The Princess and the Duke (2 page)

Shivers danced down her spine. She couldn’t help it. Her little sister was getting
married.

The moment the fanfare concluded, the processional began. The congregation rose again as the low
tones from the pipe organ, overlaid with the beautiful, stately notes of a lone trumpeter, soared through the cathedral.

Within minutes, Megan and the King came into view. Meredith’s eyes stung as she blinked back tears. Meggie looked beautiful. Simply beautiful. And their father had an uncharacteristically broad smile on his handsome face.

Behind Megan and the King trailed the three little girls who were serving as bridesmaids and the matching three young page boys. They looked sweet as could be, and for a moment, Meredith remembered when she’d been a young girl, participating in some distant relative’s wedding.

She glanced over her shoulder at Anastasia, smiling shakily at seeing her feelings mirrored on her sister’s face. Anastasia caught Meredith’s hand in hers and squeezed. Her striking blue gaze flickered to the groom, and Meredith followed the gaze. A look of adoration and, well,
hunger
shone from Jean-Paul’s handsome face.

“He loves her.”

Meredith swallowed, surprised at the soft comment coming from the colonel. “Of course he does. Why would we be here today if he didn’t?”

Pierce thought about answering that, but decided it would be wiser if he didn’t. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the sake of the royal family, nothing he hadn’t done for them already. But everyone in the country had been witness to the scandal surrounding Megan and Jean-Paul’s engagement. Thanks to the oft invasive media, what should have been a private matter between Her Royal Highness and her lover had
instead been splashed across newspapers from one shore of the isle to the other. Pierce knew there had been pressure on the couple to make things right. And though he’d rather chew nails than admit it, he was pleased for the quiet middle princess that this marriage was based in love and not a result of public or private pressure.

But while Princess Megan did make a lovely bride, Pierce was more interested in studying the man escorting her down the aisle.

His Majesty looked much as he always did. Instead of his typical attire, in honor of the occasion he wore his full regalia, complete with the orders of his ancestors pinned to his royal white sash and his lapels emblazoned with the dozens of military medals he’d earned over his career before his coronation. Not a strand of his short, wavy brown hair looked out of place, something the tall, commanding figure carried off without looking the least bit plastic.

Pierce watched the King closely as they neared the chancel. He had just the right amount of emotion in his eyes as he drew the filmy veil from Megan’s face, kissed her lightly on the cheek and took his place next to the Queen.

A soft sniffle near his shoulder dragged at his attention, and he looked at Meredith. He knew she topped the five feet mark by exactly seven inches in her bare feet—there were very few details regarding any member of the royal family he wasn’t privy to—but in her high heels, she was only a few inches below his six one.

She was tall enough to fit him. Endowed with enough curves to be dangerous to a man’s peace of
mind. She had a wicked intelligence, eyes the color of emeralds and a mouth made for sin.

Meredith Elizabeth, Princess of Penwyck. Eldest child of the monarch. He’d felt the sting of want for her when she’d been a mere teenager and he a young army officer. Back then, when life was easier, it was her royal status and youth that had kept her out of his reach.

Now, more than a dozen years and an eternity of actions later, she was even more out of his reach. Every time she looked at him with her green eyes, he felt damned. Damned for wanting her. Damned for lying to her. Damned because every time they were within ten yards of one another, he could see the confusion and hurt deep in her eyes that told him she was every bit as aware of him as he was aware of her. And that his deliberate evasion of her hurt.

He glanced at the King and wished to heaven that he could have come up with some reason to avoid this wedding, the way he avoided most all of the social events involving the royal family. The sooner he got away from them all, the better.

But it really wasn’t them all that caused his current consternation. It was only the woman beside him who was upsetting his equilibrium.

His mind not at all on the service, Pierce silently offered his handkerchief. She looked at him, surprised, then hurriedly looked away. He watched her suck in her lower lip for a moment, blinking rapidly as she tried to gain control of her emotions. But it was no good. A diamond-bright tear slipped down her ivory cheek.

Almost defiantly, then, she took the square of cloth,
being careful not to touch him in any way as she did so. She quickly dabbed the corners of her eyes, then held out his handkerchief.

The last time he’d seen Meredith so open with her emotions, she’d been seventeen. Back then, it had been all he could do to remember just who she was and keep his behavior properly circumspect. With age, it was easier to remember who she was but no less difficult to remain unmoved by her presence. “Keep it.”

She didn’t look at him. But her fingers closed over the square of white cloth, enfolding it in her fist.

The organ suddenly blasted the first notes of a hymn. Beside him, Meredith started, betraying her preoccupation.

