“What sort of evidence?”
“Love letters,” Randolph replied. “And engraved jewelry. He says our mother spent a whole year in France with Lord d’Entremont, while our father was working to build the new government and put out the fires of the Revolution.”
Alexandra stopped rocking in the chair, for the babe—their precious son and heir to the throne—was now sleeping soundly. “Had you ever suspected anything like this?” she asked. “Do you remember her absence?”
Randolph stopped pacing and thought about his childhood with the mother he adored. “No. I do recall being told she had traveled to France to visit her family when I was very young—too young to remember. Then she came home, and I had a new brother, and life went on.”
Alexandra carefully stood up, laid their child in the golden cradle, and pulled the organza curtains closed around him. She then crossed to Randolph and pulled him into her arms. “It changes nothing,” she said. “Your mother loved you both, and Nicholas is still your blood brother in all ways.”
“I am surprised,” Randolph said, “and pleased to hear you support him, when not so long ago you and he were enemies.”
Alexandra had come to Petersbourg from England, and was the secret lost princess from the House of Tremaine—the very monarchy their father had toppled during the Revolution. Nicholas had suspected that Alexandra intended to seize back the throne through unscrupulous means.
“That was before he realized that my love for you was true,” she replied. “We have made our peace, Nicholas and I.” She drew back and went to pour a cup of tea. “What will you do? Will you reveal this information to the world, or will you leave it in the past?”
“Nicholas is torn,” Randolph said. “He felt some connection to d’Entremont Manor, and to our mother who has been dead for many years. He told me there was a part of him that did not want to come home. He felt somehow … transformed after being there.”
Alexandra’s eyebrows lifted. “I am shocked.”
“So was I. Now that he is home, however, he is remembering what is more familiar to him. He said he was beginning to feel more like his old self, except for the wife, of course.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh dear,” Alexandra said. “You don’t suppose he regrets it.”
Randolph went to look at his infant son, sleeping soundly in his cradle. “For the present moment, I believe he is quite infatuated with his new bride, which might have something to do with the fact that she was his captor, and then his rescuer. I fear, however, that his life is about to become very complicated, for if he decides to reveal the truth about his ancestry, all hell will break loose.”
“If he decides? It cannot be his decision alone,” Alexandra said. “She was your mother, too, and you are king. Nicholas must consider your wishes as well, and you must do what is best for the country.”
Randolph reached into his son’s cradle and adjusted the coverlet. “At least now we have an heir. We are protected from a Royalist overthrow, for our child is a direct descendant of the Tremaine dynasty, thanks to you. For that reason, I don’t believe another scandal involving Nicholas will topple us.” He faced his wife. “Yet I don’t see what good could come of it, for Nicholas has always been tortured by the press. He has a wife now, which should put him in everyone’s good graces, as long as he behaves himself.”
Alexandra raised a skeptical brow, for she knew Nicholas’s lifestyle.
“If he reveals the truth, however,” Rand continued, “he will be forever branded as a bastard, and the traditionalists will no doubt criticize and resent his life of privilege here at Court. He will become a subject of gossip. There will be no escaping it.”
“Will he care about the gossip?” she asked. “He never has before.”
“No, but he has a wife now, and he seems to regard her very highly. He may see things differently.”
“So you think we should all let bygones be bygones and keep quiet about it?” Alex asked. “Will you be able to convince him of this?”
Randolph moved to the bed and lay down. “I have never issued an order to Nicholas before. We have always been brothers first.”
“But you are his king. He is your subject. He must respect and obey your wishes.”
Randolph exhaled heavily. “I wouldn’t want it to come to that.”
She joined him on the bed and lay on her side, facing him. “I am sure it won’t. I cannot imagine he would wish to tarnish your mother’s memory in the eyes of the people. They worshipped her.”
“You’re probably right.”
They were quiet for a moment while they enjoyed the sweet, blissful peace of their infant slumbering softly.
“When will we meet his new bride?” Alexandra asked as she snuggled closer and rested her cheek on Randolph’s shoulder.
“Privately, before the banquet this evening,” he told her. “Then we have the perfect opportunity to present her to a few important people. The prime minister and his wife will be in attendance, as well as the usual courtiers and Privy Council members.”
Alex lifted her head. “Is that not a bit cruel? Shouldn’t we give her a chance to get her bearings first, before we throw her to the wolves?”
Randolph chuckled. “She must have known what would be expected of her when she agreed to marry Nicholas. It’s not as if she didn’t know he was a prince, and from what I gather, she is no shrinking violet. Let us not forget that she kidnapped him out of a masked ball, tied him up, and dragged him all the way to the French coast. Then after all that, convinced him to marry her.”
Alex leaned up on an elbow. “Perhaps the real question is whether or not Nicholas knew what he was getting into, marrying a woman like that. I cannot wait to meet her.”
