The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  Véronique leaned forward. “Why did you make love to me when you came home?”

  “Because you are my wife, and I desire you.”

  Desire, not love.

  She slowly shook her head. “Your desire for me last night was different.”

  “Different…” His eyes narrowed. “I am not sure I understand.”

  Véronique simply couldn’t bring herself to say that she believed he only wanted to slake his lust, which had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with Mrs. Kennedy’s provocative offerings.

  Instead she lowered her gaze. He tapped his finger on the table, while she turned her wedding ring around on hers.

  When at last he spoke, his voice was gentle. “She put me in a foul mood,” he explained. “That is all.”

  Véronique sighed heavily. “I see.”

  “Would you have preferred I didn’t come to your bed at all?” he asked.

  She looked up. “No, I am glad you came, but I wish you had told me the truth last night.”

  He pondered her request. “I will remember that next time.”

  “Do you expect there to be a next time?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

  Her husband sat back in his chair with a hint of a smile and a touch of his famous, irresistible charm. “I cannot promise anything,” he replied. “I am very popular, you know.”

  Véronique picked up her napkin, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it at him.

  Later that night, he made up for his uncharacteristic haste in the bedroom by taking his time undressing her—and showing tremendous patience and endurance as he pleasured her generously until dawn.

  She did her best to forget about Mrs. Kennedy and place her trust in her husband.

  For the next fortnight, all was well. Nicholas was not accosted by any more former lovers, nor did he take part in any card games that lasted from midnight until dawn. Everything seemed rather perfect, in fact, and Véronique was just beginning to believe that their success as a married couple in Petersbourg was achievable, when an unexpected visitor arrived and upset all her hopes and wishes.

  * * *

  Two weeks before Christmas, Véronique ventured into the city proper with Alexandra to attend an early-morning outdoor performance by Saint Peter’s Cathedral Choir.

  As they drove past the shops on Lewis Avenue, she deliberated over the right gift for Nicholas, for it was to be their first holiday season together as a married couple. She wanted to choose something lasting and memorable.

  Since they would be moving into their new home in a few days’ time, she considered giving him a strong young Thoroughbred, for they would be living in the country and he would likely be doing a lot of riding.

  “What about a shotgun?” Alexandra suggested as the palace coach approached the concert stage in the park. “For the spring and fall hunting parties.”

  “A shotgun…” Véronique tried to imagine it. Perhaps she could learn to use it herself. It might come in handy to frighten away all the ex-lovers. “Does he like to hunt?” She was embarrassed to admit she did not know the answer to that question.

  “Very much so.”

  The coach reached the entrance to the park and rolled to a halt in front of the ornate stone archway and iron gate, where a crowd had gathered to shake hands with Alex and Véronique on a brief walkabout.

  Véronique took one side of the square while Alexandra moved along the other. She greeted the people, shook hands with mothers and children, and wished everyone a happy Christmas. The mood was relaxed and cheerful until she reached the gate and clasped hands with someone she recognized, someone she did not wish to see … Pierre Cuvier.

  “Monsieur…” She forced a smile, so as not to appear flustered. “What brings you to Petersbourg?”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he would not let go. He smiled that crooked sneer she remembered all too well, and said, “I’ve been here for a fortnight, Your Royal Highness. I came to pay my respects to my dear cousin.”

  Swallowing uneasily, Véronique managed to pull her hand from his grip. “Does he know you are here?”

  “Not yet, but I am sure you will relay the information for me.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a sealed letter. “Happy Christmas,” he said as he held it out.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the guards who were looking on. “Thank you.” Slipping it into her fur muff, she quickly moved along.

  The concert was a joyous affair that lasted a full hour, but Véronique felt anything but joyous. Her unexpected encounter with Pierre had left her shaken. She found it difficult to keep her eyes on the choir, for her gaze was constantly sweeping the audience, searching for his face.

