"What's the big deal?" Reginald, the crown prince of
Silvershire, asked with a laugh that only partially echoed
with humor.
The other viable emotion that was present, and more than a
little evident in his retort, was irritation. It was
common knowledge that Reginald had never liked being
challenged or questioned by anyone. His was the right to
do or say whatever pleased him. Explanations did not
please him. The only other person in the kingdom who dared
question him — on rare occasions — was his father. For the
most part, King Weston doted on him as Reginald was the
single living testimony of his late wife's love.
Obviously struggling with a temper that rarely resided in
check, Reginald paced about his bedroom. He shot the
companion of his childhood an impatient look.
Reginald frowned, his handsome features taking on a
malevolent appearance. "It's not as if I'm asking you to
marry her in my place. Just go and fetch the damn woman
and bring her back."
"Fetch her." Lord Russell Southgate, the present duke of
Carrington, repeated the phrase the prince had thrown out
so cavalierly. Because he knew her, or had known her when
they were children, he took offense for the woman who
wasn't there to do it for herself.
"Amelia is not a dog, Reginald, she's a princess."
Russell watched Reginald square his far-from-broad
shoulders. Only in the privacy of Reginald's chambers was
he allowed to address him by anything other than his
title. By the look on the prince's face, Russell knew he
was rethinking that. Rethinking everything. And changing.
Because someday, very soon, he was going to be king. And
Russell knew that once Reginald was king instead of his
father, a great many things were going to change,
including their relationship. Because too many people
liked him, Russell thought, and the prince viewed that as
a threat.
It was just a few days before the wedding, a wedding that
would forever bind Silvershire with Gastonia, and it was
obvious that Reginald did not want to spend the last days
of his publicly recognized freedom playing the dutiful
fiancé. Not when there were women to be enjoyed.
Abruptly turning on his heel, the prince looked at
him. "You're right, she's not a dog. Dogs are fun. Dogs
are obedient. Princess Amelia," he emphasized her title
with a sneer since he'd made it known that only his title
mattered in this union, "is neither. And, there're rumors
that since we last met, she's developed a nasty
independent streak. Having you bring her back to
Silvershire in my place will take the little tart down a
peg or two." A smile that was known to make the blood of
those on the receiving end run cold spread across his full
lips. "Be-sides," Reginald continued loftily, "I'm going
to be busy."
Russell leaned against the overly ornate desk that
Reginald felt befit him. The one the prince had yet to use
for anything other than bedding a very starstruck young
woman who had managed to sneak into the palace as one of
the cleaning staff. Observing his future monarch, Russell
wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps, in light of
the century they were living in, the monarchy had outlived
its usefulness and purpose. By any standard except that of
birthright, Reginald hardly seemed suited to ruling over
the small, independent kingdom.
Russell supposed it was up to him to somehow pull off a
miracle and make the man suited. He owed it to his fellow
countrymen. The question, as always, remained how.
"Busy?" Russ's deep voice rumbled as he pressed,
"Doing what?"
For a moment, Reginald looked incensed at being
questioned, but then he let it pass. Instead, he smirked
and replied, "Having my last fling of bachelorhood."
Without another word, Reginald began to walk out of the
room.
Russell straightened. Though his tone was deceptively
easygoing, he wasn't through trying to convince the prince
not to ignore his obligations. For him not to go to the
princess in person was an insult. What really galled him
was that Reginald knew that.
"Forgive me, "Your Highness," but you've
been 'flinging'ever since you discovered you had something
to fling." Moving swiftly, he got in front of the prince,
aborting the latter's getaway. He'd endured enough of
Reginald's evenings to know exactly what was on the
prince's mind. "Don't you think going to Gastonia to bring
back your future bride is a little more important than
having some nameless, vacant-headed woman pour herself all
over you?"
Reginald pretended to pause and actually reflect on the
question. "Well, since you put it that way —" His eyes
narrowed as his expression became cold. "No." He sighed,
irritated. "Look, Carrington, this marriage is for my
father, for Amelia's father who wants to keep that poor
excuse of a little country of his safe." His tone
increased in its sarcasm. "It's for the people of
Silvershire so they can litter the streets, rubbing bodies
against one another as they jockey for position,
pathetically waving the flag and getting a small thrill
into their dull, dull lives when the royal carriage passes
them by. It's for the news media, who just love 'storybook
weddings." His eyes narrowed into dark, almost malevolent
slits. "It's for every damn person in the universe except
me."
Russell struggled not to allow the contempt he felt show
on his face. If this was a play for sympathy, it fell well
short of its mark. All of his life, the crown prince of
Silvershire had had everything he'd ever remotely asked
for or wanted. King Weston had never learned how to say no
to his only heir. Sadly, abundance and indulgence did not
give birth to a wise, magnanimous leader. Reginald had
been the Playboy Prince ever since he'd reached his
sixteenth birthday.
