The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  He turned to his brother. “Let us not speak of this again. We will continue to move forward, and I will do my best to stay out of trouble.”

  With that, he took his leave.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  For a full month, Nicholas was as devoted as any husband could be. He spent the majority of his evenings at home, dining either privately with his wife by the fire, or with the king and queen in the formal dining room.

  If there were no official functions at the palace, he and Véronique went out to the theater or attended political assemblies and private parties with friends, who were generous in helping Véronique settle into her new role as Duchess of Walbrydge.

  The Walbrydge property, located near the western border of Petersbourg, was undergoing substantial renovations and was scheduled to be ready in time for Christmas. Nicholas and Véronique traveled there regularly to inspect the changes and make decisions about paint colors and fabrics. They happily anticipated the moment they could inhabit the premises at last, and turn it into a real home.

  Thankfully, Véronique was less anxious about certain outside influences. There were blessedly few incidents with other women. Perhaps, she thought, all the lovers from Nicholas’s past had been reading the newspapers and had finally accepted the fact that all hope was lost, for the prince was now a changed man. Everyone who saw him in the presence of his wife commented on it incessantly and on one particular night, she overheard the following conversation while sipping claret behind a tall potted tree fern:

  “I always knew he’d grow into his responsibilities one day,” the Earl of Mulgrave said at the Autumn Ball for Charity.

  “Indeed,” Bishop Canfield replied. “I daresay he’d make as good a king as his older brother. We are fortunate to have such fine family men in the palace representing our postwar interests.”

  “A child should be on the way soon,” the Countess of Mulgrave added. “Do you see the way Nicholas obsesses over his wife? He is very protective, and cannot take his eyes off her.”

  “One can hardly blame him,” the earl said. “She is as beautiful, charming, and hospitable as they come. She would make a fine queen, too.”

  “Pity she’s French, though,” the countess mentioned. “It would have been nice for the prince to marry a local girl.”

  “Perhaps that was part of the duchess’s allure,” the earl said. “It’s a fresh start for him, and Lord knows he needed it. From what I’ve heard, her family despised Bonaparte. They are devout Royalists in every way and they support King Louis.”

  “That is excellent news,” the bishop commented.

  The headline in the paper the following day was as flattering as the gossip in the private parlors and ballrooms.

  DUKE AND DUCHESS OF WALBRYDGE PLAN TRADITIONAL FAMILY CHRISTMAS DINNER AT NEW HOME. KING, QUEEN, AND TOP MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT EXPECTED TO ATTEND.

  And so the holiday season began on a very high note.

  * * *

  Though Nicholas did his best most nights to remain at home with his wife in the evenings, occasionally he kissed her on the cheek and ventured out to Carroway’s for an evening of cards and cognac. She did not begrudge him for it, and he was thankful that they had settled into a comfortable routine. She had not expressed any discontent or mistrust since the night he stayed out until dawn and bought her the diamond necklace with his winnings.

  As Christmas was fast approaching, Carroway’s was uncharacteristically quiet one particular night when he found himself sitting alone. It was not an unwelcome circumstance. There had been much attention paid to him lately—most of it complimentary—but he was pleased, for once, to be spared the backslapping congratulations.

  It was past midnight when he decided to return home to the palace, forgoing the usual trip to Wolcott’s for cards.

  As he placed his hat on his head and walked out the door, he looked up at the sky. It had just begun to snow. Nicholas paused to breathe in the fresh winter scents and blinked up at the giant snowflakes falling lightly through the mist. They landed on his cheeks, and he reveled in their coolness as they melted onto his skin.

  Approaching the curb, he waved to his driver, who was parked a few doors down. The coach pulled up and Nicholas greeted his driver. “Straight home tonight, Jenkins. Not much going on.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Nicholas opened the door of the coach and stepped inside, taking note of the fact that the lamp was not lit. It mattered not. He would simply close his eyes for the ride home.

  He was just brushing the snowflakes from his shoulders when he became aware of a shadowy presence on the opposite seat, facing him.

  The coach lurched forward and Nicholas squinted through the darkness. “Since it’s Christmas,” he said, “and a time for goodwill toward men, I will give you ten seconds to identify yourself, then I will have my driver stop here while I politely allow you to vacate my vehicle. No questions asked.”

  A throat cleared, and he knew at once that it was a woman.

  A few months ago, he would have lounged back comfortably in his seat and awaited his traveling companion’s next move, but tonight he found himself unnerved and irritated by this person’s presumptuousness, for he was no longer available for such games, and had certainly not extended any invitations to anyone.

  “Please do not make him stop,” the lady said as she lowered the hood of her cloak.

  “Ah…” He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth, the prime minister’s niece. Lizzie, to him. One of his former, more regular lovers. “Good evening, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  She stared at him. “Is that how it’s going to be now, Nicholas? You are going to address me as Mrs. Kennedy and forget what we were to each other?”

  He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “I shall never forget it,” he courteously replied, “but what we were is no longer relevant.”

  She was quiet while the coach wheels rolled over the snow-covered cobblestones. “You are telling me that I must accept it—because you are respectable now.”