  What did he want? She was desperate to read the letter, but it was addressed to her husband and she did not wish to betray his confidence.

  She would therefore wait until she returned to the palace, and would say nothing to anyone until then. Not even the queen.

  * * *

  “He was there in the crowd?” Nicholas asked with a frown. “Were your guards nearby?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “but I did not wish to arouse suspicion, so I was polite and moved on as quickly as I could. I said nothing about it to anyone, not even Alexandra.”

  Her husband beckoned for her to sit on the sofa while he broke the seal and proceeded to read the letter.

  “Good God.”

  “What does it say?” Véronique sat forward on the edge of the cushion. “Please tell me. I cannot bear the suspense.”

  He finished reading and lowered the letter to his side. “He wants to be invited to our Christmas celebrations at Walbrydge. He wants to come and stay.”

  She shifted uneasily. “Is that all he wants?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I highly doubt it. The problem is, he goes on and on about how we are family now.…”

  “But the king and queen will be there for Christmas, and he is…”

  “A nobody?” he finished for her.

  “What I was going to say,” she added, “is that he knows your secret, and if he wishes to be presented as your cousin, he is, at heart, threatening to reveal it.”

  “Yes. I believe that is the point of this,” Nicholas replied.

  “You don’t think he truly is lonely, do you?” she asked. “It’s his first Christmas without the marquis.”

  He studied her countenance. “Do you believe that?”

  She sat back. “I don’t know. I’ve always seen something sinister in his eyes, and I will never forget how he tried to mistreat Gabrielle. If he is lonely, I will find it very difficult to feel sorry for him.”

  “He may very well be lonely,” Nicholas said, “but if he has been here for a fortnight, he knows that my connection to d’Entremont has not been revealed publicly. He should know better than to ask to be presented as my cousin. For God’s sake—”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  He looked at the letter again. “It says here that he is staying at the Wild Rose Hotel. I believe I shall pay him a visit.”

  “Not alone, surely,” she said.

  “You don’t think I can handle him?” Nicholas asked. “I broke his nose once before, remember?”

  She gave him a look. “I do remember. But what if he has a pistol? You must be careful, Nicholas. Take a guard with you.”

  Thankfully, he agreed, and nodded before leaving the room to make the necessary arrangements.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Wild Rose Hotel was located in the east end of the city, past the park and theater district.

  An unmarked palace coach took the long way around to avoid passing through Green Street, which was known for its prostitutes and cutthroats. How the cousin of a prince could take up residence in such a place reminded Nicholas that he was venturing into another world outside his own.

  Though he was not truly a part of his own world—for he was a bastard son, just like Pierre. The only difference was that no one knew it.

>   He waited for the coach to come to a full stop before he pulled on his gloves and straightened his cravat. The guard who had accompanied him opened the door, waited for him to step out, then followed him into the hotel.

  Nicholas had requested that his guard wear plain clothes that afternoon, and he, too, had dressed casually so as not to arouse attention.

  He tossed a few coins onto the innkeeper’s desk and asked about Monsieur Cuvier. A few minutes later he was climbing the creaky staircase, venturing down the dark narrow corridor, and tapping a knuckle on the door of room 6.

  The noisy creak of the bed inside and the heavy tap of footsteps across the floor alerted the guard, who stood behind Nicholas. The man reached for his pistol, but Nicholas raised a hand to calm him. “Let us keep our cards close to our chest for the time being.”

  The door opened, and Nicholas locked eyes with the man who had been his kidnapper and his jailer. The man who was eventually revealed to be his half cousin by blood.

  Pierre blinked a few times in surprise, then peered at the guard and bowed with a flourish as he stepped aside. “Welcome, Your Highness. Won’t you come in?”

  Nicholas spoke quietly to the guard. “Wait downstairs.” Then he followed Pierre into the room and looked around.

  Pierre spread his arms wide. “As you can see, it’s not a room fit for a king or a prince, but I am neither, so I apologize for the lack of luxury. I am sure it’s not what you are accustomed to.”

