The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  He wouldn’t blame her if she left him. He’d certainly done his best to drive her away just now.

  He realized suddenly that he couldn’t let go of the belief that he would lose her one day. If not because of this, then for some other reason. Childbirth perhaps?

  Part of him wanted to face the loss now and get it over with, before his feelings grew any deeper and he became so profoundly attached, it would be …

  Unbearable.

  Suddenly his thoughts drifted to the past.

  * * *

  “I am so proud of you, Nicholas. This is the best picture you have ever done.”

  His mother gathered him into her arms and held him close while she admired the rudimentary painting of a little boy holding his mother’s hand. They stood beneath a yellow sun and a rainbow.

  “I daresay you are destined for greatness. What a brilliant man you will grow up to be. I am so happy you are my son. Do you know you are everything to me?”

  Nicholas gazed up at the sky and realized how fortunate he was to have found Véronique—a woman who, like his mother, believed in him. And by God, he loved her for it.

  Did he deserve her? Perhaps, in some small way, he did. Perhaps she was right, and in truth, he was not the miserable, depraved scoundrel his father had always made him out to be. The realization struck Nicholas hard and left him strangely hopeful, in a way he had never been before.

  How odd that he could feel so hopeful when he was about to be stripped of his royal title and labeled a bastard.

  PART III

  An Honest Life

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The news of Nicholas’s illegitimacy was read before the members of parliament by King Randolph, who revealed that his brother was not the true blood son of King Frederick, but illegitimately born after their mother’s return from a yearlong visit to France. Nicholas’s father was the Marquis d’Entremont, a known Bonapartist, recently deceased.

  The announcement was received initially with quiet, confused murmurs as the members of parliament absorbed what seemed an impossible state of affairs. A short while later, they scattered like mice, eager to be first to spread the news.

  A special edition of the Petersbourg Chronicle was published that night, while Véronique and Nicholas dined privately at the palace with Randolph and Alexandra.

  To Véronique, it felt as if the city were ablaze outside the palace gates, while they were sheltered inside from the flames—at least for this one, final supper. Tomorrow, everyone would know the truth, and when she woke, nothing would ever be the same again. The people of Petersbourg would no longer throw roses at her coach when she passed. It was impossible to imagine what they might do. How tolerant or forgiving would they be?

  * * *

  “I am afraid to ask,” Véronique said as she watched her husband enter her chamber with a gossip sheet in hand. “What is it now?”

  Every writer in the city had been ruthless over the past week, using pens like skewers. Naturally, the incident with the prostitute in the alehouse found its way to the front page of every paper. The guard who had accompanied Nicholas that day was paid handsomely for his firsthand knowledge of the encounter—and was promptly fired by palace officials as soon as the headline broke.

  Nicholas endured every possible insult. He was the subject of intense social and political debate in the public gathering spots and private drawing rooms of the city. He had been advised not to leave the palace and venture into the streets—a necessary precaution for his own safety and peace of mind, for it was generally expected that he would meet with hisses and verbal abuse, and no one wanted to give the papers any more fodder upon which to chew.

  Véronique received her fair share of scratches as well, for everyone was suddenly questioning her basic morals, and asking why any woman would choose to marry a man with such a terrible reputation. Did she not see it? Was she a fortune-hunter or social climber?

  Or had she been seduced like all the others? Perhaps even ravished?

  Then, there were strange, preposterous rumors of a kidnapping.…

  Nicholas tossed the newspaper onto her bed and spread his arms wide, as if surrendering completely to whatever dreadful fate was about to befall them next.

  “See for yourself,” he said. “Then sharpen your sword, darling, like everyone else, and take a swing. Cut me to pieces. Here I am.”

  Recognizing his frustration, she walked to the bed and picked up the paper.

  PETERSBOURG PALACE DISGRACED AGAIN

  Since the announcement of his illegitimacy, Bastard Prince Nicholas has been hiding behind the palace gates to avoid public censure. It has recently been discovered, however, that the wild young buck has been slipping out in the early mornings to exercise his freedoms.

  May we take this time to remind our readers about a scandal from a previous year, when the notoriously rakish royal seduced and ruined a respected duke’s beloved daughter at the Hanover Hotel?

  The editors of this paper have lately discovered that the Bastard Prince secretly met with the young lady—who has come forward to expose his ungentlemanly conduct—both on the night of her seduction more than a year ago, and on another more recent occasion when he came upon her in the park during her morning ride.

  Again, he attempted to charm and lure her into the forest, surely to engage her in scandalous activities that shall remain a mystery—for the young lady was fortunate enough to escape the notorious Bastard’s clutches and gallop away as fast as her mount could take her.

  Véronique immediately crossed to the hearth and tossed the gossip sheet into the flames. She watched it burn and crumple to ash; then her husband’s hand came to rest on her shoulder.

  She turned to look up at him. “How much of it is true?”

