Except of
Her Royal Bodyguard,
Harlequin Intrigue, June 2004
c. 2004 Joyce Sullivan
Prologue
Sophia Kenilworth couldn’t put off the
inevitable for too much longer. She’d lied to her daughter, Charlotte Aurora,
about her birth, about her father and about her heritage. She’d have to tell
Rory the truth soon, before her twenty-third birthday when that despicable
marriage treaty would come into effect.
Her source in Estaire had informed
Sophia that her former stepson, Prince Olivier, and his wife, Princess Penelope,
were still childless after three years of marriage. Despite rumors that they’d
been consulting with fertility specialists, there had been no announcement of a
pregnancy that might save Rory from an arranged marriage to a crown prince.
Sophia was no fool. She knew Prince
Olivier was as much a martinet as his father, Prince August, had been--always
placing the principality and what was best for Estaire above the needs of his
own child’s happiness. Sophia’s deceased ex-husband had viewed the treaty as a
brilliant political and economic move that would settle a three-hundred-year-old
feud with the neighboring country of Ducharme and ensure that Estaire had a
suitable heir apparent in the event that his son Prince Olivier was unable to
provide one.
With no sign of an heir on the
horizon, Sophia knew it was futile to hold out hope that Prince Olivier would
rescind the contract. During her two-year marriage to Prince Olivier’s father,
Sophia had become well-versed in the stifling complexities and obligations of
royal life. But that damn marriage treaty had been the breaking point of her
tolerance.
Sophia had cried, ranted and
threatened divorce for months. She couldn’t believe that her beloved prince,
who’d chosen her--an American bride without a family trust fund or an ounce of
nobility in her veins--had heartlessly consigned his daughter to a loveless
marriage.
But at least she’d succeeded in
giving Rory a normal childhood away from the spotlight in exchange for the
sacrifice Prince August expected his daughter to make for her country. Under
the terms of the separation agreement, Sophia had no obligation to tell Rory of
her birthright until her twenty-third birthday. If Rory happened to fall in
love and marry in the meantime, well then, c’est la vie.
Sophia frowned worriedly and stirred
her tea. Unfortunately, Rory wasn’t seeing anyone, despite Sophia’s urgings
that she go out more often.
Sophia consoled herself with the
knowledge that she had done her best to prepare Rory for the future that awaited
her. She’d encouraged her daughter’s love of knowledge and had given her a
broad range of experiences. She’d insisted Rory study French and had carefully
chosen the small private college that would encourage Rory to find her strengths.
And Sophia would be there to guide
her daughter through the transition to palace life. Provided, of course, that
Rory forgave her for keeping this secret.
With a shaking hand, Sophia carried
her mug of raspberry tea out to the cliff side garden of their La Jolla home
that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The water was lazy this afternoon, the waves
jiggling and lifting like huge rolls of blue-green gelatin topped with whipped
cream. Surfers in wet suits bobbed among the waves.
Sophia settled into the wooden swing
that perched on
an outcropping of sandstone at the rear
of the sun-drenched garden. It was Rory’s favorite place to dream and read,
with the world and the ocean at her feet.
Sophia kicked the swing into
motion. How was she supposed to tell Rory she was a princess? Or explain that
her father had betrothed her to a prince?
Sophia never had time to find the
right words. With a sickening lurch, the cliff beneath the swing gave way. Crying
out in horror, she plummeted to the rocky beach below.
* * * * *
“LA JOLLA WOMAN KILLED IN FALL.”
The ten-day-old newspaper headline
made the reader’s pulse thrum with excitement. Was Princess Charlotte Aurora
dead? There was mention of a cliff and a swing. This had to be it. The reader
eagerly devoured the details: Neptune Place . . . erosion . . . the dangers
of building homes on cretaceous sandstone along the California coast. The
victim was pronounced dead on arrival.
Dead. For the paltry sum of one
hundred thousand American dollars.
There was no mention that foul play
was suspected.