She was watching the ceremony, crying tears over it, yet she’d been as unprepared for the hymn as he’d been. Because of it, he knew she’d been as lost in her thoughts—whatever they might be—as he’d been in his.

He also realized that the ceremony was nearly finished. For the couple had already retreated and returned from the vestry, along with the bishop and the King and Queen, where they had signed the register. He, master of intelligence, keeper of lies, committer of sins, had managed to miss the entire thing. All because of a woman whose waist he could span with his hands.

The congregation was singing the final hymn. The words came automatically to Pierce, without thought. And thank God—no pun intended—for it.

Considering he’d spent his entire childhood from eight to eighteen with his hind planted in one of the
pews of his father’s church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday evening, he ought to know the hymns. He ought to know every in and out of every religious service in which the church could possibly participate.

It really was a measure of the powerful distraction standing beside him that he didn’t even
think
about what all was involved with a Penwyckian wedding.

Or what sitting beside
her
meant in relation to those details.

Not until the bishop had pronounced Megan and Jean-Paul husband and wife did it begin to dawn on him. Not until Jean-Paul had kissed his new bride, restrained and befitting the public setting but nonetheless a testament to the feelings that ran deep inside him for the woman carrying his child, did it fully hit Pierce.

But by then, it was already too late.

For the bishop, all smiles despite the pomp and circumstance of the event, looked at the congregation. “And now,” he intoned, “as has been our custom for centuries, we invite you to greet your neighbors in this house of God with all good grace, and peace, that we may go out into the world, sharing the blessings of this day with all those we meet.”

In some countries, Pierce knew sharing the blessing might involve little more than a handshake and a muttered, “Blessin’s to yer.”

In Penwyck, however, it meant the worst of all possible things as far as Pierce was concerned.

It meant a kiss.

H
e’d been the son of a clergyman. Had even, briefly, considered following in his father’s stead. How could he have forgotten? How could he have overlooked this one small, fateful detail?

Why hadn’t it occurred to him what sitting next to Meredith at the wedding ceremony would entail?

Nerves strung tighter than piano wire, Pierce turned to the elderly woman on his left. She was a countess from somewhere in Belgium, but he’d be blasted if he could remember just where. Until Meredith and Anastasia had entered the church, she’d been busy reminiscing in her slightly shrill voice about the wedding of the King and Queen, thirty-five years earlier.

She’d rattled on and on until Pierce had wanted to put a muzzle on her. Particularly when she’d gone on to the tragedy of “poor, dear Edwin’s senseless kill
ing.” But he could hardly be rude to the woman and tell her he wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about that particular event.

Smiling tightly at the elderly woman, he bussed her on first one heavily powdered cheek, then the other. She smiled beneficently at him and patted his cheek as if he were five instead of thirty-five.

And then Pierce turned to face Meredith. Her tears had dried, and her expression was cool as she stared at him. Then she regally lifted her chin just a hair.

It was rare for Pierceson Prescott to be rattled. But he was now. And that cool movement of Meredith’s, that regal little tilt started a slow burn deep down inside him.

All around them, people were greeting each other, laughing and delighting over the lovely quaint custom, but Pierce was aware of none of it. For the world had shrunk to an impossibly small bubble. Containing only him and the woman beside him.

A woman who, he would swear his army commission on, was watching him with challenge lighting her green eyes.

What Pierce wanted to do was sink his fingers into the rich brown waves of her hair, tumbling it from the roll into which it was pinned at her nape, and explore every inch of her mouth with his.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She was a member of the royal family, which was his duty and honor to protect and serve. Nor could he ignore the custom, not when it was entirely likely that it would be noticed. There were television cameras posted in the rafters of the cathedral watching every move of the royals and those nearby, for God’s sake!

Jaw aching, he lowered his head those few inches and touched Meredith’s cheek with his lips, barely grazing the satiny skin. And in return, he felt her lips, feather-light and soft as a dream, against his tight jaw.

Trembling like a leaf, Meredith nearly sighed aloud when Pierce’s lips touched her cheek. The brief moment seemed to stretch into an eternity as they parted. Anyone else would have simply kissed the other cheek and been done with it.

But not with Pierce. Never with Pierce.

Her gaze was caught in his, and her stomach tumbled a mile at the dark flame that seemed to burn in his. Her lungs felt starved for air, her heart starved for blood. And then, without conscious thought, she tilted her head and touched his lips with hers. Briefly, so very briefly.

Yet she felt him go stock-still. Felt the harsh inhalation of his breath after that first moment of shock passed. Felt the press of his lips against hers in that fraction of a second, demanding and hot.