  “Some of it,” he replied. “I did have an affair with that particular woman at the Hanover Hotel more than a year ago, and there was a noisy scandal about it at the time. But who seduced whom remains a question that will go unanswered, for we later discovered that her family took bribes to help smear my family’s name. It was a Royalist plot to set wheels in motion that would remove my brother from the throne, to be replaced by another. We believe the young lady played a part in it, and lured me to her room in the hotel, not the other way around.”

  “Did you really ruin her?” Véronique asked.

  He chuckled bitterly. “I assure you, she had been ruined long before I entered the scene.”

  It was never a pleasant thought, to imagine her husband making love to another woman, but Véronique could not blame Nicholas for things that happened before they met.

  “What about this week?” she asked. “I know you have gone riding alone in the mornings. Did you see her in the park?”

  “No. That part of the story is pure fiction. I have gone riding, but I have neither seen nor spoken to anyone. Perhaps someone else saw me, however, and recognized an opportunity. This is all lies, Véronique, for the purpose of selling papers. Can you continue to weather it?”

  She had to admit, after reading all the gossip printed about them over the past week, a small part of her was tempted to summon a carriage and travel straight back to France, where there would be no more spiteful stories about her husband’s infidelities and ungentlemanly conduct, and her own immoral behavior.

  Every word published stung her like a poisonous insect, and it took great strength of will to remember that these were the words of strangers, and no one knew the honest truth about her husband’s heart, or the integrity of his character. Or hers.

  She laid a hand on his cheek. “For you, I can weather anything, because I love you more than life itself.”

  He turned his face into her open palm and kissed it, then placed it over his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Over the next seven days, Nicholas and Véronique went riding together in the park each morning. They galloped fast across the snow-covered meadows in plain view, shamelessly inviting anyone to secretly follow and write about
their laughter and togetherness. Not surprisingly, no one seemed the least bit interested in their success as a married couple. There was no news in that. So Nicholas and Véronique simply enjoyed the crisp winter air on their cheeks and the opportunity to escape prying eyes for a part of each day that belonged solely to them.

  On the eighth day, Nicholas was invited to a private breakfast alone with the prime minister, which he and Véronique discussed at great length the night before.

  “What do you think he wants?” she asked. “You don’t suppose it has anything to do with his niece, do you?”

  Nicholas slipped into bed beside her. “God forbid, I cannot imagine Mrs. Kennedy would have allowed her uncle to discover the truth about her infidelities. But I suppose anything is possible in this age of scandal-rousing. The country seems obsessed.”

  “The war is over and Napoléon is gone,” she said. “They have nothing else to write about. But if the prime minister does know, what will he do, Nicholas? Should we be worried?”

  Nicholas gathered her into his arms. “Mr. Carlton is a good man, and I consider him a friend. If anything, I believe he may wish to offer a show of support. Perhaps he wants to help us emerge from this nightmare unscathed.” He rolled on top of her, settled his hips snugly between her thighs, and lit her body on fire.

  “I would hardly call this a nightmare,” she breathlessly replied as he entered her.

  Closing her eyes, Véronique arched her back and cupped her husband’s muscular buttocks in her hands, pulling him deep inside. A spark of pleasure flared in her blood, while she reveled in the incomprehensible joy of this lovemaking.

  In that moment, she didn’t give a damn what the newspapers printed about either one of them. This was all that mattered.

  * * *

  Nicholas knocked on the door to the prime minister’s private residence a few minutes before nine the following morning. The butler greeted him with a bow and invited him into the main hall, where he collected Nicholas’s hat and coat. “If you will follow me this way, Your Grace, breakfast is being served in the green room.”

  The house, located in one of the fashionable new neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city, boasted large, south-facing windows. For that reason it was brightly lit by the sun reflecting off the fresh white snow that covered the grounds outside.

  Nicholas followed the butler to the rear wing of the house, which overlooked the river, and through a set of double doors that opened to reveal a large table covered with bowls of ripe, colorful fruits; biscuits on platters; cheeses and meats. The delicious aroma of fresh coffee filled the air.

  No one was present in the room to greet him, however, so the butler left him alone. He backed out and closed the double doors behind him.

  Nicholas stood in silence; then the clock on the mantel began to chime the hour. It was nine o’clock. He was exactly on time, but where was Mr. Carlton?

  His stomach growled with hunger as the scent of the warm biscuits reached his nostrils. At last the clock finished its ninth chime, and the door on the opposite side of the room opened.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” his hostess greeted cheerfully.

  Nicholas lowered his head. Damn.

  “Good morning,” he flatly replied before he looked up and watched Elizabeth Kennedy enter the room, take a seat, and gesture for him to join her at the table. “Where is your uncle?”

  “He left for the country house yesterday,” she replied. “Did no one tell you?”

  “Of course no one told me,” Nicholas testily replied. “I received his invitation only yesterday. Was there a change of plans?”

  He knew, however, that there had been no change, for there had never been an invitation from Mr. Carlton to begin with. It had come from Lizzie, alone.

  A clever scheme, he thought, but it would get her nowhere, for he had no intention of staying.

