Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
greats. Not like Reynolds. Or Gainsborough.’
‘Ah, but you forget the subjects.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘To devalue the portraits would be to devalue the subjects. And that we must never do. Not after they did so much to find a place in a turbulent world for this small and rather unimportant country. Isn’t that right, Courtauld?’
‘Indeed, Your Royal Highness.’ Not one shred of criticism touched the functionary’s voice.
‘They did it by marrying off their many sons and daughters to ruling families the length and breadth of Europe,’ the prince continued. ‘Not an easy task, I should imagine, given their looks. But they did have brains. My older brother inherited the brains, which is rather appropriate as he will one day rule. My job, on the other hand, is to improve the family looks. Which means …’ he moved to her side, and leaned close ‘… you won’t have to work quite so hard to hide my imperfections.’
He was so close that she could almost feel the warmth of his body.
The arrogance of the man! Lauren bridled and spoke without thinking.
‘I do try to capture the personality of the subject, not just their appearance,’ she said in tone dripping with sugar. ‘So there might be some things to hide.’
No sooner were the words out, than she regretted them. She could almost feel the equerry stiffen in his place near the door. She kept her gaze glued to the portraits, not wanting to see the reaction of the man at her side. Silence reigned for a few seconds, then Lauren heard the prince take a deep breath, as if to speak. Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock on the door. Another man appeared.
‘Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. They are waiting.’
A slight pause.
‘Yes. Of course.’
From the corner of her eye, Lauren saw the tall figure move away. He paused by the desk to retrieve his jacket. He slipped a tie around his neck, fastening it as he moved towards a large gilt-framed mirror to check his appearance.
Lauren turned to face him, feeling safer now the expanse of the room separated them. Carefully avoiding the disapproving look of the prince’s equerry, Lauren opened her mouth to apologise.
‘You wait here.’ The prince spoke before the words even formed in her mouth. ‘I shan’t be long. We are not finished yet.’ With that promise, or threat, he followed his servant out of the room, leaving Lauren alone with her escort.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Lauren decided she should at least study some of the other paintings on the walls of the room. It would be her last chance to admire the collection that she had read about in college. After this disaster of a meeting, she would no doubt lose the royal commission. She would never return to the palace, see the paintings … or the prince … again. She sighed.
‘Would you care to be seated, Miss Phelps?’ The equerry indicted a large chair that looked like an antique.
‘Thank you …’ Lauren hesitated. ‘I’m sorry – what do I call you?’
‘You may call me Mr Courtauld, Miss Phelps.’ There was no trace of warmth or invitation in his tone.
‘Thank you, Mr Courtauld.’ Lauren moved to the chair he had indicated, realising only as she got there that her knees were shaking. Gratefully she sank onto the fine embroidered cloth. She clasped her hands in her lap, to overcome the desire to fiddle with her hair. A few more minutes of silence flowed, until Lauren felt she had to talk, or scream.
‘How long have you worked for the prince?’
‘I have served the House of Verbier d’Arennes all of my life.’
He had to be in late his fifties. That was a long time to spend with a single employer. ‘You must enjoy it.’
‘It is an honour to serve.’
‘Of course.’ Lauren still didn’t hear any warmth or encouragement in his tone, but his ingrained politeness would force him to converse with her. That was enough. The waiting would be impossible if she didn’t talk to someone.
‘And how long with Prince Nicolas?’
‘I have served in this capacity since His Royal Highness left the military to take up official duties.’
‘I see.’ Lauren was rapidly running out of things to say. Courtauld remained silent, so she plunged on again.
‘Do you know where the prince saw my work? Which piece did he like? Was it the painting that won the Academy portrait award?’
‘I don’t believe he has ever seen any of your work. Photographs of course, but not the actual work.’
‘Oh?’ Lauren was startled. ‘Then why am I painting his portrait?’
‘The curator of the royal collection had chosen another artist, but after some discussion His Royal Highness selected you.’
‘But if he hasn’t seen my paintings, how did he even know my name?’
‘I do not know, Miss Phelps.’ His tone told her that this topic of conversation was over.
Lauren tried to read between the lines. Courtauld gave every impression of being fiercely loyal. If he said ‘discussion’ had taken place, she would assume an argument. She guessed that her selection was a deliberate act of rebellion by the notoriously difficult prince. He chose her to annoy someone, probably the curator. Possibly his family.
Lauren swallowed her disappointment and her anger. She was used to being the wrong one. The wrong girl to date, the wrong person for a job. The wrong one – just because of her father and a social stigma that had always been beyond her control. Not that it mattered any more. She would surely be fired after her earlier rudeness. Members of the royal family would not take kindly to having their faults remarked upon.
Still, it was a great pity she wouldn’t get to paint the prince. He would be a fascinating subject. Any artist would relish the challenge of capturing the spectacular face and restless energy of the man. A well-received royal portrait would have been the making of her career. And then there was the money! The only thing she didn’t regret was being excused from his presence. She didn’t like him at all. He was arrogant and spoiled. Lauren ignored the tiny voice that added the words gorgeous and sexy to her summary.
Lauren leaped to her feat as the door opened, driven by fear rather than any instructions from Mr Courtauld. Prince Nicolas strode into the room, shrugging off his jacket. He tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, and slipped off his tie. As the strip of colourful silk settled onto the jacket, Lauren found herself wishing the careless striptease would continue. That the fine white cotton shirt would follow the jacket and tie.
The prince was the most stunningly attractive man she had ever seen. If she wasn’t going to paint him, just for a few minutes she would let the woman replace the artist, and enjoy the flutter he caused in her lower belly. She would also ignore that pesky inner voice reminding her that his personality didn’t match his looks.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
His voice, however, did match his looks. Strong. Low and very sexy. Wondering how it might sound coloured with emotion, or passion, Lauren waited for him to continue.
‘A photo call. It comes with the job I’m afraid.’
‘With whom?’ Lauren asked.
‘I’m not really sure. Some children’s group. Courtauld?’
‘Students from year ten, the winners of a national school competition – an essay on the history of the royal family.’
‘Ah.’ The prince dismissed that comment with a wave.
‘You didn’t know?’ Lauren couldn’t hide her disgust. She knew only too well what it felt like to be so carelessly