with my own eyes, and I cannot imagine that you could fail to be affected by his looks and charms, and surely if you are concocting plans of escaping together, there must be some sort of bond between you. Do you want to talk about it? I may be younger than you, but I do have some experience with love.”

  “Love?” Angered by the suggestion—for she had no intention of feeling anything of the sort—Véronique stood abruptly. “This has nothing to do with love. He is handsome, but prince or pauper, he is also a notorious rake. I am not only practical, but I am sensible, as well, Gabby. All that matters to me now is our escape from this place, and the recovery of our home.”

  Footsteps pounded down the corridor. Both Véronique and Gabrielle turned their attention to the door.

  “What was that?”

  The footsteps passed by and continued down the hall toward Nicholas’s room.

  “Do you think it could be Pierre going to check on him?” Gabby asked.

  Véronique tiptoed quickly to the door and pressed her ear up against it. The footsteps stopped farther down, and she heard the jingling of keys.

  Gabrielle joined her at the door. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Véronique whispered.

  The sound of a lock clicking and the turn of a knob struck Véronique with terror. Carefully, she opened the door a crack and peered out. “Oh no,” she whispered.

  Gabby touched her arm. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Véronique watched the end of the hall. “The door is open. Someone has gone inside.”

  Something clattered across the floor in Nicholas’s room. Then an obvious scuffle followed. Véronique pulled the door open and dashed out into the hall.

  * * *

  Nicholas raised his hands over his head in surrender when the cold barrel of a pistol touched his forehead, square between the eyes, and the chamber cocked.

  As soon as Pierre relaxed his shoulders, Nicholas knocked the weapon away and kicked Pierre in the stomach. He was about to dive for the gun, but the sound of a second pistol cocking from just inside the door halted him on the spot.

  Pierre, who was doubled over in pain, glared at him with flaring nostrils.

  Nicholas turned his gaze toward the second intruder—a well-dressed older man with silver-rimmed spectacles and slightly graying hair.

  “Who are you?” Nicholas asked, his body tense and primed to fight.

  “Good evening, Your Highness,” the man said with a bow. “I am Jean Fournier, butler of the house. I am here to inform you that the marquis wishes to see you now.”

  Nicholas frowned. “The marquis is here?”

  “Yes, sir. He arrived home just over an hour ago. I apologize for not rolling out the red carpet for you upon your arrival the other night, but I was instructed to keep your presence here a secret.”

  “So you knew about me.”

  “Indeed.” The butler stared with loathing at Pierre.

  Wondering what else this man knew, Nicholas fought to calm the raging fire in his blood.

  “Now, sir,” Fournier said, “if you will allow me to escort you this way, Lord d’Entremont will see you in the library and answer any questions you may have.”

  Nicholas considered his options as Pierre limped to pick up the pistol.

  So much for a midnight escape, Nicholas thought.

  He wondered if Véronique was aware of this.

  At that precise moment, as the butler led him to the door, the sound of a woman’s heels clicking down the long corridor in a frantic rush reached his ears.

  Véronique and Gabrielle nearly skidded to a halt as he crossed the threshold with the two men brandishing pistols on either side of him.

  Nicholas met Véronique’s eyes and knew immediately that she had nothing to do with this. She was as surprised as he.

  Then he set eyes on Gabrielle for the second time since the incident at the window. She was a pretty young girl with fiery red hair and a rather frightened-looking countenance. No wonder. Men in the corridor with pistols was not usually a welcome scenario.

  “Where are you taking him?” Véronique asked.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle,” Fournier said.

  “They are taking me to the library to meet d’Entremont,” Nicholas explained as he passed. “He just arrived this evening.”

  Obviously, their plan was foiled, and he hadn’t yet decided what to do about it. If something happened to him, he hoped Véronique would at least have the decency to send word to his brother, Randolph, in Petersbourg.

  He wanted to tell her to leave now and report this outrage to someone, but then she would not be guaranteed the recovery of her home. He realized with regret that he could not trust her to put his needs before her own.

  As he walked down the corridor with Pierre and the butler, he was keenly aware of the women following close behind—curious, no doubt, as to this unexpected unfolding of events.

  The marquis had returned home early.

  But for what purpose?

  Chapter Eight

  The hot fire in the cherry- and oak-paneled library was blazing in the hearth as Nicholas was shown inside. There were a number of candles lit on tall standing candelabras, and the room smelled of woodsmoke and spices.

