The Prince’s Bride (11 page)

“It makes no difference to me, sir.”

He turned his attention back to the steward. “I should inform you that Mademoiselle
Montagne has been fully apprised about the reason I was brought here. She knows the
marquis has named me as his sole heir and that I am—according to him—his natural son.
I have explained everything to the lady, including the marquis’s claim that he and
my mother were involved in an adulterous affair here in France many years ago. You
may therefore speak openly this afternoon, Bellefontaine.”

The steward shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “I see.”

As the carriage rolled forward and started down the long tree-lined drive, Véronique
raised a gratified eyebrow at Bellefontaine.

“In that case,” he said, “we shall begin with the old oak tree on the hill. I believe,
Your Highness, that you can see it from your guest chamber window.”

Nicholas regarded him curiously. “Why there?”

Bellefontaine lifted his chin. “Because it provides the most spectacular view of the
house and the Channel, but most important, there is something very particular that
the marquis has asked me to show you today. Something that may help you to accept
the truth about your mother’s presence here.”

The carriage suddenly picked up speed. Véronique was overwhelmingly aware of Nicholas’s
thigh bumping hers. She made no move to inch away from him, however. Nor did he move
away from her.

*   *   *

Nicholas stared at the tree for a long moment, then approached it and ran his fingers
over the letters carved into the ancient bark. There could be no denying that the
words—and the heart that encircled them—had been carved many years ago. Decades, most
likely.

Monsieur Bellefontaine approached and stood beside him. “It was your mother who carved
this,” he said, as if reminiscing. “I also have an engraved ring to show you, and
dozens of letters if you wish to read them. Lord d’Entremont saved everything from
the year they spent together.”

A knot formed in Nicholas’s stomach, for he had been clinging to the possibility that
all this was a lie … or some sort of malicious scheme to smear his late father’s reputation
and topple the Sebastian monarchy from the throne of Petersbourg.

Nicholas, Randolph, and Rose had lived most of their lives under the threat of an
overthrow. Their father, the king, had died from one such plot little more than a
year ago, poisoned by enemies who hoped to seize his crown.

But
this
—a box of love letters, jewelry, names carved into trees—this was something else entirely,
and all his instincts and intuitive powers told him that his mother had truly been
here, and there were secrets that his father had never revealed.

As a child, he never felt as privileged, cherished, or loved as his older brother,
Randolph, or even Rose, who had been spoiled rotten and doted upon by their father.

Nicholas had always assumed it was because he was not the heir to the throne, but
merely the spare, but there was so much more to it than that. Perhaps he should have
known. Why hadn’t he? Had he consciously chosen not to look more deeply into the roots
of things?

He had always assumed it was his fault that his father despised him—because he was
badly behaved. Irresponsible. Wild. Perhaps he had simply been too young to see through
the layers.…

*   *   *

“Boy, come in here.”

Nicholas approached his father, who was seated at the giant desk in the Privy Council
Chamber. He had never been summoned to this room before. Randolph had been, many times,
but not Nicholas.

He was distracted briefly by the oversized portrait of his father that hung on the
wall behind him. In it, his father sat on the throne like a proud and mighty conqueror
on his coronation day. He was draped in heavy fur robes, and he gripped a golden scepter
in his fist.

“Your mother is dead,” his father said.

Wrenched out of his reverie, Nicholas sucked in a breath. His widening gaze met his
father’s.

“She died an hour ago, giving birth to your sister. I have named your sister Rose.”

There was a ringing in Nicholas’s ears … a weakness in his legs.…

No, not Mother. She cannot be dead.

“That is all,” his father said, picking up his quill and returning his attention to
the pile of papers on the desk. “Go now.”

Burning panic shot into Nicholas’s belly and overwhelmed him with its vigor. He took
a step forward, closer to the desk, and pounded his fists upon it. “Where is she?”

His father’s eyes lifted, and he glared at Nicholas impatiently. “She is with the
angels.”

“No!” Nicholas stared at his father with furious rage, then strove to bring his shock
under control and speak in a calmer voice. “I mean … Can I see her?”

“No, you cannot. They have already removed her body.”

Nicholas backed away from the desk. He felt dizzy and light-headed. He began to hyperventilate.
“But I need to see her.”

He needed to touch her hand, to feel her comforting arms around him, to bask one last
time in the warmth of her embrace.

“She is gone now, boy. You won’t ever see her again.”

*   *   *

Later Nicholas learned that Randolph had been permitted inside the birthing chamber
to see their mother shortly before she passed. Though she was weak, she had held Randolph
in her arms and kissed him on the head. “You will be a good king,” she had whispered
to him. As far as Nicholas knew, they were her last words.

There had been no such words for
him.

He found himself wondering what his father would have done if anything had happened
to Randolph. Would he have allowed Nicholas to take the throne? Or would he have revealed
the truth to the world? Would Rose have been crowned queen instead?

Nicholas felt a hand on his shoulder just then, and was startled by it. Turning, he
looked into those deep green eyes that never failed to quicken his blood.

“Are you all right?” Véronique asked.

Nicholas took note of Monsieur Bellefontaine climbing back into the carriage, a short
distance away on the lane.

“I told him to leave us alone for a moment,” she explained.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Nicholas tersely replied.

“I disagree,” she argued, “for you failed to answer him when he asked if you were
ready to see the flour mill. He asked you twice, Nicholas, but you ignored him.”

