Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
aware that her next request might be much less welcome. ‘I need to see you outside your official role. I need to understand my subjects’ personalities and how they think. What makes them tick. If I’m to do a good portrait, I need to get close to … you.’
‘How close?’ His voice was low, almost flirtatious.
Lauren found herself leaning towards him, responding in a purely female way to the animal magnetism. She suddenly understood why so many supermodels and society girls fell so easily into his arms and his bed. To be the object of this man’s attention was to be the most desirable and beautiful woman in the world.
‘Excuse me,’ an embarrassed voice came between them. ‘Your lunch, sir.’
Prince Nicolas didn’t so much as flinch. He leaned back. ‘Thank you,’ he said without looking at whoever served the meal.
Lauren was pleased at the excuse to look away. She nodded her thanks at the waiter who placed her sandwich in front of her. His face remained carefully blank as he unloaded cake and chocolate milkshakes from a small trolley.
‘Will there be anything else?’ The question was directed at the prince, but it was Lauren who replied.
‘No. Thank you.’
With a half bow, the waiter backed away. Lauren looked down at her plate, and giggled. ‘That has to be the fanciest ham and cheese sandwich I’ve ever seen.’
Prince Nicolas looked down at the plate, with its blinding-white embossed napkin cradling a toasted sandwich that looked as if every crumb had been individually toasted and positioned for maximum effect. An artistic garnish edged the plate, and the silverware was ornate.
‘Do you think it will taste as good as it looks?’ Lauren giggled a second time, hating both the sound and the nervousness that prompted it. Quickly she raised her glass and took a deep draught of the rich chocolate milk. If she giggled again she would just die! She had to find a safe subject. Something that didn’t involve disturbing thoughts of getting close to the man sitting opposite her regarding her with almost predatory eyes.
‘Can you tell me some of the official events you’ve got scheduled for the next few days?’
‘Let me see …’ The prince picked up his sandwich, seeming to see nothing unusual in it. He took a bite, and chewed while he considered his reply. ‘This afternoon, I’m meeting with a delegation from the Society of Genealogists. Afterwards, I shall attend Her Majesty as she receives a visit from a newly appointed ambassador …’
The rest of the meal passed in a whirl of discussions about official engagements and which of these Lauren could attend on short notice. She was certain none of the information would remain in her curiously addled brain, but that didn’t matter. Some efficient palace functionary would no doubt steer her in the right direction. At least a conversation about a meeting of the Royal Hospital Board seemed safe.
Lauren was running out of chocolate milk and carrot cake when she happened to glance at the doorway. Courtauld was standing there, staring at Lauren and her companion. He looked shocked and began to stride in a determined fashion across the room.
Lauren realised that she had only a few more moments alone with Nicolas, and there was one more thing she had to ask.
‘Why me?’
‘Sorry?’ The prince seemed unaware of his approaching servant.
‘Why did you pick me to paint this portrait?’
The prince hesitated.
‘And don’t tell me you’ve seen my paintings and like them.’ Lauren wanted to stop him before he could speak the lie. ‘I know you haven’t.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Prince Nicolas looked slightly abashed, then thoughtful. ‘If you study the royal collection you’ll find British artists, and French and Dutch and Italian. But none of our own artists have ever painted a royal portrait. I thought it was time one did. I made some phone calls, and your name was mentioned.’
‘So you didn’t do it just to annoy the curator?’
‘No.’ A slow grin spread across the handsome face. ‘Well, perhaps a little. Now that we’ve met, I feel confident in my choice.’
Lauren was afraid to ask whether his confidence was in her ability to paint, or her ability to annoy the curator.
Nicolas stood gazing out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Below he could see the last of the genealogists’ delegation filing through the ornate palace gates. They were talking among themselves and he could almost guess what they were saying after their meeting had been cut short by a prince who seemed to care little about them or their work. At best, they’d be disappointed. At worst, they’d be annoyed. He couldn’t really blame them. His mind had not been on that meeting.
As he turned away from the window, his eyes fell on the simple white envelope on his desk. The letter inside that envelope had haunted him since he’d read it this morning, leaving him unable to engage with the genealogists or anyone else for that matter.
He didn’t have to open it and read it again. Every word of it was engraved in his mind. It was from the mother of two small children. The widow of a man who had served under his command in the army. A man who had died far too young, in a country too far from his home and the people he loved. She had written to say thank you to him for attending a memorial service at which her fallen husband had been among those honoured for their sacrifice. She wrote that her husband had often spoken to her of his admiration for Nicolas, and his pride and honour to be serving in the same regiment.
The woman who wrote that letter didn’t know the guilt he carried for her husband’s death. For the deaths of five men. They’d been his men. His job was to protect them and he’d failed. That particular failure had never hit the headlines. Instead, the media had called him a hero and that was even worse.
A discreet knock on the door disturbed his thoughts. Courtauld had no doubt come to remind him his next task was to attend the formal presentation of a new ambassador. His first inclination was to simply walk out the door on the other side of the room and vanish. He wasn’t needed at the reception, and his failure to show up wouldn’t really surprise anyone.
Except …
Lauren was going to be there.
For centuries, the sons and daughters of the royal household had been painted by the greatest artists of their age. Nicolas hadn’t wanted this portrait but, like so many other things in his life, it wasn’t optional. He had thought that by choosing his own artist he might make it less of a chore. He hadn’t thought to make it one of the few real pleasures in his life.
Nicolas wasn’t often surprised. His world was divided into two well-defined parts. One was controlled by his birth and position and at times his rebellion against it. The other, far smaller area, he controlled.
Lauren Phelps seemed to fit into neither. With her blue hair and outrageous clothing, she created a stir wherever she went within the conservative confines of the palace. Just look at the commotion she had created in the staff mess at lunch. Of course, much of the stir was caused by his presence. Family members were rarely if ever seen in the mess. He wouldn’t have been there today if it hadn’t been for the artist with the intriguing eyes that one moment seemed grey and the next as blue as her hair.
Even as the thought formed, he noticed a flash of colour moving towards the palace gates. There was no mistaking that hair. Lauren was leaving.
That wasn’t right. The reception was due to start in just a few minutes. She shouldn’t be leaving. Unless she had changed her mind and wasn’t coming to the reception. What could have made her want to leave?
Nicolas turned away from the window and crossed to the door. A few moments later he was in Lauren’s studio. The large bright room seemed incredibly