Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter Eighteen
‘If seated, you will stand when His Royal Highness enters the room. You will not sit down unless invited to do so.’
‘I thought Prince Nick was the one sitting for me.’
Lauren regretted the words the moment they were out. She bit her lower lip to stop herself giggling. Lauren hated to giggle. She only did it when she was nervous and she couldn’t remember ever being more nervous than she was right now.
The man next to her stopped walking. He straightened his back just a fraction more than should be humanly possible, and untold generations of aristocrats looked down from his cold brown eyes as he spoke.
‘Miss Phelps, you will address Prince Nicolas as “Your Royal Highness”, or “sir”. You will under no circumstances use any other name or title. Prince Nicolas …’ the name was heavily emphasised ‘… is not fond of the shortened form of address.’
I’m not surprised, Lauren thought. Prince Nick was a favourite with the tabloid headline writers. Naughty Nick was their preferred appellation for the monarch’s younger son. One editor had received a royal slap on the wrist for proclaiming ‘Nice One, Nick’ above a front-page photo of a rather dishevelled prince emerging from a supermodel’s home in the early hours of the morning. No official reprimand had any effect on the media’s fascination with the black sheep of one of Europe’s oldest royal houses.
Lauren’s escort was moving on, his back ramrod straight as he almost marched along the black and white marble tiles of the long gallery. She followed him, forcing her legs to keep pace with the tall man’s long measured strides. She remained slightly to the left, and a pace behind, of course.
She still found it hard to comprehend that she was walking through the royal palace. As a child, she had often stared up at the beautiful building on a hill overlooking the capital and dreamed that she was a princess living inside walls that glowed golden with each sunrise and sunset. Those dreams were her escape from the harsh realities of her life as she had filled page after page of her schoolbooks with pencil sketches of palaces and golden coaches and princesses wearing ball gowns. And of course she had dreamed of the prince who would one day ride up on a pure white horse and win her heart.
This wasn’t exactly her dream come true, but here she was, inside those golden walls about to meet … well, not exactly the prince of her dreams.
The kingdom of Arennes was small and unimportant on the world stage. Nestled on the edge of the Mediterranean, it had a long and proud tradition – and an economy based on tourism and culture and attracting students to the world-renowned universities. One family had sat upon the throne for hundreds of years. They had little, if any, actual power, but were held in high esteem at home and abroad. There had never been a hint of royal scandal, until Prince Nicolas Gerard Verbier d’Arennes walked out of his military service and onto the front pages.
Movie star looks and royal blood, not to mention a family fortune, brought him instant adoration among the jet set and the paparazzi in equal measure. Barely a week passed that his handsome face didn’t grace the newspapers and magazines at home and elsewhere in Europe, usually with an equally gorgeous female or two in attendance. He wasn’t shy in expressing his disdain of social media, but it was a rare month that his antics didn’t have him trending on Twitter. He liked fast cars, fast boats and fast women and the Twitterverse loved him for it.
Now Lauren was being led to him, like a lamb to the wolf’s den.
She grasped her hands behind her back to hide the shaking that betrayed her nervousness. She took a few steps, before realising that she was unconsciously aping the prince’s equerry as she followed him. Biting back another giggle, she quickly dropped her hands to her sides.
‘I understand this is your first commissioned portrait.’
The words caught Lauren by surprise. ‘I … I’m sorry …’ she stammered.
‘I said that I believe this will be your first commissioned portrait.’ The tone said it all. The palace official was putting her firmly in her place.
‘Not at all.’ She forced a casual note into her voice. ‘I’ve been asked to do quite a few portraits.’
‘Really.’
He wasn’t asking a question. Lauren guessed her professional background had been thoroughly checked before this invitation was issued. Perhaps not her personal background though. If they knew everything about her family and her past, she would not have been permitted to take one step through the doors of the grand palace. Not the front doors, of course – a side entrance was good enough for a little-known artist.
‘Yes, really.’ Lauren took a firm grip on her false bravado, desperately trying not to feel intimidated by her guide, and the long portrait gallery, and the royal faces gazing down at her from the walls as she passed.
‘I meant for money, Miss Phelps.’
Lauren had no answer, because he was right. She had won two fairly important art competitions, including a portrait contest. Her paintings were exhibited in a couple of minor galleries. A few had sold for modest sums. But no one had ever paid her hard cash to paint their portrait. She wouldn’t even try to explain the other payments she had received in the past. This cold, officious man would never understand the treasure in a mother’s gratitude for a sketch of a child she was too poor to photograph. Nor the riches in an old man’s tears on receiving a likeness of the woman he had loved for fifty years, then lost.
She said nothing, allowing her tormentor his victory. Instead she focused on keeping a steady, confident rhythm in her stride as she marched behind him. The click of her stiletto boot heels echoed too loudly off the stone and marble walls. Too late, she realised that she should have worn shoes with soft soles, like those worn by the stiff figure in front of her. Her black ankle boots were a favourite, as was the pleated black skirt that bounced around her thighs. The skirt was a little short, perhaps, but she had the legs for it. She’d found both skirt and boots at her favourite second-hand clothing shop. She had chosen this outfit because it made her feel attractive and confident. At least it did most of the time.
Not this morning. Lauren battled to gather her shaky confidence, holding her head a little higher, as a voice deep inside her cried out for this excruciating march to end. Everything about her surroundings seemed designed to intimidate. From the polished marble floors to the high ceiling with its intricate mouldings, the gallery spoke of a world far removed from Lauren’s tiny apartment. It was a world she knew little of, and had never thought to enter. Until today.
Lauren could almost feel eyes judging her as she passed the royal portraits staring down from the walls. Generations of the Verbier d’Arennes family had been captured on canvas by some of Europe’s most popular artists. The royal portraits had occupied many of Lauren’s student days. She had written a paper about the collection for her finals, without ever being able to examine the actual works.
As she walked, Lauren’s eyes flickered left and right. That was surely a Reynolds. On the opposite wall, she recognised a Gainsborough. The eighteenth-century portrait of some princess in a blue dress was one of Lauren’s favourites, yet she was swept past it with barely a glance.
Soon, one of her paintings would hang in this same gallery. Her painting of Prince Nicolas, commissioned to mark his thirtieth birthday, would find a place among the masters, probably enclosed in an equally elaborate gilt frame. If it was good enough. A new wave of nervous terror washed over Lauren, bringing with it an almost irresistible desire to turn on her pointy heels and run as far and as fast as her legs could