The thrill of having successfully
gotten away with murder buzzed in the reader’s brain like the finest champagne.
Prince Laurent would not be marrying Princess Charlotte Aurora after all.
Slowly, as if relishing the last
bites of a delectable meal, the reader read the final sentence of the article.
The victim was identified as Sophia Kenilworth.
No! This could not be! The reader
gouged the newsprint with the ornate silver-plated letter opener from the desk.
The wrong woman had died. Princess Charlotte Aurora still lived.
Chapter One
Eight months later
It was her first birthday without her
mother.
Rory Kenilworth felt the raw ache of
loss squeeze her throat as she stuck a birthday candle in her morning cranberry
muffin--just as her mother, Sophia, would have done.
She was not going to cry.
She sniffled. Okay, maybe she was.
I miss you, Mom. I wish you were here singing off-key and giving me a
birthday card announcing this year’s bonding adventure.
Her mother’s birthday presents had
always taken the form of memorable moments spent together rather than the
exchange of material objects--a trip to Egypt to see the Great Pyramids of
Gizeh, an Alaskan cruise, backpacking in the Grand Canyon, a tour of Thailand.
Rory’s favorite had been the trip to Prince Edward Island to see Green
Gables--the home of Anne Shirley, one of her favorite fictional heroines, who
had the enviable ability to express herself in a way that Rory rarely had the
confidence to mimic.
Even the less agreeable aspects of
those birthday adventures, such as having a fifty-five pound pack strapped to
her back, her fear of horses or her tendency to get motion sickness couldn’t
dampen her fond memories today.
Following in the footsteps of
tradition, Rory lit the candle and stared into the leaping yellow flame.
Tears collided in her throat.
“’Happy birthday to me,’” she sang
quietly. “’Happy birthday to me—‘” she broke off with a choked sob as pink wax
dribbled down the candle onto her muffin.
Rory covered her mouth with her hand
and blinked rapidly to stem the tears stinging her eyes. She could hear the
echo of her mother’s soft alto singing in her ears. See her mother’s proud
smile.
Rory was not going to fall apart.
She could share her birthday with her mother in spirit. She sighed, causing the
candle to flicker. Okay, what to wish for?
Usually she wished to meet her
father, but since that hadn’t happened on her twenty-two previous birthdays and
she hadn’t found any information about him in her mother’s belongings after her
death, Rory wasn’t going to waste her wish again. If she could have anything in
the world it would be to have her mother back.
But wishing wouldn’t make that
happen.
She frowned. How about the miracle
loss of ten pounds in a single day?
Those kinds of diet never lasted.
A good hair day?
She grabbed a fistful of amber curls.
Another miracle request that had no chance of ever coming true.
How about someone tall, dark and
handsome who had read the classics?
Hmm . . . now that had
potential. She rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed. “Bet you never thought
I’d make a wish like that, Mom.” But then, she’d never been lonely while her
mother was alive. Her mother had been her best friend, as well as her parent
and her only family.
Rory upgraded her wish to a tall,
handsome male under thirty-five who knew that the classics referred to
literature, not cartoons featuring a smart aleck rabbit or a roadrunner, and
blew out the candle.
The doorbell chimed over the muffled
roar of the surf.
“Okay, that was freaky.” Rory ran
her fingers through the riotous curls that slipped out from her ponytail no
matter how hard she tried to contain them and tightened the belt of her mother’s
red silk kimono that she’d donned over her sleep shirt. Not for a moment did
she really think she’d find a tall, dark and handsome man on her doorstep at
8:27 a.m. on a Saturday morning, but it was her birthday and she was
keeping her options open.
Her stomach lurched as she peered
through the glass door and recognized the sleek silver bob and Ann Taylor
wardrobe of her mother’s steel magnolia lawyer, Marta Ishling.
Was it a coincidence that Marta had
chosen today to drop by? She opened the door. “Marta, this is a surprise.”
