Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
hers, but something else in the room spoke to Nicolas of Lauren. He took a long slow breath and tasted only paint and chemicals. The essence of her was there but, like Lauren herself, refused to be defined.
One side of the studio was dominated by a large board, onto which she had pinned two black pencil sketches. Intrigued he moved closer. The first was the sketch of his equerry. He moved closer to study it. The pencil portrait was remarkably lifelike. More than just a picture of the man, something about the curve of his lips and the lift of one eyebrow had captured Courtauld’s formality, his total belief in and devotion to the life he had chosen.
Once more Nicolas felt that momentary stab of jealousy. He wondered why it should almost pain him that the first face Lauren had sketched was not his but that of another man. He glanced around and saw the crumpled paper in the waste bin. The rejected drawings of his horse. And of himself.
Nicolas moved to look at the other sketch pinned to the board. It showed a pair of hands, wrapped loosely around a glass. The hands were beautiful. The sketch captured every detail: from the shape of the fingers to the carefully manicured nails and the lines on the skin. With a start, Nicolas recognised the ring on the left hand. These hands were his, clasped around a chocolate milkshake on the plain table in the staff mess.
He raised his hand and looked at it with new eyes. Could something as simple and everyday as his own hand be that beautiful? He turned it over, examining the palm, as he thought back to their lunch. He had enjoyed it far more than most of his meals. Lauren hadn’t seemed to spend any time examining his hands. She hadn’t stared at them or touched him. Yet while he was being rude to the genealogists, she had, from memory alone, created a remarkable sketch – a work of art.
Nicolas wished she were here so he could express his admiration.
He was disturbed by the sound of the door opening.
‘Your Royal Highness, you should be preparing for your next engagement.’
‘Courtauld, have you seen these sketches? Miss Phelps has captured you quite well.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man would not offer an opinion unless asked.
‘I saw her leaving earlier,’ Nicolas continued. ‘I thought she was going to observe the ambassador’s presentation. I was preparing to be on my very best behaviour. Do you have any idea why she left?’
‘I believe Miss Phelps felt she was inappropriately attired to attend the presentation, sir.’
‘Why did she feel that?’
‘Sir, I was discussing the protocol of such presentations, to prepare her for what she would see.’
‘And you told her she was “inappropriately attired”?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ If Courtauld had heard the anger in the carefully spoken words, he gave no sign. ‘I did, however, wish to spare Miss Phelps any unnecessary embarrassment.’
Nicolas nodded. ‘Very well.’
He moved towards the door, no sign of anger or disappointment showing in his impassive face. Just as he had been forced from childhood to fit a pre-assigned role, so too was Lauren Phelps now being drawn into the web of the royal house. She would appear tomorrow dressed ‘appropriately’. She would realise that their lunch in the staff canteen was nothing short of scandalous. An obedient curtsey would replace that defiant tilt of her head. She would produce a painting worthy to hang in the royal collection, and he would hate it.
He opened the door, but before he left the studio he spoke without looking back. ‘Courtauld, please inform my mother that I will not be attending the reception this afternoon.’
Back in his office, Nicolas fidgeted with the papers on his desk until at last he found himself staring at an embossed invitation card. Some rich young aristocrat requested the pleasure of his company at a ‘gentlemen only’ dinner to celebrate his forthcoming nuptials. In other words, an upper-class stag party.
He’d been to more than a few such parties, and they held little interest for him, except as a chance to blow off steam and maybe, for a few hours, sweep away the dark clouds in his mind with a surfeit of alcohol. Such occasions also served to annoy all those people who would try to make him something that he wasn’t. It was childish, but Nicolas wasn’t in the mood for self-examination. He picked up the card and walked out of his office.
* * *
Her phone rang as Lauren was pulling the third skirt of the last ten minutes over her hips. Groping for the zipper, she mentally cursed people who believed that seven-thirty in the morning was a reasonable time to disturb someone. She grabbed a shirt from the pile on the bed and darted into her living room, which still seemed empty without the easel. Her phone was lying on the coffee table.
‘Turn on the TV.’
‘What?’
‘Lauren,’ Maria’s voice urged her, ‘turn on the TV. Channel 6. Now.’
A beep in Lauren’s ear informed her that Maria had hung up.
Puzzled, Lauren did as her friend had instructed.
‘… fashionable restaurant in the theatre district around midnight last night. The prince was one of a group involved in the scuffle.’
The screen came to life just in time for Lauren to see Prince Nicolas duck a wild punch thrown by a young man in a dinner suit. The commentator’s voice informed her that the man in question was the son of a wealthy businessman and the guest of honour at a high-society stag party, complete with stripper and excessive amounts of champagne. The prince, it seemed, was one of his school friends.
Lauren slowly lowered herself onto her sofa. The pictures on the screen were dark and shaky, obviously from someone’s phone, but that didn’t detract from their impact. As she watched, Prince Nicolas turned his handsome face towards whoever was filming him then quickly turned away, scowling. A security man led the prince to a nearby car.
As the car sped off, the camera moved to show a third reveller lying in the gutter, blood trickling from his nose. The camera spun back towards the prince’s car. The high-powered engine roared as it carried its royal occupant off into the night, as what looked like a professional photographer appeared, his flash almost painful in its brightness.
One final shot saw the young man, a bloody handkerchief against his face, being hustled into a taxi by friends. Then the scene on the television cut to two commentators, sitting at a desk.
‘So, Naughty Nick is in trouble again,’ the smiling chat show host said. ‘It appears the rambunctious royal has no qualms about adding to his wild image.’
‘We saw a lot of this sort of behaviour from His Royal Highness when he was a teenager,’ said the well-groomed woman seated beside him. ‘That was before his military service. Despite the fact that he served honourably and well, was even hailed as a hero while serving in the Middle East, it seems that now he’s left active duty he’s looking to resume his former lifestyle.’
‘The palace has declined to comment,’ added her companion, ‘as have the police. But the video we have shown is not the only evidence of the altercation. The internet is this morning buzzing with images of the prince’s night out.’
‘Of course,’ the woman continued, ‘witnesses said His Highness didn’t actually hit anyone.’
‘But you have to wonder what would have happened if his security detail hadn’t hurried him away.’ The pictures started to run again as the male commentator continued. ‘Just last month, you will remember, the prince was seen …’
Lauren had heard enough. She switched off the set. A few moments later, her phone rang again.
‘Well, did you see it?’
‘Yes, Maria, I did,’ Lauren replied. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be in a particularly good mood this morning. I wonder if I should even go in. He may be too busy to sit for me.’
‘Or