  “It matters not.” Nicholas kept his eyes fixed on Pierre’s. “I read your letter.”

  “Excellent!” he replied. “So we will enjoy a happy family Christmas together, then? I shall look forward to it. In fact, I have already been to your new home. I drove past it last week and stopped to compliment the builders on their impressive work. Just between you and me, however, I don’t think it compares to d’Entremont Manor. It doesn’t have the same … regal style. It’s rather dark and depressing. Too much heavy stone. What is your opinion?”

  Nicholas breathed deeply and counted to ten. “What do you want, Pierre? Why are you here?”

  Pierre’s eyebrows lifted innocently. “I thought I made it clear. I want to spend Christmas with my family. Unless that is a problem for you and the duchess.”

  “You know very well it is a problem.”

  Pierre sighed. “Ah, yes, because your countrymen are not yet aware of your mother’s … holiday in France all those years ago.”

  A flashing spark burned in Nicholas’s retinas, and before he could consider a more diplomatic response, his feet carried him fast across the room. He wrapped his hand around Pierre’s throat and pinned him up against the wall. “I will ask you one more time, Cuvier. What do you want?”

  The whites of Pierre’s eyes flared as he gasped for air and kicked his heel against the wall in protest. “D’Entremont Manor,” he rasped.

  Nicholas frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “I want the manor house and all the property that goes with it,” he explained while the veins at his forehead bulged repulsively and his cheeks turned red.

  Nicholas released him and backed away. Pierre dropped to his knees, panting.

  “What are your terms?” Nicholas demanded.

  Raising a hand to beg for a few seconds’ reprieve, Pierre eventually rose to his feet. “I want what should have been mine from the beginning. Give me back my home, and I will never breathe a word of our association to anyone. I won’t reveal how your duchess committed a crime by drugging and kidnapping you, nor will I expose your mother as the whore that she was.”

  Nicholas clenched his hands into fists to resist knocking Pierre’s head off, and backed away. “If I refuse?”

  “Then I will spill everything to the newspapers, which would be a terrible shame for you and your pretty wife, who are so beloved by the people.” He paused. “Do you really need d’Entremont Manor? Surely you have enough. You have everything. Must you be so greedy?”

  Greed was the last thing on Nicholas’s mind at the moment. His chest constricted when he imagined the truth about his mother reaching the newspapers, not to mention the scandalous circumstances of how he and Véronique came to be married. What would the world say if they knew about the laudanum, the captivity, her pregnant sister, and all the rest of it? Some might call for Véronique’s arrest. Their reputations would be ruined.

  He wanted overwhelmingly to barrel all his weight into Pierre and beat the man senseless.

  “Are you forgetting that you, too, were involved in my kidnapping?” he said. “You committed a crime against me, sir, and I could have you arrested, or worse.”

  Pierre glared at him with malice. “And condemn your wife at the same time? Because if I find myself in Briggin’s Prison, I will most assuredly be forced to talk. Naturally, I would wish to cooperate. I would have no choice but to confess everything.”

  Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck while his blood pulsed feverishly through his veins. “I will need time to consider this,” he replied as he imagined all the worst possible scenarios.

  “I will give you three days,” Pierre said. “All I require is that you bring me the deed to d’Entremont Manor, sign it over, and all this will go away. No one will ever know. You can continue to enjoy your respectable new life with your lovely bride, and I will have what is owed to me. It will be a happy ending for everyone all around. Otherwise, I will go to the papers.”

  “And confess your own guilt,” Nicholas reminded him.

  Pierre shook his head. “It won’t matter, because by the time the news becomes public—if it comes to that—I will be long gone. Without Lord d’Entremont, I have no more ties to France. Who knows where I might choose to live?”

  “Have you forgotten the property he willed to you?” Nicholas asked.