The lawyer’s surgically perfected
face stretched into a taut smile as she held up the briefcase clutched in a
manicured hand. “Happy Birthday, Rory! I’m here this morning at your mother’s
behest. May I come in?”
Rory’s hand faltered on the doorknob.
A fresh spate of tears stung her eyes like dust. “Of course. Can I offer you
some coffee or a glass of orange juice?”
“No thank you, dear. Perhaps later,
after we talk.”
Rory stepped back to let the lawyer
enter, her palms damp and her stomach churning. Marta’s heels clicked on the
marble slabs that formed a compass on the floor of the foyer as she crossed to
the sunset-red inspired great room. She settled herself on one of the white
ultramodern sofas.
Rory sank into a nearby armchair and
tried not to appear anxious as Marta laid her briefcase on the bubble glass
coffee table from which a bronze mermaid arose.
“I confess I feel somewhat like a
fairy godmother this morning.” Marta laughed as she removed a black portfolio
embossed with an unusual seal from her briefcase. She held the portfolio on her
lap as if guarding its contents. “How much did your mother tell you about your
father, Rory?”
This was about her father?
Curiosity tingled in Rory’s chest. “Not much. I know he was a European
businessman.”
Marta arched a thinly plucked brow.
“That’s an interesting way of describing your father’s occupation. Your father
was August Frederick Louis Karl Valcourt, the tenth ruling prince of Estaire, a
small European principality located along the Rhine. Your mother was the
prince’s second wife for just over two years. You were the only child of the
marriage.”
Rory gaped at the lawyer, stubbing
her toe on the coffee table as her knee jerked in reaction. Valcourt was the
name on her birth certificate, though she’d never used it. She rubbed her toe.
“My father was a prince?”
“Yes, and you’re a princess. Her
Serene Highness, Charlotte Aurora, Princess of Estaire, first in line to the
throne.” Marta beamed, preening.
“The throne?” Rory felt dazed.
She’d imagined many things about her father, but not this! Why hadn’t her
mother said anything? Her fragile self-esteem immediately provided the most
logical answer. Her father hadn’t wanted her, of course. “You said my father
was a prince?”
Compassion softened Marta’s hazel
eyes. “I’m afraid he died seven years ago. But you do have an older
half brother, Prince Olivier, who is currently ruling Estaire. He is Prince
August’s child by his first marriage.”
Rory’s crushing disappointment over
the loss of her father warred with the elation of discovering she had a brother.
An older brother! She’d always wanted a sibling.
Her mother’s lawyer studied her.
“Your brother has arrived from Estaire for your birthday and wishes to meet you
for dinner tonight. He’s sending a car at seven.”
“Tonight?” she squeaked. “But . . .
I need time to prepare. I don’t have a thing to wear, and look at my hair!”
“You’ll do fine,” Marta said.
Panic broadsided Rory. “Why didn’t
you tell me any of this after my mother died?”
“Under the terms of your parents’
separation agreement, you were not to be informed of your birthright until your
twenty-third birthday when it was expected that you would assume certain
responsibilities. Your father left you a five-million-dollar trust fund that
will provide you with a generous allowance as of today. You’ll find documents
concerning the trust fund and the first monthly check in the portfolio, plus
some photos your mother intended to give to you on this occasion.”
Rory nodded, her knees shaking. She
and her mother had been comfortably well off, but five million dollars! She
struggled to think through the layers of shock numbing her brain. Something
Marta had said had raised a red flag.
“What do you mean ‘certain
responsibilities?’”
Marta’s smile faded a notch. “Your
brother will explain that to you this evening.” She handed Rory the portfolio.
“I’ll leave you to look at this in private. Call me on my cell phone if you
have any questions. Happy Birthday, Princess Charlotte Aurora.”
Princess Charlotte Aurora.
Rory nearly fell out of her chair.
“Wait! What do I do? Should I curtsy? Should I address him as Your Highness?
How do I act?”
But Marta just waved as she left.
Rory’s mouth opened and closed in
soundless protest.
