The Princess and the Duke Read online

  She’d never know if he intended to answer, for her mother came into view, and everyone rose in deference to her.

  Meredith sighed again. Beauty radiated from her mother in a way Meredith could never hope to emulate. It came from inside her, she was sure. And Marissa probably never had feelings of envy for a sister on the happiest day of her life.

  Only Marissa had never had any sisters. She’d only had one brother, Edwin, and he’d been killed on neighboring Majorco ten years earlier.

  “It’s a shame my uncle isn’t alive to be here today,” Meredith murmured as the Queen was seated in one of the two seats closest to the high altar. A uniform shuffle could be heard as everyone followed suit.

  “Why?”

  She looked at the colonel. Then just as quickly looked away. It was too hard to look at him without getting that infuriatingly breathless feeling inside her chest. “How can you ask that?”

  “You were barely eighteen when your uncle died. How well did you even know him?”

  Her lips parted. She was as much startled by his awareness of just how old she’d been as she was by his cool tone, which seemed almost a dismissal of the tragedy. “I…well, I remember him from my childhood, of course.” Her uncle Edwin had bounced her on his knee and told her tales of knights and dragon slayers. When she was a teenager, he’d been a less frequent visitor. “I was referring to my mother, in any case. He was the last of her side of the family. This is the first wedding of one of her children. I’d think you’d be more sensitive to that since you lost your only family, too.”

  “My parents died long ago.”

  “Twelve years.” He wasn’t the only one who had a long memory.

  His gaze sharpened. “I’m surprised you remember that.”

  “I remember many things,” Meredith said smoothly. She also remembered the spring following his loss. When he’d succeeded in making her feel a humiliated fool on the dance floor of the Royal Spring Ball.

  “How is your sister feeling?”

  If he could be polite, so, certainly, could she. She could hide her agitation. Of course she could. “Megan is doing well. Quite recovered. Thank you for asking.” Her fingertips toyed with the parchment edge of the program. Only in his company had she ever had to scramble for topics of conversation. “Plans for the children’s facility at the base are going well.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Meredith’s position as the royal family’s liaison to the Royal Intelligence Institute kept her closely involved in several efforts of the world-renowned institution. One of the latest was Horizons, a child-care and activity center located on the army base in the north-central portion of Penwyck. “Will you be at the opening celebration next week?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that she felt. But a rustling from the vestry heralded the entrance of Jean-Paul and his supporters as they took their place in the chancel, and she focused her attention on the men.

  Behind her, Anastasia leaned forward and murmured in her ear that Owen looked particularly smashing in his formal wear.

  Meredith had to agree. Her little brother would probably be king one day—though her father had yet to officially name which of his twin sons would be his successor even though Owen was a more natural leader than Dylan. Looking at Owen, she thought the mantle of authority already sat well on his broad shoulders, despite his mere twenty-three years.

  “It’s a shame Dylan isn’t here,” Anastasia whispered. “I still can’t believe no one has been able to get hold of him.”

  Meredith nodded. Owen’s twin was roaming the hills of Europe somewhere and had completely missed the recent scandal of quiet Megan’s stunning revelation of being pregnant.

  A sudden muted roar made itself heard from outside the cathedral, and to a one, every guest inside the soaring structure felt a surge of excitement in that half moment before the Royal Trumpet Corp burst into the first brilliant notes of the fanfare that had been written specifically in honor of Megan’s wedding. Meredith knew what that cheer meant, what that fanfare meant. It meant that Megan, on the arm of their father, King Morgan of Penwyck, had ascended the steps and was waiting in the cathedral entry.

  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.

  Chapter Two

  He’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 killing.” 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 out
side 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?”