Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
it was just the area protected by a large drop sheet, and holding her easel and a table covered with her artist’s tools. Now, all that had gone. Lauren went too, feeling not unlike one of the packages stowed so efficiently and effortlessly in the back of the vehicle.
An armed soldier waved them through the same ornate iron gates that Lauren had passed on her previous visit. The drive led to a series of courtyards in the maze that lay behind the palace facade, protected from the public gaze by high walls. On her first visit, the surroundings had barely registered on Lauren’s mind. This time, she took more notice of the extensions and outbuildings of various eras that had sprung up as the palace grew to accommodate the changing times and tastes of its royal occupants.
The van drew up in a large cobbled courtyard, bounded on one side by the palace itself, on the others by outbuildings, some of which had obviously once been stables. Still were, Lauren corrected herself as she got out of the van. The earthy smell emanating from the buildings on the eastern side of the courtyard was not exactly unpleasant, but it wasn’t the sweetest perfume.
A few seconds later, the clatter of hooves confirmed her suspicions. A dozen mounted guards emerged from the wide doorway of the stable block. They ranged themselves in a processional order and waited. A stable hand, in a uniform as spotless as those of the guards, led a rider-less horse from the stables. The animal was magnificent. His dark chestnut hide shone with as much polish as the silver swords of the guardsmen. His glossy black hooves shuffled restlessly on the cobbles as he too waited.
Prince Nicolas emerged from the palace wearing a red guard’s uniform liberally decorated with gold braid and medals of the same colour. A long sabre hung at his side. He strode down the stone steps, his eyes fixed on the troop waiting for him across the courtyard. The man holding the horse snapped to attention and saluted as his officer approached and took the reins. With the ease of much practice, Prince Nicolas swung himself into the saddle. The big chestnut horse pranced and sidled a few steps, tossing his head, before submitting to his rider’s will.
As the prince turned his restless mount, his glance touched Lauren where she stood by the open doors of the van. She instinctively raised an arm in greeting, but let it drop when he looked straight through her as if she wasn’t there. Prince Nicolas took his place at the head of the troop. At a shouted command from their leader, the guards moved forward in unison, even their mounts seeming to fall into military step. In a flash of red and gold, they turned a corner and were gone, leaving behind a rapidly fading clatter of hooves.
Lauren stood staring after them; the image of the prince and his mount burned into her mind’s eye as if some great equestrian portrait had come to life in front of her. More than man and horse, Prince Nicolas and the big chestnut he rode were the very definition of military bearing, and honour and bravery in battle. The glint of his sword and the prancing step of horse were the stuff of schoolboy dreams. The prince’s handsome face and overwhelming vitality would set girlish hearts aflutter. He was the hero of a thousand romantic tales – off to battle for a righteous cause.
Except, he wasn’t. He was probably just going to parade for visiting tourists. No great deeds awaited him, just the flash of cameras. Far from an honourable man, the prince didn’t even have the manners to acknowledge her with a wave or a nod of his head. Lauren shook her head in disgust and turned to supervise the unloading of her precious easel.
As she did, the prince’s equerry appeared at the top of the stone stairs.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Phelps.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Courtauld.’
‘If you’d come this way.’
Once more Lauren found herself following Courtauld’s ramrod back through palace corridors. These were smaller than the elegant galleries of her first visit. In the absence of grand windows, simple light fixtures lit the halls. Their dull glow did little to enhance the dark walls or the paintings that hung on them. The paintings were of lesser quality, and Lauren realised she was looking at the future of her own work, should it not live up to the exacting standards required of the royal collection.
She wondered if Courtauld had chosen this route on purpose. He obviously disapproved of everything about her, from her hair and clothes to her manners. This was no doubt his way of putting her in her place, but she wasn’t going to let it get her down.
Up one flight of marble stairs the corridors became wider, the furnishings more lavish and the paintings better.
‘I was told you would need as much natural light as possible,’ Courtauld said as they neared the end of the corridor. ‘I hope this will suit.’ He opened a door, and indicated that Lauren should precede him through it.
‘Wow!’
Lauren moved into the middle of the room and turned slowly, taking in every corner of her new studio. The richly embroidered pale blue curtains had been pulled back from the large windows that dominated two walls of the room. Light streamed in. Unlike some of the more ornate rooms Lauren had seen, this chamber was simply decorated. The embossed wallpaper was cream and the ceiling was likewise plain in colour, although moulded into graceful arcs at each corner of the room. The wide expanse of polished wood floor gleamed golden in the sunlight. On the wall to her left, the fireplace was grey marble. Lauren noted the stain on the wallpaper where the painting above it had been recently removed.
‘What a fabulous room,’ Lauren breathed. ‘It will make a wonderful studio.’
‘I took the liberty of removing the more valuable furnishings,’ Courtauld continued, seeming unmoved by Lauren’s delight.
Lauren glanced at what was left. A large wooden table sat to one side, the perfect place for her brushes and paints and the assorted paraphernalia of her art. Either side of the fireplace stood two large comfortable-looking armchairs with a small table between them. The lack of clutter made the room look even larger. In fact, she realised with a start, this one room was probably bigger than her whole flat!
‘It’s perfect,’ she said out loud, ‘but …’
‘Please ask for whatever you need.’
Lauren waved at the expanse of polished floor. ‘Painting can be a messy business,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that beautiful floor will suffer. It should be covered. I can bring a cover sheet from my own studio.’
‘No need.’ Courtauld pointed to a shape against the far wall. ‘Just indicate the preferred position. That carpet will protect the floor.’
‘But the carpet will be ruined!’
‘It is of no consequence.’
Before Lauren could open her mouth to argue, the first of her boxes arrived, carried by one of the two men from the van. He was soon put to work unrolling the vast square of carpet, which was positioned at Lauren’s direction in the centre of the room.
In a surprisingly short time the studio began to take shape. Lauren’s easel stood in the middle of the carpet, her stool next to it. Her boxes of paints and brushes sat on the wooden worktable ready for her personal attention. At her request, a kitchen chair had materialised, as had a large waste bin. She still felt uneasy about the inevitable spills of paint and oil, and mentally made a note to bring some protective coverings from home. Courtauld might think this furniture was of no consequence but it was far better than anything Lauren possessed, and she would not willingly or carelessly damage it.
‘I must take my leave,’ Courtauld said as the last boxes were placed on the carpeted floor. ‘Other duties await me.’
‘Thank you for everything.’ Lauren was genuinely grateful. ‘It’s a terrific studio. You couldn’t have chosen a better room.’
‘I didn’t choose the room. Prince Nicolas selected it. He felt you would want to be close to his own offices.’
‘How close?’
‘The door across the hallway leads to His Royal Highness’s offices.’ Courtauld bowed and left the room.
Lauren waited for a few moments, then