This had to be a mistake. She could
not be a princess. She had her life all planned out. She was going to open
a children’s bookstore and marry a nice handsome man who loved literature as
much as she did. They’d have four children in a house overflowing with books, a
dog and her cat, Brontë.
Unease furrowed her brow. She
hadn’t liked the sound of her parents’ separation agreement that Marta had
mentioned. It sounded like a contract. And most contracts, she knew from the
business course she’d taken, were difficult to break.
Was that why her mother hadn’t told
her about her father?
Rory felt sick to her stomach. She
and her mother had always been close. Having this news dropped in her lap mere
months after her mother’s death felt like a betrayal. Her mother had been the
one person she’d trusted most in her life to be honest with her. Why had Sophia
lied to her?
Hoping to find answers, Rory opened
the portfolio. Papers, documents and photographs tumbled onto the coffee
table.
But Rory only had eyes for one
photograph. Tears blurred her vision. She’d waited a lifetime to see the
handsome blond man wearing regal gold robes and a ruby-studded crown. The
father who hadn’t wanted her until now.
“Hi, Dad. Your timing sucks.”
* * * * *
BY THE TIME the doorbell rang punctually
at 7:00 p.m., Rory had drawn blood with her toenail clippers as she’d trimmed
her nails, ripped two pairs of nylons and decided to do without them, and
rejected as impractical the possibility of disguising herself as a paper bag
princess. There wasn’t a shopping bag large enough to contain the volume of her
hair.
She stared at herself in the
full-length mirror, her stomach churning with doubts. The dress she’d bought
looked great, thanks to the cleavage that came courtesy of a water-filled bra
that her personal shopper had convinced her to purchase. She just hadn’t
realized in the dressing room that the dress would be so snug across her
backside or that the narrow skirt that was so slimming would be so difficult to
walk in. But the gorgeous fabric made her feel special.
She might even order champagne to
celebrate the gift of a newfound brother and drown out the wounded, angry voice
in her head that kept asking why her mother had never told her the truth about
her father or her heritage. The French and English newspaper articles she’d
found in the portfolio along with her parents’ wedding pictures had only told
her that her parents had had a whirlwind romance. There were no details about
their divorce.
The doorbell rang again. Rory
reached for her mother’s black evening bag. It looked hideously conspicuous
against the brilliant orange tones of the gown. Whoever said black went with
everything was wrong.
She teetered toward the foyer in her
high heels, feeling more awkward than elegant. Why had she believed the sales
clerk’s promise that strappy sandals were sexy? She felt strappy enough, but
not the least bit sexy.
The bell rang a third time before
she could reach the door. “Coming,” she called out, hurrying forward. To her
dismay, she heard fabric rip.
She looked down. The right side
seam of the skirt had torn a good two inches. The doorbell chimed impatiently,
accompanied by an authoritative knock. No time for needle and thread, she
needed duct tape. Shuffling to the kitchen, she scavenged some duct tape from
the junk drawer and repaired the torn seam. Praying that her hair still looked
decent, she finally jerked open her front door blowing at a curl that flopped
over her left eye.
The man waiting on her doorstep,
whom she presumed was her half brother’s chauffeur, was her birthday wish
fantasy come to life. Tall enough to be imposing, he fit the image of the dark
hero in every romantic novel she’d devoured in her youth. Dark brows winged
over eyes that were full of intelligence and capable of great arrogance. The
refined strength in his full lips and aquiline nose made her shiver with
appreciation.
Though broad in his shoulders and
obviously athletic, she had a feeling this man had cracked the spines of dozens
of books in his lifetime. Hundreds even.
He did not, however, look friendly.
She tucked the curl away from her eye. Did her hair look worse than she’d
originally diagnosed? With the duct tape rubbing against her leg and the
water-filled chambers of her bra pressing against her breasts, she felt like a
fraud of a princess. And she suspected this man knew it.