  “I am a married man,” he reminded her.

  She sighed as she removed her gloves and set them on her lap. “I suppose your wife would not appreciate knowing the nature of our acquaintance.”

  “Véronique knows who you are,” he informed her. “You attracted her attention when you walked out of your uncle’s dinner party so abruptly last month.”

  “I see.” She rolled her shoulders with a clear show of discontent. “Well, I apologize for that. It was impolite of me, but I was still in shock over your unexpected marriage. I wasn’t up to meeting your wife just then.”

  He gave her a moment to recover her composure.

  “You would like her, I believe,” he said.

  Elizabeth let out a small hmph. “Of course I would.”

  They traveled in silence for a few minutes. Nicholas looked out the window, wondering how much time he had before they reached the palace. He couldn’t very well drive through the front gates with his former lover in tow.

  The level of his impatience escalated. “What do you want, Elizabeth?” he bluntly asked.

  She, too, gazed out the window. When she spoke, her voice was casual and composed, as if she were in no hurry at all. “Your driver doesn’t know I am here,” she explained. “I sneaked in, because I needed to speak with you alone. I didn’t know how else to arrange it. You haven’t answered my letters.” Her eyes met his with concern. “Are they keeping them from you?”

  “No,” he replied. “They are not keeping anything from me. I received all of them.”

  He had burned each one without reading a single word.

  Suddenly, Lizzie slid across the dark space to sit beside him. “Forgive me, Nicholas, but I cannot continue to watch you play this charade. Please tell me that you will not live this life forever.”

  “To what charade—what life—are you referring?” he asked with a frown, knowing, of course, where she was headed with this line of questioning.

  “The life
of a proper, faithful husband,” she answered heatedly. “It is all very inspiring, but I know you too well. Surely you are growing bored. I cannot imagine how you are coping.”

  “I am coping very well, thank you,” he replied, recognizing the familiar fragrance of her perfume and taking note of the rapid pace of her breathing.

  She scoffed. “Nicholas, this is me you are talking to. When will you come back?” she asked. “How much longer must I wait?”

  His chest tightened as he comprehended the risks of being alone with this woman in his coach … this woman, with whom he had been sexually intimate—as intimate as a man and a woman can be. They had done wicked things together—depraved things—that would shock most married couples. They had spent countless hours in bed—in hotel rooms, in her home, outdoors. In public places, even. The depth and extent of her sexual knowledge of his body would astonish anyone. Véronique, especially.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “My driver will take you home.”

  And pray God Jenkins wouldn’t blab about it.

  “No, Nicholas, not yet.…” She inched closer, pressing her leg up against his thigh. He couldn’t help but recall the lushness of her bosom, and how she had always been so … accommodating.

  This was dangerous.

  “I know you and your sexual appetites,” she said. “You will go mad under the glare of everyone’s expectations. Please know that I will be here waiting for you when you feel the need to … spread your wings.”

  Her lips were now mere inches from his own, and he could smell brandy on her breath.

  She laid a hand on his leg and stroked him. A fierce arousal stirred in his loins, but he fought to suppress it.

  “I appreciate your kind offer,” he said as he grabbed hold of her wrist and pushed her hand away, “but I am a happily married man now, Lizzie. Go home to your husband.”

  Sensing that she was enjoying his vicelike grip on her wrist a little more than she should, he released her.

  With another blatant move to entice him, she pulled open the collar of her cloak to expose her deep cleavage. She wiggled her hips. Her ample breasts strained against the fabric of her low décolletage.

  “How I’ve missed you,” she softly cooed. “You can have me now if you like, right here in the coach, as many times as you wish.”

  Her soft, open mouth was close enough to taste. His heart pounded in his ears. She was a woman of vast sexual experience, always eager to please, willing to try anything, and he found himself tensing beneath her feminine offerings.

  “Don’t,” he said in low voice that was full of grave warnings.

  She stared at him fixedly. A small breath escaped her. He could feel her desire like an inferno inside the coach.

  “Are you afraid I will get you into trouble?” she asked. “Because I can be very discreet. We can find a way to meet secretly. No one has to know.” She wiggled closer, and he felt a surge of dirty, degenerate lust.

  “Go home,” he repeated firmly, then pounded a fist against the side wall of the coach to signal his driver.

  Lizzie gasped with delight as he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the opposite seat, plunking her down like a misbehaving child.

  Disappointed, she slumped back. “I see you’re not ready yet.”

  He practically fell back into his own corner and swallowed uneasily as he straightened his cravat with trembling hands. “No, madam, and I would not hold my breath if I were you. Stay away from me, do you understand?” He shouted at Jenkins. “Dammit, man! Let me out!”

  The coach jostled to a sudden halt a few blocks from the palace. Nicholas flung open the door and spilled out, as if the inside were on fire. “My driver will take you home,” he gruffly said, “and if you tell anyone about this, Lizzie, I swear to God I will deny everything and ruin you for it.”

