The Prince’s Bride (15 page)

His mouth went dry, so he poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip, swallowing
heavily while his concern for Véronique’s welfare struck him like a punch in the stomach.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall seemed thunderous in the silence of the
room as he stared at her, wanting desperately to take her into his arms and promise
that everything was going to be all right, that he would take care of her and make
all her problems disappear.

He was going to return the property to her father. That had already been decided.
But what about Gabrielle?

Véronique gazed at him with searching eyes. “Was it a full hour?” she asked. “Did
I fulfill my obligation? Will that satisfy you?”

He could have sprayed his wine onto the floor. First of all, her question made him
feel like a heel. And no, he was not satisfied. Far from it. She had left him throbbing
and aching for more of her unfathomable sexual torture.

“Yes, it was a full hour,” he said nevertheless, “and you may rest assured that in
the morning, the deed to your father’s property will be in your hands.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Nicholas. I am so relieved. This will help
us tremendously. Perhaps there is still hope for Gabrielle’s marriage to Robert if
we can become respectable again.”

Her tousled hair was shimmering in the firelight. The flesh of her cheeks glowed like
morning dew. Nicholas watched her shift uneasily on the spot, as if she wanted to
leave his chamber now before any further licentious behavior could occur … for there
was a definite note of danger and temptation in the air.

He should let it go at this, allow her to walk out with a feeling of satisfaction
and accomplishment, for she had achieved her goal, but something deep inside him could
not allow that.

He wanted her with an urgency that shattered his understanding of himself as a man.
He had never deemed to care about a lover’s happiness beyond the pleasure of their
sexual encounters. He prided himself upon satisfying his lovers in bed, but this was
something else. He could not bear to think of Véronique’s sorrow after she left here.
He did not want her to feel ashamed of her desire for him, nor did he want her to
spend another moment worrying about her sister. He wanted sunshine and happiness for
Véronique, every day for the rest of her life. He wanted to provide for her in every
possible manner, and offer whatever it took to bring her to the heights of ecstasy
in his arms, without shame or inhibition.

His gaze came to rest feverishly on the soft pink heaving flesh of her bosom.

Then their eyes met.

She was distraught. He could see that she wanted to stay. She was still impassioned
from their close brush with intercourse—which could very well have resulted in a pregnancy—and
she feared the consequences.

“I must go,” she quickly said, her cheeks flushed, her delicate eyebrows pulling together
in dismay, as if she were nearly terror-struck.

“No, please…” He reached out to take hold of her arm, but she slipped from his grasp
and hurried to the door.

Her hand wrapped around the knob and she pulled it open, but he crossed the room in
a flash and shoved the door closed.
Hard.

“Don’t go,” he whispered in her ear, his boot braced against the bottom of the door
while the front of his body pressed up against the soft back of hers.

It was excruciating. He could smell the clean fragrance of her hair … feel its silken
texture upon his lips.

Astounded by the blazing heat of his desires, he ran his fingers lightly over her
nape and squeezed her shoulder. Her body shivered.

“Marry me,” he said.

Good God.
The words were out before he could pause to consider the lifelong ramifications of
such a request, and what it would mean for his freedom. He had always lived for pleasure
and could commit to nothing. He had never been faithful to one woman, nor did he ever
imagine he would
want
to be. Nothing, however—no other woman from his past or present—existed for him in
this moment, except for the delicious French creature before him, who was in need
of a champion.

He wanted overwhelmingly to rescue her.

To possess her.

To conquer her.

Ah, God …
She smelled of roses and made him feel light-headed. Inebriated. He brushed his nose
down the back of her neck.

Slowly she turned to face him. He pinned her tightly up against the door as his hand
stroked over her shoulder and settled upon her full breast.

“What did you say?” She looked up at him with those giant, shrewd green eyes, almost
daring him to repeat it.

“I asked you to marry me,” he replied.

She took a deep breath—which caused her breast to fill his whole hand—and wet her
lips. “It wasn’t a question if I recall,” she said, “but rather a very arrogant command.”

His body filled with a need that felt heavier than lead. “Does it matter whether it
was a question or a command? All you have to do is answer yes.”

“But I do not believe you are truly asking,” she said. “This is something else. You
are just trying to entice me into staying.”

He couldn’t resist a devilish grin at the notion of spending the night with her. “Is
it working? I hope so,” he added, “because I would most certainly enjoy your company
if you were so inclined.”

“If I
did
stay,” she replied, “would there be a marriage proposal in the morning? I think not.”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he kissed her nose, eyelids, and forehead.
“I suppose you think I propose to
all
the ladies who try to flee from my bed, before I’ve had a chance to pleasure them
senseless?”

She made a sound that resembled a hiccup, and he smiled. “Have I shocked you, Véronique?
Or did I tempt you?”

“Both,” she replied, letting her eyes fall closed as he laid a trail of kisses across
her neck. “I fear you are trying to seduce me.”

“
Obviously,
that is the case.”

They were both breathing hard as he ran his hands down the voluptuous curve of her
hips.

Her eyes clouded over with desire as she gazed up at him. “This is madness.”

“Without a doubt. But you must stay focused, darling, and answer the question.”

“So it
was
a question, then?”

“If you insist.” He dropped to one knee, slid his hands up under her skirts, and stroked
her calves, her soft knees, and the inside of her luscious warm thighs. He wanted
to go higher but refrained—at least for the moment.

“Will you marry me, Véronique?” he asked. “Be my wife and lover, and let me be husband
and lover to you. I vow that I will set everything to rights in your life. Especially
in bed.”

He ran his thumbs across her knees.