Prince Laurent of Ducharme rarely
found himself rendered speechless. His first glimpse of Princess Charlotte
Aurora was one of those rare moments. By the time she’d opened the door, he’d
been about to summon Heinrich, his bodyguard, fearful that she had come to harm.
Mein Gott, what was she
wearing?
With her outrageously brilliant
dress in three varying shades of orange clinging to her generous curves and her
golden skin dewy with heat, she looked aflame.
And that hair. Amber curls
corkscrewed in wild abandon around her head and shoulders, seizing him with an
insane desire to catch one in his palm.
Feeling aflame himself, Laurent
searched inward for the control he had mastered while a young boy as he took in
the ripe, golden cleavage that should only be revealed to her husband on their
wedding night. To him.
Sharp talons of frustration and
grief curled into his heart. His first—and only—love Marielle might have
deliberately ended her life three years ago because he was honor-bound to marry
the woman standing in front of him.
The never-ending questions about
Marielle’s death had been the reason he was embarking on this charade of posing
as his own deputy secretary. Laurent would never be convinced that she’d died
by her own hand, no matter how deeply he’d hurt her that night by breaking off
their relationship. Marielle had had too much self-esteem to dabble in
recreational drugs.
No, Laurent was convinced that
someone had slipped her the drugs and that her death had darker political roots;
to ensure his infatuation with her wouldn’t threaten the marriage treaty
between Estaire and Ducharme, or to implicate him in her death and cause a
scandal that might induce Prince Olivier to rescind the treaty. Laurent was
determined to keep his presence in California and identity secret to protect
Charlotte Aurora. Laurent would never forgive himself for failing to protect
Marielle.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Princess
Charlotte Aurora said, her cheeks pinking becomingly.
“No need to apologize, Your Serene
Highness,” he said with a formal bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am
Sebastian Guimond. I hold the position of deputy secretary. Prince Olivier
dispatched me to escort you to his hotel. The car is waiting out front.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Guimond.”
Her eyes were an unusual shade of
violet-blue like the hyacinths--a gift from the Netherlands--that bloomed in the
spring in the royal gardens of Ducharme.
The fate of two countries and the
resolution of a three-hundred-year-old feud hung in the balance of his union
with this woman. Three hundred years earlier Charlotte Aurora’s ancestors had
purchased land from a bankrupt member of his family and had formed the country
of Estaire. That land had previously been under Falkenberg rule for four
centuries.
Laurent’s father and Charlotte’s
father had hoped that the marriage treaty would put an end to the feud between
their two countries and improve economic and diplomatic relations. But now that
Prince Olivier had confided to Laurent that his passion for mountain biking had
rendered him sterile, the treaty would change Estaire’s history. The tiny
principality would one day return to Falkenberg rule under the reign of
Laurent’s first-born son.
With rumors of Prince Olivier’s
infertility circulating in the tabloids, Laurent feared that Princess Charlotte
Aurora’s timely reappearance and the announcement of their engagement would be
greeted with suspicion and resistance.
Laurent and Olivier were both agreed
that they had to protect Charlotte Aurora from possible threats against her life
and prepare her for the future that lay ahead of her.
Laurent remembered his role and
cleared his throat, disconcerted by the vulnerability gleaming in Princess
Charlotte Aurora’s blue eyes. She wore very little makeup, applied inexpertly,
not that she needed much with her flawless skin. “Permit me to say you look
lovely, madame.”
While he’d hoped to put her at ease,
his compliment appeared to make her more nervous.
“Thank you.” Ducking her head, she
lifted her skirt with one hand, wrinkling the delicate fabric as she stepped
timidly onto the cobbled front stoop, closing the door behind her. She dug her
house key out of her evening bag with shaking hands, then promptly dropped it at
her feet.
“Allow me, madame.”
Laurent gallantly pretended not to
notice her clumsiness. When he bent to retrieve her keys, he noted that her
toes were as erotically golden as the rest of her, and one of them was encircled
with an inscribed gold band.