  He turned at the last minute to see the butler backing out, closing the double doors behind him, and shutting out Véronique, who looked as if she wanted to accompany Nicholas inside to act as a witness. But a witness to what?

  The doors clicked shut.

  Suddenly he was alone in the room with the crackling fire and the sound of hard, pelting raindrops against the windows.

  Then he noticed a large high-backed chair facing the fire. It concealed the fig
ure of a man. Nicholas saw only the top of his head and the toes of his boots.

  A hand with a giant ruby ring reached over the armrest and beckoned him closer.

  “Do not call me over like a dog,” Nicholas bellowed. “Stand up and face me, d’Entremont, and tell me the meaning of this.”

  The hand disappeared again while Nicholas waited for the marquis to reply.

  At last he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “I regret to inform you that I cannot stand, Your Highness, for I am a cripple. A weak, pathetic invalid. Come and see for yourself.”

  Nicholas felt a tightening in his chest as he comprehended the marquis’s strange greeting, which was not at all what he had expected, based on Véronique’s description of the man. Nicholas had imagined a towering, imposing figure.

  Nevertheless, he knew better than to underestimate an enemy, so he moved forward cautiously, all his senses on high alert. As he approached, his gaze fell upon d’Entremont’s legs. They were covered by a green woolen blanket.

  Stepping around the high-backed chair, Nicholas finally beheld the marquis’s face.

  He was about sixty years of age with prominent dark features. His hair was thick and wavy with only a few traces of gray. His nose was slender and straight, his eyes hazel, his shoulders broad. Nothing about him struck Nicholas as weak or pathetic. Standing at his full height, d’Entremont had no doubt been an imposing figure at one time, but tonight, he did not get up.

  “Would you care for a brandy?” the marquis asked. “It’s my finest.”

  Nicholas was tempted to tell him to take his fine brandy and choke on it, but restrained himself. Instead he turned and spotted a sparkling crystal decanter and an empty glass on a table near the desk.

  He crossed to it, poured himself a drink, then returned to sit on the matching chair that faced the fire across from the marquis.

  “I am waiting for you to explain yourself,” Nicholas said. “Why am I here, and why all the secrecy? If you wanted to see me, why not just send a letter and invite me?”

  “I couldn’t take the chance that you would refuse my invitation and return to Petersbourg,” d’Entremont replied.

  “Then why not come to Paris and call on me at my hotel? Clearly you knew I was there, for you had me abducted out of a private ballroom.”

  “I was farther down the coast,” the marquis explained, “trying to arrange for a ship to America.”

  “For yourself?”

  “No.” D’Entremont regarded him shrewdly, as if waiting for Nicholas to guess the true answer.

  “For Bonaparte?”

  “Yes.” D’Entremont pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were in pain. “Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful. The emperor has surrendered. He is now in the hands of the British.”

  Nicholas was relieved to hear it, but was no less on guard. To calm his temper, he took a sip of the brandy, which was indeed very fine. Perhaps the best he’d ever tasted. He hoped it wasn’t laced with laudanum.

  “So what do you want from me?” he asked. “To arrange Bonaparte’s escape? I assure you, you’re wasting your breath—and your fine brandy—if you think I will be pressed into helping that tyrant get away.”

  D’Entremont stared at him intently. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet and solemn. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

  The words sent a jolt into Nicholas’s heart, and he frowned. “Did you know my mother?”

  And what the devil did his mother have to do with anything? She had been dead for over twenty years.

  “Yes,” d’Entremont replied. “I knew her very well, which is why you are here now, Nicholas.” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “But I will not drag this out and force you to continue to ask why this is happening. I will answer your question now. I sent for you with such haste because I am dying. I will not be long for this world.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  The marquis began to cough. He clutched his stomach, then recovered his composure. “As am I. You may or may not know that I lost my only son at Waterloo, which has caused me much sadness and grief.” His voice quavered, and he paused.

  “My condolences,” Nicholas softly said.

  The marquis sipped his brandy, set it down on the table beside him, then managed to continue. “When he fell on the battlefield, I lost my only heir. Now I must decide what to do with this estate and all my worldly possessions.”

  Nicholas thought of Pierre, the marquis’s illegitimate nephew, but remained silent as he waited for d’Entremont to finish.

  “That is why you were brought here, Nicholas. I wanted to meet you in person and explain all this myself.”

  “Explain what, exactly?” Nicholas sat very still as an ominous feeling settled into his stomach.

  “That I wish to name you as my sole heir, with the exception of one small property near Paris, which I will bequeath to my nephew, Pierre.”