Her lips softened, parted. Clung as the kiss threatened to go deeper. Shocked to the core at her own daring, she hastily stepped away, looking everywhere but at him, struggling to catch her breath.

The bride and groom had moved around in the chancel, all smiles. Megan swept into a low, utterly graceful curtsy to her father, the King, and Jean-Paul bowed. Then the triumphant strains of the recessional rang through the church, and they began their walk down the aisle, this time as husband and wife.

The bishop followed, along with the King and Queen. Then Jean-Paul’s supporters. Anastasia surreptitiously jostled Meredith’s arm, giving her an odd
look, and realizing that she was hanging back, Meredith quickly ordered her shaking legs to move and stepped out of the pew to take her place in line as the family left the cathedral.

She didn’t look at the colonel.

She didn’t dare.

The light breeze had deepened to a cool wind, and when she stepped through the entrance onto the steps outside the cathedral, she had to catch her skirts from being blown around her knees. If the crowd had been boisterous before the ceremony, now they were positively wild as the bridal couple descended the stairs and entered the first horse-drawn coach, which would transport them through the central streets of Marlestone before making its way to the palace where the reception was being held in the grand ballroom.

The King and Queen were in the next coach, this one glass-enclosed, unlike the open-air one the bridal couple occupied. Then came their own carriage, Owen joining them for the return trip. The young bridesmaids and page boys went last, and Meredith, who was facing the rear, watched with a faint smile as little Sarah Julia flounced into her seat and waved at the crowds as if she were the Queen herself. There was a fleet of waiting motorcars to carry Jean-Paul’s parents, Prince Bernier and the other visiting royals to the palace.

There would be no good-natured scrambling for rides at this wedding. It was too well orchestrated.

Meredith’s gaze drifted up the steps to the guests who were beginning to stream from the cathedral doors, and like a homing pigeon, her attention went straight to Colonel Prescott, who stood on the topmost
step, a bit aside from the throng. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was watching her ride away.

Anastasia nudged Owen and laughed softly. “Me-thinks our fair Meredith has a crush. Still.”

Owen raised one eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. A gaggle of teenagers lining the street nearby screamed as if he were the latest pinup, but he gave no notice. He looked at Meredith. “Who, Prescott? He’s a good man.”

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” Meredith said flatly. “Far too old for crushes.”

Anastasia smiled impishly. “What about—” she waited a beat “—
love?
”

Meredith deliberately ignored her sister.

“You should have seen the kiss she planted on the man,” Anastasia pseudo whispered to Owen. “Everyone in the cathedral could feel the heat, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows
or
the way Jean-Paul devours Megan with his eyes.”

Meredith’s cheeks burned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said more sharply than she intended.

Anastasia’s grin gentled. She could be a holy terror, but she was utterly softhearted. “Meredith, I’m only teasing you. I know how you feel about the colonel. Honestly, where is your sense of humor today?”

“I don’t feel
anything
about the colonel,” Meredith said flatly. “And I really do wish you’d drop it.”

Anastasia did, but Meredith could feel her sister’s pensive gaze on her for the remainder of the ride through the city. By the time the carriage passed through the massive gates leading to the palace, Mer
edith felt well and truly shrewish. She waited until they’d alighted from the carriage and caught Ana’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her sister smiled faintly, but there was little time to go into it, for the wedding guests were converging on the palace at an alarming rate. Meredith, who was used to playing the role of hostess at any number of royal functions, gathered her skirts and, putting Pierceson Prescott out of her mind—as far as he would go, at any rate—swept up the palace stairs and through the grand hall, greeting guests while subtly maneuvering them toward the ballroom and away from the doors to alleviate the bottleneck that occasionally formed there.

She was supposed to have gone straight to the private quarters where the official photographer planned to take a few photos, but knowing what a madhouse
that
was likely to be, she decided the staff needed her help in the ballroom more.

She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact that, while she was greeting and herding guests, there was no sign of Colonel Prescott.

The orchestra was playing, and the solemnity of the ceremony was fading as the noise level rose in the ballroom. It didn’t matter what one’s heritage was, royal or common. A party was a party was a party.

And this one was undoubtedly going to be a grand one.

But before the royal family could truly participate, there were those formal photos to be taken, and Meredith was one of the last to skip up to the balcony where the bride and groom had gathered, along with
both sets of parents, cousins, distant or otherwise, and a veritable horde of other people.

“There you are, darling,” the Queen greeted Meredith when she’d finally extricated herself from the guests and arrived. “I was about to send Gwen after you.”