He locked her door, then offered her
his arm, first checking with Heinrich to ensure it was safe to proceed to the
car. Heinrich signaled that all was clear. As they walked down the cobblestone
path, Laurent felt the quivering of Charlotte Aurora’s fingers on the sleeve of
his jacket. Fresh doubts overtook him as he tried to imagine sharing his life
with this awkward creature. His stomach tensed at the thought of those amber
curls tumbling across the cool linens of his bed. Curling around his
fingers.
She was not as polished nor as
sophisticated as he had hoped. She moved unsteadily in her shoes as if walking
on ice. He would have his work cut out for him training her to be a proper
princess to her people, and his.
Prince Olivier had informed him that
the princess had been unaware of her title and her heritage until this morning.
No doubt it had come as a shock, he thought with a large measure of sympathy.
He could only imagine what her reaction to the news of their arranged marriage
might be. He’d been spoon-fed the importance of their betrothal along with his
morning porridge.
“Who’s that?” the princess whispered
timidly when she saw Heinrich. At six-three, Heinrich was solid imposing
muscle. His head, which Heinrich kept razored in a brush cut, reminded Laurent
of a boulder.
“That’s Heinrich. One of the
prince’s bodyguards,” he said simply. “Your brother wanted you to have
protection.”
Heinrich opened the rear door of the
limo for them. Although Heinrich’s vigilant presence drew unnecessary
attention, Laurent was not taking any chances with his princess’s safety. There
was too much at stake. A second car containing four other bodyguards would
follow them at a discreet distance.
As Princess Charlotte endeavored to
seat her royal person, an awkward movement to be sure in that tight-fitting
gown, Prince Laurent heard the ominous tearing of fabric.
“Shoot!” A deep flush spread from
Princess Charlotte’s face to her generous cleavage as she gazed in dismay at the
damage to her gown. A slit the width of his hand revealed the delicate shape of
her ankle. And there appeared to be a peculiar object dangling from the hem of
her gown. Prince Laurent saw no need to embarrass her further by drawing her
attention to it.
The sheen of tears dampened her
eyes. He touched her arm in the lightest of caresses and attempted to salvage
her pride, remembering the many occasions in his life when he’d felt suffocated
by his title and his duties and wished he were anyone but a Crown prince. “Take
me at my word, madame. You look so radiant in that gown, no one will be paying
attention to the hem.”
“Really?” A tremulous smile budded
on her lips. A smile so filled with naďveté that he feared the machinations and
the frustrations of life in the royal court would destroy her fragile confidence
in a week’s time, if not sooner. Her mother hadn’t lasted more than two years
in Estaire.
“Indeed,” he assured her, catching
the tropical scent of her hair—coconut, mangoes and pineapple. “You will be
dining privately with your half brother in his suite.”
“Well, in that case . . .” To his
amazement she leaned over and removed what appeared to be some form of shiny
adhesive tape from the hem of her skirt. Then she grasped the torn edges of her
skirt and ripped it up to a point just below her knee. She peered up at him
through her lashes. “Now I’ll be able to walk without breaking my leg.”
Prince Laurent should have been
appalled by her lack of decorum--a princess tearing off her clothing in the back
seat of an automobile . . . and in full view of the hired chauffeur whose
integrity could no doubt be sold to the highest bidder. This was exactly the
kind of situation that made salacious headlines in the press. But oddly, he
felt like laughing. She was such a study in contrasts. Her forthright
ingenuousness and the provocative glimpse of her tanned calf were a fascinating
combination.
His princess possessed lovely legs.
As he walked around the limo he
visualized her golden legs twined tightly around his hips. Her belly swelling
with his heir and their children playing in the palace garden. He deliberately
set his jaw as his body betrayed him by reacting against his wishes to the
images filling his mind. Images that both tempted and tortured him.
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
He would do his duty to his country and marry Charlotte Aurora. He would
produce an heir. But he would never love her.
Not the way he’d loved Marielle. Or
his mother had foolishly loved his father.
He of all
people knew love had no place in a royal marriage.
