Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
her day to be anything but fun. She walked back into the bedroom and looked around. The room was a mess, the bed piled high with virtually every item of her limited wardrobe. She glanced down at herself. Following yesterday’s discussion on protocol, she had been trying to come up with more suitable clothing for a day of official functions at the palace. But her wardrobe just didn’t run to business suits, smart skirts or tailored slacks. She was a jeans and leather boots girl, and that’s all there was to it. Her few skirts were invariably short or black or both. Nothing would make them conservative. Her working clothes were mostly paint-spattered and frayed at the edges.
‘Forget it.’ Lauren slipped out of the skirt. ‘After last night’s carry-on, His High and Mighty-ness is hardly in a position to criticise others.’ She would wear whatever she wanted!
About an hour later, Lauren presented herself at the palace staff entrance. With his usual thoroughness, Courtauld had arranged security clearance and a card that would give her access for the time it took to paint the portrait. As she queued, Lauren listened to the conversations around her. She was curious about how the palace staff would view Prince Nicolas’s latest exploits. She heard plenty of conversation about the weather, sport, fashion and other men, but not one word about His Royal Highness. Apparently loyalty was a prerequisite for a job behind the palace walls.
She found her studio easily and paused before going inside. The door across from hers was closed. She wondered if she should knock, then glanced down at her watch. It had just turned nine o’clock. She very much doubted that the prince would be at his desk yet. Even if he was, he would probably be in no mood for casual chat, or to sit for her. Lauren didn’t fancy being polite to a hungover prince. She had better things to do.
Inside her own space, Lauren pulled some clothes from her tote bag. She hung a black skirt and white blouse carefully in a corner of the room, berating herself for being a wimp. The shoes and stockings that completed the ensemble were her final concession to the realities of the job. She felt a little more comfortable with a set of ‘presentable’ clothes on standby. If she was going to shadow a prince she had to look reasonably well dressed. Sometimes, she hastened to add. When she wasn’t in the privacy of the studio. Here, she could be herself. She had to be. She wouldn’t be able to work in the confines of her ‘proper’ clothes.
Lauren ran her hands down the front of her faded and paint-spattered T-shirt. Time to get to work.
She reached for the roll of canvas that lay against one wall. She still had no idea of the form her portrait would take. What pose would suit her subject. Or what background. But she did know one thing. If this portrait was to hang in the royal collection, it had to be big. She unrolled a large stretch of canvas and began measuring timber for the frame.
Lauren was on her hands and knees, struggling with a large staple gun when she heard a knock on the door behind her.
‘Come on in!’
Without looking up, she welcomed her visitor with instructions.
‘I need some help. If you kneel at that corner of the frame, and take hold of the canvas, I can staple this end. Hold it tightly – I don’t want to lose tension.’
Her visitor moved quickly to obey. Lauren felt the strain taken from her hands, freeing them to staple the folded canvas in position. Moving quickly sideways, she added staples either side of the hands gripping the corner of the frame.
‘Thanks. You can let go now.’ As she rocked back on her knees, she saw Prince Nicolas kneeling on the floor opposite her. She should have recognised those hands. She had drawn every line of them in intricate detail.
‘You Royal Highness …’ she stammered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise …’ She laid down her tools and started to scramble to her feet.
The prince rose with casual grace, and stretched down his hand. To refuse would have been rude. Lauren held up her hand, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
‘Good morning, Miss Phelps.’
Prince Nicolas ran his eye over her tattered jeans and paint-stained shirt. The corner of his mouth twitched. In disapproval? Lauren quickly removed her hand from his.
‘Good morning,’ she said, because there was nothing else she could say.
‘I had no idea that painting also involved carpentry.’
‘I have to prepare the canvas,’ Lauren said, lifting the frame from the floor. She carried it across to the easel, and leaned it carefully in place. ‘This is about as big as I can make it. I’ll re-stretch the canvas one more time, then prime it. I’ll make a second one the same.’
‘A second one?’
‘I like to have one ready, just in case,’ Lauren said.
‘In case of what?’
‘In case of anything. Now, we should discuss the type of portrait you want. If you haven’t given it much thought, now would be a good time to start.’
‘I have been thinking … about the painting. I hope you don’t mind – I was in here yesterday. I am very impressed.’ The prince indicated her sketch of his hands.
Lauren moved closer to study the sketch. It hadn’t taken long to do, yet she was pleased with the result. Even more so now she compared her drawing to the real thing.
Prince Nicolas moved across the table where Lauren’s brushes and paints were waiting for the work to begin. He stood looking at them for a minute. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Lauren didn’t quite know what to say. She wasn’t going to mention the events she’d seen on television this morning. The prince would probably have more than enough people mention it to him today. She would give him a break. And besides, it was none of her business; she was only here to do a job.
‘So, have you any definite ideas or particular preferences for your portrait?’
As the prince turned back to her, Lauren tried to read his thoughts. Was he pleased she had chosen to forgo the obvious comments?
‘Before you get started,’ he said, ‘there is something I want you to see. Come with me.’
Lauren followed the prince out of the room, and down the corridor. In silence they descended a set of stairs and turned a corner. They were in the long gallery Lauren had seen so briefly on her first visit. Royal faces from ages past looked down at them as they passed.
At last they stopped in a small alcove.
The woman in the painting was no more than twenty years old. Her face slightly flushed with wind and exertion. She leaned against a wooden gate, laughing. Her dark hair fell in luxuriant waves, obviously just freed from the straw bonnet she still clutched in her hand. Her long white gown was blown by the wind, to reveal a shapely ankle in a satin slipper.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Lauren breathed.
‘She is beautiful.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Sophia, the Grand Duchess of Kautenstein. When this was painted, she was still Princess Sophia, the youngest daughter of Gerard II. She is my great-great-great-aunt – or something similar. Courtauld will know.’
‘This isn’t in any of the books about the royal collection. I’m not familiar with it.’ Lauren leaned closer to study the signature in the bottom corner of the painting. ‘Nor with the artist.’
‘Ah, that would be because of the terrible scandal.’ The prince’s tone was low and conspiratorial.
Lauren cast a sideways glance at her companion. He was smiling up at his pretty ancestor. The smile softened his face, making him seem younger.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
‘She was, as you can see, a great beauty, and a free spirit, or as free as a spirited woman could be in her time. Even an ugly royal princess can always attract suitors. Sophia was inundated by offers, despite her wayward nature. Her father was determined to