Nicholas glanced back at the carvings in the tree. “Did I indeed? I suppose I was
recalling the past.”

“I suspected as much.” She touched his arm and stood quietly beside him, then lowered
her hand to her side and cleared her throat. “I just realized that you are as much
of a victim of d’Entremont’s greed as I am.”

He frowned. “I am not his victim.” He turned toward her. “And our situations are not
the same.”

Too late he realized he had spoken rather harshly.

“No, of course not,” Véronique replied while regarding him with a furrowed brow, as
if she were disappointed by his response. “For you are about to inherit all of this.
It is
your
choice to make, whether you accept it, or leave it all behind.”

Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts. To think rationally. He was not the
only person here with something to lose. “I apologize,” he said. “You are correct.
I do have choices, while you are waiting for
others
to choose their fates and determine your future, as if it were merely incidental
to theirs.”

Véronique looked down at the grass. He found himself staring at the top of her bonnet,
realizing that she was indeed at everyone’s mercy here. Today she was powerless, waiting
for someone to be charitable enough to hand over her father’s property, which was
allegedly worth a great deal of money.

Nevertheless, only one thing was occupying his mind at present—and it was not the
value of her father’s property.

“I did not take advantage of you last night,” he assured her. “I slept in the chair.
You must have seen that when you woke, whenever that was.”

She lifted her head. “I did see you there, but I do not remember what happened between
us. It was the laudanum. We drank it by mistake. I do not even remember falling asleep.
All I know is that when I woke—” There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. “—I was
not wearing my shoes.”

Nicholas could have laughed at that, for he was the sort of man who woke naked in
bed in the most unlikely places, and he couldn’t tell you half the names of his naked
bed partners, or their boorish husbands. When he remembered Véronique’s brilliant
performance as a seductress at the masked ball, and her tempting sensual allure in
the perfume-scented coach, her charming innocence today touched something unfamiliar
in him—
again.

What was it? What did he
feel
? He didn’t even know. He was confused, for he was standing under an ancient oak tree
in France, where his mother had declared her eternal love for a man—a man she would
be forced to give up and never see again. Not even after she gave birth to his child.

Nicholas found himself arrested on the spot. He felt disconnected from everything
he knew. Everything except for Véronique. He could not take his eyes off her. She
was impossibly beautiful, a golden silken flower in the dappled shade of the oak tree.

At least his physical desires were familiar.

“I did remove your shoes,” he confessed at last. “But nothing more than that, my dear,
and only so that you could sleep comfortably.”

“We kissed,” she asserted. “I remember that much.”

It had been a passionate, tender kiss—one he would never forget.

“Yes,” he replied. “Certain things were done, and you would be well within your rights
to blame it all on the depraved scoundrel at hand, and the opium-laced wine.”

Though it was
she
who had held out her arms and invited him to join her on the bed.

Véronique swallowed uneasily. “I would appreciate being able to do so, sir, if you
do not object.”

“Not at all.” Instantly charmed by her answer, he looked away, back toward the house.

What the devil was happening here? Why did he care about what occurred, or how she
felt about it? She was his kidnapper, for pity’s sake. It was one night on the French
coast with too much wine—nothing more—and no one would ever have to know about it.
Her reputation was not at stake.

“Nothing happened,” he nevertheless assured her again.

“You kept your promise, then.” She gazed up at him with relief and a veiled message
that was not yet clear to him until at last, she explained. “But there was another
promise you made.” He listened intently. “You said you would help me get my property
back.”

She was very tenacious. He admired that.

He also admired her full lips and rosy cheeks, and how her captivating long-lashed
eyes shone dazzlingly as she looked up at him.

“You completed your task,” Nicholas said. “Now d’Entremont owes you your property
in return. Why do you need my help?”

“Because I don’t trust him to keep his word,” she quietly replied, glancing back at
the carriage to ensure Bellefontaine was not eavesdropping. “He is putting me off,
I can feel it. I tried to speak to him this morning, but he refused to see me.”

Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “And you believe I can influence him?”

“Of course you can. You’re his son, not to mention a royal prince.”

For the briefest moment, he considered saying yes and concluding the matter on the
spot, but when she inhaled deeply in suspense, and her lovely, lavish bosom rose beguilingly
to the occasion, he found himself bedazzled yet again by her beauty. He wanted her
in the most ungentlemanly way a man could want a woman.

He thought about her virtuous concern over waking in his bed without her shoes, and
tried to be a gentleman about this, but it was no use. Old habits were not easy to
break. He
was
a scoundrel, and she had kidnapped him, tied him up with ropes, and locked him in
a room for two days. In a way, she had it coming.…

“I will do what I can,” he said, resting an open hand against the tree, “if you will
do something for me in return.”

Her moist pink lips pursed, and she placed her slender gloved hand on top of her bonnet
as the wind gusted over the hilltop.

“What do you want?” she asked. “I am almost afraid to ask.”

“Why? Do you believe I will try to seek revenge?”

“I am not sure. I’ve never been in a situation like this before, nor have I ever dealt
with a man like
you.
”

Taking that as a compliment, whether or not she’d intended it to be, he moved away
from the tree so that his back was turned to the barouche and said, “I will talk to
d’Entremont for you today—I will even try to negotiate on your behalf—if you will
come to my room again tonight for another glass of wine.”