He smiled. “I confess, I feel the same.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Nicholas escorted Véronique into the private family drawing room an hour before the banquet reception was scheduled to begin. It was to be his wife’s formal presentation to the king and queen, though Nicholas assured her there would be nothing formal about it, for Randolph and Alexandra were brother and sister to her now.
Nevertheless, she dipped into a deep curtsy upon meeting them.
Randolph smiled warmly as he offered a hand to help her rise. “So this is the lady who captured my brother’s heart. It is an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”
“The honor is mine, Your Majesty.”
Alexandra came closer as well. “You weren’t lying, Nicholas. She is lovely. Allow me to welcome you to our family.”
Véronique smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Nicholas led his bride to the sofa.
“We heard the story of how you two met,” Alexandra said with a smile, “but I fear that if the gossipmongers get wind of it, they will have far too good of a time.”
“Well, we mustn’t let that happen,” Nicholas replied lightheartedly.
A footman served them sherry in small stemmed glasses, and they spoke of other matters—like Véronique’s first impressions of the city and palace—while getting better acquainted.
Véronique described her parents’ home and the weather in France while Nicholas sat back and listened with pleasure to the charming cadence of her voice. Tantalizing memories of their intense conversations through a locked door reminded him of the passion that had knocked him off his feet at d’Entremont Manor, and how he simply had to have this woman. He had to take her for his own.
When he glanced at the clock on the wall, however, and saw that it would soon be time to meet the guests in the banqueting hall, he realized he would have preferred not to share her with the rest of the world. He wished he could leave her in her bedchamber for the evening and simply return to her afterwards.
He hadn’t felt that way at d’Entremont Manor—he had enjoyed moving about local society with her, spending every waking moment in her presence—but everything had seemed so out of place there. Disjointed, as if it were not part of his life, but rather a tempo
rary, parallel existence. He soon found himself withdrawing from the conversation.
When it was time to enter the banqueting hall, he wrenched himself back to the present reality, stood up, and offered his arm to Véronique.
* * *
By some miracle, Véronique survived her first function at the palace, which included her formal presentation to a stunned crowd of onlookers in the marble and gold banqueting hall. Though she tried to hide it, her heart pounded like a drum when Nicholas led her into the hall, and the majordomo shouted boomingly, “The Royal Highnesses, the Duke and Duchess of Walbrydge!” over the heads of all the guests.
Dead silence followed while Véronique stared into a vista of wide eyes and slack jaws, until the hum of conversation finally resumed.
Dinner at the head table was relatively painless after that. It was not until much later, when everyone was mingling about after dessert, that she experienced her first wave of doubt.
She stood chatting with the palace master-at-arms when she noticed that his wife appeared distracted. The woman was glancing repeatedly at something over Véronique’s shoulder.
When Véronique turned around, she saw Nicholas talking to a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman in an amethyst gown. They stood just outside the banquet hall, beyond the doors, arguing heatedly about something. Then they each stormed off in opposite directions.
Véronique locked gazes with Queen Alexandra on the far side of the room. She, too, had noticed the scene, but shook her head at Véronique, as if to say, It’s nothing.
Later that night when Nicholas slipped into her bed, settled his naked body upon hers, and began to kiss her neck with sweet erotic tenderness, she couldn’t help herself. She had to ask.…
“Who was that woman you were conversing with this evening? The one with the dark hair?”
He went still, then drew back to peer down at her. “Why do you ask?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be asking?”
For an intense moment of deliberation, he remained braced above her until he rolled to the side, shut his eyes, and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “She is a former lover. She didn’t expect me to bring a wife home from France. I am sorry you had to see that, Véronique. She was upset that she hadn’t been informed.”
“You only just arrived in the city this afternoon,” Véronique replied in his defense. “Did she expect you to pay her a call immediately upon your return, and apprise her of all your activities?”
“Evidently, she did.” He turned his head on the pillow to look her in the eye. “But I didn’t pay her a call.”
“No, you did not, and for that, I am grateful.”
Not wanting to spend their first night at the palace arguing about his irate former lovers, Véronique sat up, straddled her husband, and wiggled her hips enticingly. He grew stiff and hard, and his expression warmed with intrigue. Grabbing hold of her hips with his big hands, he rolled his pelvis beneath her.
“How am I possibly going to manage my jealousy now that we are back among all your former lovers?” she playfully asked.
The corner of his mouth curved up slightly. “Perhaps you’ll have to lock me up again, darling. Hold me captive until every last one of them gets the message that I am no longer available.”
“Can’t I simply make them disappear? Perhaps I should hire a thug to do the dirty work for me.”
He chuckled, then groaned with pleasure as she reached down, took hold of his erection, and guided it to the center of her ardent desires.
He thrust his hips slowly until he entered her, pushing very deep, stretching her … filling her with everything he was as a sexual being. Véronique quivered with pleasure as she stirred her hips in tiny circles, sliding up and down the glorious length of his shaft.