  “Why me?” Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck while the answer to that question was already filtering uncomfortably into his brain.

  “Because the man you knew to be your father—King Frederick of Petersbourg—was not your real father. I must tell you now that that man is me.”

  A sudden coldness swirled in Nicholas’s head as he stared speechless at the marquis. “No,” he said firmly. “I do not believe that to be so.” He rose from his chair and stood, then set down his glass and started for the door.

  “Please come back,” d’Entremont pleaded. “You must give me an opportunity to explain. Do you not want to know the truth?”

  Nicholas halted with a tight grip on the doorknob while his gut churned with sickening anger over all that he had endured these past few days.

  And now this …

  Nevertheless, he let go of the knob and turned around to face the dying marquis, while the wind and the rain outside beat more violently upon the glass.

  * * *

  It had been more than an hour since Nicholas was taken to the library. Véronique waited impatiently in her chamber until at last, a knock sounded at the door. In a rush of movement, she leaped out of her chair and hurried to answer it.

  “Who’s there?” she asked, in case it was Pierre.

  “It’s Nicholas.”

  She pressed her hand to her breastbone and let out a breath of relief as she opened the door.

  There stood Nicholas alone—unharmed and alive—in the corridor.

  Her euphoria vanished, however, when she saw the look in his eyes. His brow was furrowed, and he was running a hand through his hair, as if he were lost and uncertain which direction to turn.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He leaned in to see Gabrielle rising from her chair before the fire, peering at him curiously. “I must speak with you,” he said to Véronique. “Alone.”

  She immediately turned to her sister. “Will you excuse us?”

  “Of course,” Gabby replied, and sat back down.

  Véronique followed Nicholas into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

  “Come this way,” he said, taking her by the hand.

  His touch sent a current of energy through her body, and she found herself focusing all her attention on the snug, warm grip of his hand upon hers.

  She was grateful that he was alive.

  They came to the room where he had been held captive, and he led her inside. She noticed that the servants had been there, for the bed was made and a fire was burning in the hearth.

  Nicholas let go of her hand and moved to the mantel. He found matches and lit five candles on a candelabra on the desk. The room brightened while the wind howled through the eaves outside.

  Véronique hugged her arms about herself and shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “I am fine,” she replied. She was eager to learn what had occurred in the library with Lord d’Entremont.

  Somehow he knew she was lying about not being cold, for he glanced at the freshly
made bed and reached for a wool coverlet that was draped over the footboard. He brought it to Véronique and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Their eyes held for a moment. Her body grew warm, but not because of the coverlet. The heat was something else—a tingling brush of desire.

  She was deeply attracted to this man—that was obvious—but she realized suddenly that it was so much more than that. She truly, genuinely cared for his welfare, perhaps because she felt responsible for bringing him here.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I am not sure.” He turned away and sank into the chair before the fire.

  Véronique followed and sat down across from him. “What did he say to you?”

  Slouching low, Nicholas rested his temple on a finger. “I doubt you’ll believe it. I certainly didn’t. Not at first, but now…” He sat in silence, then leaned forward until their foreheads touched. He covered her hands with his own. “I apologize for being rough with you today. That was inexcusable.”

  “It’s fine, Nicholas. What did d’Entremont say?”

  Without looking up, he answered the question at last. “He told me that he knew my mother many years ago, and that they were lovers.”

  Véronique drew back in surprise.

  “D’Entremont said he loved my mother deeply and passionately, and that he never loved anyone else as he loved her.”

  Véronique shook her head in disbelief. “But he was married for almost twenty years and had three children with his wife. From what I know of it, it was a happy marriage until the day she died.”

  “Happy. Content. Yes. D’Entremont held his wife in the highest regard, but he never let go of the undying love he felt for my mother.”

  Véronique leaned closer. “Was this before she married your father, or after?”

  Leaning back, Nicholas said flatly, “It was after.”

  Véronique paused and wet her lips. There was obviously a great scandal brewing here, and she was uneasy about pressing Nicholas for more information, but she had so many questions.…

  “After my brother, Randolph, was born,” he continued, “my mother spent time in Paris—a full year with distant relations while my father was immersed in the rising tide of the Petersbourg Revolution. He was a general in the army then, not yet king. According to d’Entremont, he and my mother met at a political assembly in Paris and fell in love, almost at first sight. Many months later, my father discovered her adultery and threatened to take Randolph away from her, and never allow her to see him again, if she did not return to Petersbourg immediately.”