“But you are a prince,” she argued. “I am your kidnapper, and a nobody. Surely your
brother, the king, will wonder what folly came over you if you take me as your wife.
I cannot possibly accept.”

“Yes, you can, because you want to. Face it—you need me, Véronique, and you want to
love me.”

There it was—the word he never imagined he would ever say aloud to any woman.

Love.

But this wasn’t love. He didn’t know what it was, outside of something that resembled
a drunken madness, surely brought on by rage, lust, and captivity.

She was right. He had lost his mind. But it was a delicious madness, and he wanted
more of it. More of
her
—his fascinating captor, who affected him like no other woman ever had.

To his surprise, she urged him to his feet, rested her forehead on his chest, and
placed her hands on his shoulders. “I am not sure I can believe this is happening,”
she said, her voice shaky and tremulous in the quiet of the room.

“Trust me, it is,” he assured her as he lifted her chin with his finger to force her
to look up at him. “I cannot explain it, but I feel a strong need to have you in my
life. I cannot imagine leaving here and returning to Petersbourg without you, or abandoning
you to any sort of peril. I want to help you, and I want to make love to you until
you are ripped apart by pleasure and weeping with rapture beneath me.”

Out of all that, she seemed to hear only one thing: “So we would return to Petersbourg?
You would not stay here at d’Entremont Manor?”

He blinked down at her, pleased of course that she was making plans, but he was not
so clearheaded at the moment. “Honestly … I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he replied.
“I will need time to consider that.”

But of course he had to return home. He could not stay away forever, or keep the news
of these events from his brother, Randolph. He was Prince Nicholas of Petersbourg,
and he had a duty to his family and his country.

But wait … no … he was not Prince Nicholas.

He was the half-French bastard son of a dead Bonapartist.

The realization struck him hard, and he found himself suddenly pulling Véronique into
his arms and holding her tight. “I will need to ask your father’s permission to marry
you,” he whispered in her ear. “We will leave tomorrow.” That would give him time
to decide what he would do with this place.

Véronique laid her hands on his chest. “Do you really mean this, Nicholas? You are
not just trying to seduce me into your bed? You truly want me to be your wife, even
though we barely know each other?”

“I know enough,” he replied. “And though it defies all reason, I know that I must
have you, and I cannot fathom the idea of leaving you behind. Never seeing you again.”

“I would be a fool to say no.”

“That’s right, because I can make everything well for you—and for your sister.”

She tipped her head back against the door and closed her eyes. “I must be dreaming.
Someone needs to pinch me.”

He gazed at her soft, moist lips and lightly kissed them. “There will be no pinching,
for I do not wish to startle you.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him with an unreadable emotion. “I am
going to leave the room now, and give you time to reconsider what has just happened
here. If you wake up in the morning and realize you were mistaken to have made such
an offer, I will not hold you to the proposal.”

He smiled at her. “
Never
will I feel this was a mistake. All I will do, after you walk out of here, is lie
on my bed in agony, imagining the moment I will deflower you on our wedding night.”

Her smile was as dazzling as the sun.

She reached for the doorknob, and he stepped back to permit her to leave—for she had
given him the answer he wanted.

“Good night, Nicholas,” she said with another smile as she slipped out and closed
the door behind her.

For a long moment he stood motionless, transfixed, as he stared at the door and listened
to the sound of her footsteps growing distant down the corridor. He wanted her back
this instant, but fought the urge to follow. He must wait until the morning to see
her again.

He realized that respectability such as this was a novel concept for him. It was an
unnerving thought, to imagine how he was going to navigate in these waters, long into
the future.

Eventually he backed away from the door and turned around to look at his empty bedchamber—in
particular the rumpled bedcovers where he had lain with Véronique just now, and come
very close to the conquest of her virginity.

He had never been so close to intercourse, then been forced to restrain his desires.
The women he usually bedded were never virgins. They were always seasoned lovers,
willing and eager. There was nothing to prevent them from enjoying themselves.

Véronique, however, was different. She was pure, and she needed him like no other
woman had ever needed him before.

He had proposed marriage.

Marriage.

Something squeezed in his chest, and he sank down onto the chair in front of the fire,
in shock. He slouched low, tipped his head back, and blinked up at the ceiling.

He would take her home to Petersbourg and introduce her as his bride.

There would have to be some sort of celebration.

Would they marry here, or wait until they reached Petersbourg?

What would the newspapers have to say about it?

He began to sort through all the logistics. Randolph would likely bestow a new title
upon them as a couple—perhaps make them duke and duchess of something or other.

Certain women of his acquaintance would not be pleased. They would likely throw vases
or other china knickknacks at the back of his head.

He sat forward, steepled his fingers together, and rested his forehead on them as
if in prayer, while a slow wave of discomfort poured into his stomach.

A royal wedding.
His
royal wedding. Good God.

Had he really just proposed?

Chapter Fifteen

Gabrielle chattered exuberantly during the journey from d’Entremont Manor to their
family home, farther inland to the south.

They did not depart until well after luncheon; otherwise, Gabby would have had her
head in a bucket for the first ten or so miles. Perhaps that might have been preferable
to this, Véronique thought, for she was well-nigh bouncing off the walls, eager to
return home and see Robert.

Véronique was seated beside her, across from Nicholas, who listened to Gabby’s chatter
and seemed genuinely amused by her enthusiasm. He responded to her riddles and agreed
with her opinions about the weather and the end of the war.

At least they shared the same political opinions about Emperor Napoléon and his voracious
hunger for territory and power. That was over now, however. Napoléon was in the custody
of the British, and with any luck, they would never see or hear from him again.

And so, the journey by coach continued with no lack of conversation, which was a blessing
for Véronique, as she was nervous about reaching her home. In fact, she was almost
sick with dread.