Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
palace guards.
After an eternity, the man in front of her turned abruptly to his left and stopped before an ornate wooden door. He knocked, but waited only a brief moment before pushing it open. He indicated that Lauren should enter the room before him. She felt better the moment she stepped through the doorway.
Equally as impressive as the other rooms in the palace, this one nonetheless seemed warmer and more welcoming. Bookshelves lined the walls. The rich colours of the leather book bindings were echoed in the large burgundy sofa that faced away from her, towards a huge fireplace at the far end of the room. The fireplace was empty, but Lauren could easily imagine the comfortable glow of a burning log, warming winter days. The two armchairs that flanked the fireplace would be a welcome haven in winter. Richly patterned carpets lay scattered over the polished wood floor and at the far end of the room a large antique desk held only a phone and a leather-bound blotter.
Lauren had barely begun to examine her surroundings, before her eyes were drawn to the paintings either side of a doorway to her left.
‘The Kneller portraits.’ She recognised them instantly.
‘Indeed. They are held to be the jewels of the royal collection.’
Lauren barely heard the official’s remark. She was lost in studying the paintings. To the left of the doorway, a grey-haired man in military dress ignored the three small dogs prancing at his feet. On the other side of the tall doorway, a rather plain, middle-aged woman wearing a diamond coronet smiled mysteriously into the distance.
‘Painted in 1710, to mark …’
‘… their Majesties’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’ Lauren didn’t need a lesson. ‘These were required study at art school.’
Forgetting her earlier nervousness, Lauren stepped closer to the paintings. Her trained eyes sought out every detail of the work.
‘Indeed. They did set the standard for many royal portraits that followed. If your portrait of His Royal Highness were along similar lines, I believe it would be well accepted.’
Lauren ignored the comment. She took several steps backwards, wanting a wider view of the portraits. She stopped only when she reached the back of the huge leather sofa. Leaning against its solid mass for support, she studied the portraits.
‘They are … not as I expected,’ she said slowly.
‘Oh really? Better or worse?’
Lauren gave a startled cry and leaped forward, as the deep masculine voice spoke so close to her ear. She turned to watch a tall man slowly rise from his hidden place on the sofa and move towards her. Despite his grey civilian slacks and open-necked shirt, the man’s military background was evident in the straight back and the controlled strength of his movements. Nor did he need a crown to proclaim his heritage. With his thick dark hair, blue eyes and raffish smile, he was the most photographed man in the kingdom.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ The equerry bowed slightly, seeming unfazed by his master’s sudden appearance.
The prince ignored the official. He stepped lightly around the sofa, stopping disconcertingly close to Lauren. He seemed to tower above her. Slowly he ran his gaze down her tiny frame, to the tip of those black boots, then all the way up again, pausing on her hair.
Lauren forced her feet to stay rooted to the floor, and her hands to remain still at her sides. She waited for him to look back at her face. He didn’t. He stepped to his right and slowly circled her. Only when he returned to his starting place in front of her did his gaze leave her hair and return to her face.
‘Courtauld,’ the prince addressed his equerry without looking at him, ‘you are failing in your duties. Please present the young lady.’
‘Your Royal Highness, may I present Miss Lauren Phelps, artist.’ The functionary’s voice was devoid of all expression, well versed as he no doubt was in such introductions.
‘How do you do?’ The words almost fell out of Lauren’s mouth, as she thrust her hand forward.
For several long seconds, the prince didn’t move to take it. Lauren’s courage almost failed her. Had she committed some inexcusable breach of protocol? She was about to drop her arm to her side, when strong warm fingers enclosed her hand.
‘What Courtauld will not say, because protocol doesn’t allow it, is that I am Nicolas Verbier d’Arennes.’
None of the photographs, not one second of the television news clips, had prepared Lauren for the prince’s beauty. He wasn’t handsome. Many men are handsome. He was simply beautiful – the way a tiger is beautiful, or the sunlight as it streams through clouds after a storm. He was the intricate pattern on a frosty windowpane, and the dancing colours on a windswept ocean. Powerful. Elemental. Beautiful.
Lauren explored his face. The strong lines of his jaw, lips curled at the corners in a slight smile. Those cheekbones would stand him in good stead as he grew older. He would still be an attractive man at sixty. His sandy-red wavy hair would look like silk as it flecked with grey. Lauren found herself almost mesmerised by the sensual promise of unusually dark blue eyes. Come-to-bed eyes, framed by long dark lashes.
It would certainly be a challenge to capture those eyes on canvas. She would need to give careful thought to the colour themes that would highlight their unique shade and the way the light danced in them when he smiled, as he was smiling now.
That smile, the supremely confident smile of a man who knows his attraction, shook Lauren from her artist’s reverie. She started to move back, to put a safer distance between herself and this disturbing man. She couldn’t. Prince Nicolas was still holding her hand. Lauren was suddenly conscious of the warmth of his flesh on hers. Carefully she extricated her hand and took that much-needed step back.
It didn’t help. His Royal Highness seemed to fill the room. He was a tall man, made even taller by aristocratic poise and confidence, tempered by military fitness. Would she paint him in uniform, she wondered, or civilian clothes? A more casual painting would emphasise the broad shoulders and chest.
Perhaps a setting that suggested his liking for sport and physical pursuits. Physical pursuits of all sorts, Lauren thought, as she noted the strong curves of his shoulders under the well-cut jacket. How she would love to sketch his bare chest and shoulders, to capture the curve of his neck. Her fingers ached to trace the line of his neck and his jaw. Her face flushed when he raised one eyebrow, almost as if he knew what she was thinking.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘I … what …’ Lauren blustered, feeling her embarrassment deepen into mortification.
‘What do you think?’ He stepped back and spread his arms wide, inviting her further inspection. ‘Will I do?’
‘Will you do what?’ Lauren’s confusion coloured her voice, making it almost shrill.
‘As a subject?’
‘Oh … of course,’ Lauren stammered. ‘I was just …’ Just what? Picturing him with his shirt off? Hardly something she could say to a prince, and her first paying customer.
‘I know, thinking about the painting.’
‘Yes I was,’ Lauren agreed. ‘I do hope I can do justice to the collection.’
‘So do I. So tell me, in what way do the Kneller portraits disappoint you?’
With relief Lauren turned her back on the prince, not caring if that was also a breach of protocol. She pretended to study the matching portraits either side of the door as she took a long slow breath, trying to recover the wits scattered by the prince’s overwhelming presence.
‘They’re not that good,’ she said without thinking.
‘Not that good?’
Lauren tried to read the prince’s tone. This wasn’t going at all well. ‘I mean … there are better paintings in the collection.’
‘I