Meredith dashed a smoothing hand over her hair and with barely a blink slid into her customary position, behind and to the left of the Queen and King, who were always in the center of every photo but today would step toward the side in honor of the bridal couple.

She hid a smile at the way Jean-Paul and Megan’s hands were wound together, all but hidden by the drape of Megan’s dress. Meredith was long used to endless photography sessions, and her mind wandered as the photographer put them through their poses. Then it was out to the balcony over the ballroom where Megan and Jean-Paul smiled and waved and pleased the crowds waiting outside the palace gates by kissing each other.

It was joyful and great fun, and by the time the family descended the elegant stairs from the upper story to the ballroom proper, Meredith felt a little refreshed.

Which was a good thing, because judging by the revelers inside the ballroom, it looked to be a long evening ahead of them.

There was still the sit-down dinner, for one thing. For approximately five hundred of the couple’s nearest and dearest. The food was delicious, as was everything that came from the palace kitchens. From starters of smoked salmon canapés and delicate Gruy
ère and spinach tarts, through herb-stuffed veal to the finish of crème brulée and the official royal wedding cake that had taken two full weeks to prepare in the highly secured culinary institute affiliated with the Royal Intelligence Institute. It was all delicious.

Only Meredith could have been eating sawdust for all the notice she took of it, thanks to the seating arrangements. She’d had more than enough shocks for the day when it came to Colonel Pierceson Prescott. Seeing him in the cathedral at all was the first. Then that ridiculous insanity of hers that led her to actually
kiss
the man was next. But to find out that he had come to the palace for the reception while she’d been busy upstairs with the photography session was even more of a shock.

She couldn’t recall the last time Pierceson Prescott had stepped foot in the palace, though she supposed he certainly must have done so at some point since he’d been awarded his dukedom all those years ago. He had frequent dealings with the King, after all.

Meredith let her mind puzzle over his absences for some time, mostly because it was safer to concentrate on that than succumb to the memory of the feel of his lips or the warmth of his breath on her cheek in the cathedral.

Never in her life had she been so preoccupied with another individual. She was also quite sure she didn’t like being preoccupied. She could only hope it was because of the rarity of his presence.

Instead of the traditionally long banquet tables, the ballroom was filled with round tables to accommodate the number of guests, with the bride and groom and their parents at the long head table on the dais. The
rest of the family were interspersed about the room, and Meredith thought that if it weren’t for Megan’s happiness, she’d have had to have had a serious word with her middle sister about the planning that had gone into the seating arrangements. For she was seated directly opposite Colonel Pierceson Prescott.

Admittedly, there were six other individuals at the table, as well, two married couples who were distantly related to Jean-Paul, an eligible single man and an equally eligible single woman who was doing a bang-up job of flirting with Colonel Prescott.

She stifled a sigh and dug her fork into the incredibly rich confection of cream cake and delicate fresh raspberries that the culinary institute had created for the wedding cake. No rum cake for Megan—she’d overruled that typical selection because of her pregnancy.

Keeping half an ear out for the toasts that were being made, she surreptitiously slid her heels out of her shoes. It was safe enough in light of the ivory and royal-blue linens that swept to the marble floor.

What she really wanted to do far more than wiggle her toes, however, was toss her linen napkin across the table to cover the low-cut bodice of Juliet Oxford. She was leaning toward the colonel, undoubtedly giving him quite an eyeful.

The man beside Meredith said something, and she murmured an absent assent, only to realize a half second later that she’d unthinkingly agreed to have dinner with him. His narrow face gleamed with a broad smile, and Meredith squelched yet another sigh. She couldn’t back out. It would be utterly rude.

Her cheeks heated, however, when she caught the
colonel’s amused gaze. As if he knew exactly what had transpired to lead her into an unwanted dinner engagement.

Her smile firmed, and she ignored the colonel. “If you’d be good enough to call my personal secretary tomorrow, George, we’ll settle on a date.”

George smiled winningly. Meredith
would
go out to dinner with the man, and she
would
have a perfectly lovely time. George Valdosta was a few years older than she was, and she’d known him practically forever. He was well read, had a decent sense of humor and—

—wasn’t Pierceson Prescott.

She picked up her champagne and smiled brightly at George, determined to ignore the little voice inside her that insistently compared George’s modest appeal with the colonel’s overwhelming magnetism. It wasn’t George’s fault he wasn’t as tall as the colonel. Or that his thinning blond hair wasn’t the rich chestnut the colonel kept rigidly cut in order to control the lustrous waves. George couldn’t help the fact that his blue eyes were just that. Blue. Ordinary and not the least bit full of anything that seemed to speak to her soul.