  Pierre’s mouth pulled into a thin-lipped smile. “I have already sold it.”

  Nicholas stood before his half cousin in a state of blind rage, cracking his knuckles while he contemplated the disastrous state of his life. He had faced scandal before and never broken a sweat, but everything was different now. He had a wife. He couldn’t let this get out.

  All at once, he felt almost murderous. He wanted to shove Pierre’s head into a bucket of water and watch him drown. He’d keep the secret then, wouldn’t he?

  It was the first time Nicholas had ever felt such a strong desire to kill a man. The urge was vile and carnal, like a disease in his blood.

  Véronique said she saw something sinister in Pierre. Perhaps they were more alike than he realized. Cut from the same cloth, so to speak. The thought made him shudder.

  “I will meet you in this room in three days,” Nicholas said as he turned and headed for the door. “Be here at this hour.”

  “Oh, I will,” Pierre replied with a chuckle that caused all Nicholas’s muscles to strain against his skin as he forced himself to walk out and shut the door behind him.

  * * *

  Nicholas’s hands shook uncontrollably when the coach pulled away from the hotel. He felt dangerously on edge, and had to crack his neck from side to side to release some of the pent-up tension in his shoulders.

  “Is everything all right, Your Highness?” the guard asked, sounding concerned.

  Nicholas merely nodded as he stared out the window, for he could not discuss what had just happened.

  He would discuss it with Randolph, however, and together they would decide how best to proceed. Just the thought of that conversation gave Nicholas a headache, for he’d foolishly begun to imagine that all the scandals were behind him.

  Then he began to envision what would happen if he wrapped a cord around Pierre’s neck and pulled it tight. But what would he do about the body?

  No, he couldn’t think that way.

  Growing more agitated by the second, he ripped his hat off his head and set it on the seat beside him, then pounded a fist hard against the side wall of the coach. “Let me out!” he shouted. “I need air!”

  “But, Your High
ness,” the guard argued. “We’re in the Green District.”

  “I bloody well know where we are. I’ve been here before.” Many times, in fact, when he was living a life of debauchery, outside the courtly realms of Petersbourg Palace. Perhaps this part of town was a more suitable outlet for a man like him—a bastard son who contemplated murder and had no business calling himself a prince.

  The coach pulled to a halt and he got out. He was not surprised when his guard followed and walked a short distance behind while the coach rolled along beside them.

  Bloody hell.

  He stopped abruptly and looked up at a wooden sign that said simply: ALEHOUSE.

  Perfect. He strode through the door and down the steps to a damp, musty, dimly lit cellar with low ceilings. The floors were wet under his feet. The place reeked of stale liquor.

  It was blessedly quiet, however, except for a few hard-looking patrons who sat alone on benches at the long tables.

  Nicholas went to the bar, ordered a tankard of ale, then found a small private table in the shadows at the back. He sat down and kicked his booted legs up onto a second chair.

  His guard also ordered a tankard and took a seat at one of the long tables near the door, where he could keep an eye on things.

  Where was this obsessive sentry on the night Nicholas attended a masked ball in Paris and was abducted by a beautiful Frenchwoman? A woman who had been working secretly with the man who now threatened to destroy him and everything he cared for?

  Nicholas took another swig of ale. A part of him wanted to blame Véronique for all this, but how could he, when it was he who suggested marriage and allowed her to turn him into a gentleman hero for the first time in his life—at least in the eyes of the people.

  But he was no gentleman. He was the same bastard he’d always been, and he doubted he could ever truly become what she expected him to be.

  Could he really be faithful to one woman for the rest of his life? A few short months ago, the answer would have been a resounding no, but somehow Véronique had made him believe it was possible. He wanted it to be, but there was so much water under the bridge of his miserable life. He couldn’t erase all the women, nor could he erase the fact that he was the product of his mother’s secret adultery, and the proof had finally come back to haunt him. And he wanted to murder it with a thin rope.