  “I am sure you’ve realized by now,” she said, “that I am the one who invited you. Please sit down, Nicholas. I had the cook prepare all your favorites. Look, there are raspberry cakes with chocolate.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he snapped, then turned to leave. He reached the door, but it was locked. Bloody hell. Clenching his jaw, he turned to face her. “Where is the key?”

  She grinned shamelessly and pointed into her cleavage. “Come and get it, darling.”

  He flexed his fingers while the beat of his pulse intensified. “No,” he firmly said. “You will fetch it yourself and open this door at once.”

  “Or else … what?” she asked. “Will you throw me over your knee and spank me? I really wish you would, Nicholas. Ever since you left for France, I’ve been a very naughty girl with very naughty thoughts.”

  He glared at her maliciously. “Are you going to unlock the door?”

  She reclined back in the chair, parted her legs, and slowly lifted her skirts above her knees. “Surely you know me better than that. You know I won’t surrender until I get what I want.”

  “Fine,” he growled. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his pistol, loaded it on the spot, and shot the lock and doorknob to bits.

  Mrs. Kennedy screamed and leaped out of her chair. “What the devil are you doing?”

  He swung around and bowed with a flourish. “Exactly what it looks like, madam. I am letting myself out. Please inform your uncle that I will cover the cost of the damages. Feel free to explain why I was forced to take such extreme measures. Good day to you.”

  With that, he pulled the door open and strode into the corridor.

  “Wait! No! You cannot leave!” Elizabeth ran after him and grabbed hold of his arm.

  He shook her off and continued toward the stairs.

  “Please! Stay … just fifteen minutes more.”

  He stopped dead. “Why fifteen minutes?”

  She stared at him with panic, and suddenly he understood exactly what was happening here. She hadn’t invited him to tempt him into resuming their affair. This was a trap.

  A rush of adrenaline burned in his muscles, and he shoved her up against the wall. “What’s going on?”

  Recognizing the dangerous fury in his eyes, she wisely revealed what she knew about a plan that was already in motion.

  Nicholas immediately released her and dashed out of the house to return to the palace, where Véronique would soon be taking her morning ride. Alone.

  * * *

  With her groom, John, following close behind, Véronique trotted into the bridle path that would take her through the forest to the look-off point at the top of the ridge.

  It was a quiet, windless morning. There was only an inch of snow on the ground, but it was coated in a thin sheet of ice that sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight.

  As she was on her way up, she passed a few others on their way down, and greeted them with a smile. They responded courteously, but after they passed, she wondered what they would say behind her back. Perhaps they would report her husband’s absence and speculate about his whereabouts.

  She told herself it did not matter, for he had a perfect alibi. He was having breakfast with the prime minister, and surely some good would come of their meeting.

  When she reached the clearing at the top of the ridge, she dismounted and handed the reins over to her groom, so that she could rest awhile and enjoy the view.

  Her boots crunched over the crystalline snow as she walked, and she tugged her fur hat lower to cover her ears. Sniffing in the cold, she reached the edge and looked out over the grand cityscape below. The morning sun reflected off the snowy rooftops, and tendrils of smoke rose up from thousands of stone chimneys all over the city.

  Véronique gently blew out a puff of air to watch her breath float away like steam. The world seemed completely still and quiet from this height on the mountain, and she relished the peace … until she heard the sound of her groom’s voice.

  Turning, she saw that John was addressing a man on a horse. Then he pointed at her.

  Her thoughts darted back to the gu
ard who had accompanied Nicholas into the alehouse, then subsequently sold information to the newspapers. She wondered if this stranger on the horse—or her groom, for that matter—could be trusted.

  As the rider dismounted and began to approach her, however, she recognized his familiar gait and the set of his shoulders.

  What in God’s name was Pierre doing here?

  He wore a friendly expression and held out his gloved hands, as if to assure her that he meant no harm. Her defenses rose up regardless, for she knew what he was capable of and wouldn’t trust him for an instant.

  She looked toward her groom, who remained with the horses, watching carefully.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Pierre said. “What a lovely winter morning.”

  Dispensing with the customary pleasantries, she faced him squarely. “What do you want, Pierre? And I warn you, my guard is armed.”

  Pierre glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Well, that is a relief, I must say. I was a bit concerned for your safety when he allowed me to come and speak to you. I told him we were neighbors from France, and he didn’t even ask my name.”

  She shivered in the cold. “You still haven’t told me what you want.”

  “To talk to you. That is all. I have a proposition.”

  Véronique began trudging through the snow, back to her horse. “I have no interest in hearing it.”

  Pierre was wise not to grab hold of her, for surely—surely—her groom would have intervened.

  “Please, Your Grace,” he pleaded as she shouldered her way past him. “Hear me out, just for a moment.”

  Véronique hesitated. Not because she was compassionate or easily manipulated, but because she was curious. She wanted to know what card was hidden up his sleeve.

  “The authorities have been looking for you,” she said. “They want to ask you about your attempt to blackmail my husband. I am surprised you haven’t left the country by now.”