  He did not wait for her reply. He slammed the door shut in her face and explained the situation to Jenkins, demanded his complete and utter discretion, and gave him Mrs. Kennedy’s address.

  A disconcerting moment later he was standing at the curb, watching the coach grow distant while rage pounded inside his skull. He shut his eyes, breathed in the cool air, and waited for his erection to diminish.

  Dammit. Nausea rolled in his guts. He had not wanted this tonight. He wanted to be faithful to Véronique, and he certainly did not wish to fall backwards into a torrid affair with Elizabeth Kennedy. She was a beautiful but lonely woman with an uncommonly overactive sexual libido. He had enjoyed her tremendously at one time, and was not proud of the fact that he had taken advantage of her willingness for his own pleasures on more than one occasion, but that was another life. He had a wife now. A wife who waited for him at home.

  Should he tell her about this?

  Nicholas turned to walk through the gently falling snow. When he finally walked through the palace doors, he did not stop to remove his coat and hat. He went straight to Véronique’s bedchamber, unfastened his breeches, and made love to her on top of the covers, while still wearing his shirt and boots.

  It was over too quickly, and he felt guilty about that. Yet he did not want to make love again. He just wanted to sleep.

  So he apologized, said good night, and left her room.

  When he reached his own bed, he lay on his back for a long time, staring up at the canopy, feeling unsettled by what had occurred in the coach with his former lover. He worked hard to push their encounter from his mind, but it continued to torment him long into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Nicholas finally walked into the breakfast room the following morning, Véronique waited anxiously for him to sit down with his coffee before she turned in her chair and spoke to the servant, who stood against the wall behind her. “Will you excuse us, please?”

  The footman left the room while her husband watched her in the late-morning sunlight streaming in through the large bank of windows. The snow was melting fast. Drops of silvery water were dripping from the eaves.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, setting down his cup.

  Véronique cleared her throat. “I am not sure. Maybe that is a question you should answer.”

  His eyes were hooded, unreadable, and when he gave no reply, she took a moment to gather her thoughts.

  “What happened last night?” she asked. “You weren’t yourself when you came home.”

  He had walked into her room and exercised his husbandly rights without the slightest show of seduction or foreplay, which was not like him at all. Then he’d left without a word, leaving Véronique both baffled and sexually frustrated.

  Nicholas sat back. “What makes you think something happened?”

  “You were different.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. It felt … rushed.”

  His hand, which was resting on the table, curled into a fist, then straightened and flexed. Véronique fought an acute sense of dread.

  “If you must know…,” he said at last, but stopped at that.

  She braced herself. “Yes?”

  He tapped his forefinger on the table, as if contemplating whether or not he should explain, and if so, how best to phrase it. Her stomach, by this time, was in knots.

  “A woman sneaked into my coach last night,” he told her. “She was waiting for me when I left the club.”

  Véronique tried to ease the tension that suddenly gripped her shoulders. “Who was she?”

  “What difference does it make? Nothing happened. I had Jenkins take her straight home.”

  “But I want to know,” Véronique insisted.

  Again, he paused. “Fine. If you must … It was Mrs. Kennedy. You saw her once, very briefly, at Carlton House. Remember?”

  “The prime minister’s niece?” Véronique made every effort to speak in a calm voice. “What did she want?”

  “Do you really need me to answer that?”

  Having suddenly lost her appetite, she pushed her plate away. “You said nothin
g happened. Is that not the truth?”

  Nicholas gazed at her intently. “Mrs. Kennedy made me an offer. I declined. Then I got out of the coach and sent her home.”

  “What kind of offer?” Véronique asked with a frown.

  “Trust me, you do not need to hear those details.”

  “Yes, I most certainly do. I want to hear exactly what she said. Let there be no secrets between us.”

  Recognizing the stubborn tenacity in her voice, her husband stared long and hard at her. A muscle twitched at his jaw. “She said I could have her in the coach if I wanted her. As many times as I liked.”

  Véronique swallowed over the bitter-tasting bile that rose up in her throat.

  “You see?” he added. “You did not need to hear that.”

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she would have been better off not knowing. But she would have gone mad in the process, wondering about it.

  “What did you say in reply?” she asked.

  “I told you, I declined.”

  “Did you kiss her?”

  “No.”

  Véronique’s chest was heaving. Despite the fact that he swore nothing had happened, she still wanted to break something. “Did you touch her?”

  “Of course not. How could you even ask that?” Her husband regarded her steadily with a frown from across the table. “All right … I put my hands on her to lift her off my seat and place her on the opposite one. Then I told her to stay away from me in the future, or I would ruin her. Are you satisfied with that, darling, or do you have more questions?” His eyes were cold. He spoke with a knifelike edge.

  Véronique labored to remain calm. “No, I do not have any more questions. Did you really say that?”

  “Yes.”

  They both sat in silence, while she thought about the manner in which he had made love to her the night before.

  Perhaps he knew she was thinking of it, for he sat forward. “You do have one more question,” he said.

  The footman appeared in the doorway, but Nicholas held up his hand. “Not yet.” The footman quickly made himself scarce.