But despite the fact that the prince was accustomed to
women of dazzling beauty, the woman who was to officially
share his martial bed was not someone who would fade into
the woodwork. He'd seen recent photographs of Princess
Amelia and thought that Reginald was getting far better
than he deserved.
"Princess Amelia isn't exactly Medusa," he reminded
Reginald.
The prince shook his head. He'd made it known more than
once that he hated having no say in the matter, hated
having any part of his life dictated to him. And this
marriage pairing him with the twenty-six-year-old princess
had been arranged years before he'd even known what the
term meant.
"No," Reginald agreed, "she isn't. But she is undoubtedly
a cold fish, because she is a princess, which means she's
pampered. And," he recalled, "she had a willful streak as
a young girl. I always had to remind her that when we grew
up, she was going to have to mind me if she knew what was
good for her." He placed his hand on Russell's shoulder.
Rather than a show of affection between friends, it was a
way for him to remind the duke of his powers over
him. "This will be a good start. Come on, be a sport,
Carrington." The edges of his smile became slightly
brittle as a sharp edge entered his voice. "Don't make me
command you."
Russell's face never changed, but inwardly, he felt his
resentment flare. He could not remember a day that he
hadn't known Reginald. He also couldn't remember a day in
which he'd felt that the milk of human kindness even
marginally flowed in the prince's veins. They were
companions because of proximity, because their ages were
similar and because Reginald, although never verbalizing
the thought, cleaved to him as a protector.
That was his role more than any other, more than the royal
title that he bore or the fact that King Weston had
appointed him as Reginald's political advisor. He was
Reginald's protector. He knew the political climate, knew
the ways of the people. But his first loyalty had always
been and would continue to be to the crown, and so, to the
prince.
He was Prince Reginald's confidante, his protector and, at
times, he was the man's scapegoat. The latter occasion
came about when either Reginald's temper got the better of
him or when he got into trouble and couldn't bear the
close scrutiny of his father or the kingdom for his
misdeeds.
A scapegoat was one thing. Serving as a lackey was
another. Russell balked at the latter and this certainly
felt as if it came under that heading. Bringing the
princess back was something Reginald should be doing
himself. To send someone else in his place was clearly a
veiled insult to the kingdom that was the place of her
birth.
He considered what it was that Reginald was telling him.
So Amelia had gained some spirit, had she? Good for her.
Russell remembered the princess, a fair, shy girl with
vivid, violet eyes, who, for the most part, attempted to
hide whenever the prince and he accompanied King Weston on
royal visits to Gastonia.
On those visits, the adults would converse, leaving
Reginald and him to their own devices and wiles. Reginald
would entertain himself by ordering around everyone —
especially the princess — like a spoiled child while he,
well, he had to admit he wasn't exactly an angel in those
days either, Russell remembered with a smile. He loved to
play practical jokes. Still did, actually, although it was
no longer dignified for him to indulge himself that way.
The poor princess had been his chosen target for water
balloons. Hers was always his bed of choice when it came
to depositing the vast variety of bugs that the almost
fairy tale-like kingdom of Gastonia had to offer. If he
closed his eyes, he could still hear her high-pitched,
blood-curdling scream the night he'd slipped a huge black
spider in between her sheets.
He remembered thatAmelia always looked so relieved
whenever their royal vehicle would be pulling away from
the palace, signaling an end to their visit. Hers was
always the last face he saw as he left the country. He'd
focus on her, standing there, beside her father, a small
vision in pinks and whites, her blond hair moving in the
breeze, her smile widening as they disappeared into the
distance.
And now she was going to marry Reginald. He wondered if he
would ever see her smile widening again.
That was none of his concern, Russell reminded himself.
Reginald was his prince, his soon-to-be king.
The man was going to be unbearable then, Russell thought,
feeling sorry for Amelia.
Reginald was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to gain
the door.
"There's no reason to bandy this about any longer,"
Reginald said in a dismissive tone. "You will go in my
place and you will bring Princess Amelia back. End of
discussion."
Russell found his own impatience difficult to bank down.
Maybe because, as an adolescent, whenever he'd heard
Reginald ordering Amelia around, something inside of him
had rebelled, softening to the look in Amelia's eyes. It
was a necessary political alliance, but that didn't mean
that Reginald should be able to treat the princess like
chattel. "Do you intend to be so careless of her feelings
once you're married?"
"Feelings?" Reginald jeered incredulously. He looked at
Russell as if he thought that he'd lost his mind.
"She doesn't have any feelings. She's a princess," he
pointed out. "She has duties. I'm sure she makes love that
way, too. Like it's her duty." Reginald smirked. "It will
be our royal duty to make the Princess Amelia attempt to
make love like a flesh-and-blood woman." Smug superiority
highlighted his features as the prince delivered another
patronizing pat to his shoulder.
"That's a royal 'our' in case you think that's an
invitation to sample the royal goods before delivery."