“If my rivals know what’s good for them,” she said, “they will give up any hopes for your attentions in the future, and accept the fact that you belong to me now.”
“You’re a devil,” he growled with a smile. Then he flipped her over onto her back without ever breaking their intimate connection.
A wave of erotic bliss rose up within her. Véronique threw herself into its mercies and forgot about the dark-haired woman from the banquet—and all the others who would surely, in the coming months, appear unexpectedly and express their discontent over losing their handsome and gifted lover.
She and Nicholas made love three times that night and did not speak of other women again—at least not until a week later, when they attended a private dinner at the home of the prime minister.
Chapter Twenty-two
Véronique had just handed her opera cloak over to the butler and was walking with Nicholas into the drawing room at Carlton House when her shoe caught in the hem of her gown and she stumbled.
Nicholas stopped in the doorway and steadied her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Just a little clumsy this evening, that’s all.”
He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “If you’re going to end up on your back, darling, I would prefer that you wait until we are at home, so I can join you.”
She grinned mischievously. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir. When we reach the palace, I will try not to trip again, at least not until your bed is in sight.”
She looked up to discover all the guests in the room were staring at them. A few leaned their heads together and whispered. One guest in particular, however, caught Véronique’s eye, for she was glaring at them with piercing venom. Véronique knew immediately that she was another one of Nicholas’s former lovers. This one had flaxen hair and a freckled complexion.
She stood abruptly and left the room conspicuously through the door on the opposite side as Véronique and Nicholas entered.
The prime minister was quick—almost too quick—to approach and greet them as they were formally announced.
“Welcome, Your Royal Highnesses,” he said. “Did you enjoy the opera?”
The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and Nicholas and Véronique soon joined the other guests in conversation. The flaxen-haired woman never returned.
Later, during the coach ride back to the palace, Véronique again could not supress her curiosity. “Who was that one?” she asked. “And why did she feel it necessary to leave the party?”
“Who knows?” he replied. “I have never been able to fathom the minds of most women—present company excepted.”
She linked her arm through his. “You still haven’t told me who she was. The prime minister seemed noticeably shaken. Was there some horrendous scandal involving the two of you?”
Nicholas pulled his gaze from the passing cityscape outside the window and looked down at her. “She is Mrs. Kennedy, but her friends call her Lizzie. She is the prime minister’s niece.”
“His niece!” Véronique sat back. “You had an affair with the prime minister’s niece?”
Nicholas raised a finger to his lips. “Shh, darling. You’ll frighten the horses. Before you get too excited, permit me to explain that she is not some innocent young virgin I seduced and left brokenhearted by the side of the road.”
“Is she a widow, then?”
He turned away from her briefly and tugged at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves beneath his jacket. “Not exactly.”
“How … not exactly?” Véronique pressed. “Her husband is either dead or alive. He cannot be both.”
Nicholas sighed impatiently. “She is married to a navy captain who is at sea most of the time. Is that enough information for you?”
“So it was an adulterous affair?”
Nicholas rested his arm along the back of the dark velvet upholstery and stared intently into her eyes. “Are we going to argue about basic morality now?” he asked. “If so, I forfeit. You win. Adultery is very bad.”
Realizing at once that she was picking a fight with her husband when he had done nothing wrong—at least not this evening—she fought to withhold her judgments, for he was right. He did not
need to explain his past affairs, as if he had been unfaithful to her.
“I am sorry,” she said, laying her hand on his thigh. “I don’t mean to be possessive.”
He took hold of her gloved hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “Do not apologize for being possessive, darling. If you weren’t, I would think you did not care.”
Her body warmed at his touch. “Oh, I care, Nicholas.” And when his mouth met hers, she leaned into the kiss to prove exactly how much—with both passion and exuberance.
* * *
The following week, on the way home from an appointment at the office of the Dutch foreign minister, Nicholas realized he had not set foot in his club since before he left for France, shortly after the defeat of Napoléon. Leaning out the window, he called to his driver to take the next left turn.
Had it really been over two months? he wondered as he walked through the front door of Carroway’s, looked around at the familiar dark paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and removed his hat and coat.
In short order he was seated in one of four upholstered chairs with three other married gentlemen—good friends he knew well from the old days when his father was alive and Randolph was not yet king.
Life had been different then, for they had all been unruly bachelors, sought after by every single young lady in the city. Married ladies, too, he supposed.
Over the past year, all four of them had taken wives. It seemed almost preposterous that he could be sitting with them now, talking politics while keeping an eye on the clock on the wall.
He was expected home later this evening. Neither he nor Véronique had made firm arrangements, of course, but in the six weeks since their wedding, he had gone to her bed every night and made love to her numerous times, so it had become both a habit and an unspoken promise that he would knock on her door at some point.
Tonight, however, he felt restless. He had been looking out the window to watch the carriages roll up and down the street. He wondered where everyone was headed.
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