The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection. Кейт Хьюит

      One

      Glancing at her watch, Lexie Wyndham Jones hurried from the stables and through a back entrance of her family’s Massachusetts home. The ride had taken longer than she’d intended, but she still had time to prepare herself.

      Dropping onto the seat just inside the door, she began wrestling one of her riding boots off. At the sound of someone clearing his throat, she looked up to see their butler standing close, watching her. “May I be of assistance, miss?”

      He had his stoic expression on, all droopy gray eye brows and even droopier jowls. “No. I’m fine. Thank you, Stanley.” He always offered. She always refused. It had been their routine since Lexie had first learned to ride. The boot came free in her hands and she dropped it to the floor.

      When Stanley altered the routine by not then moving away, she glanced up.

      “Your mother has been looking for you.”

      Sighing, Lexie turned her attention to her unyielding second boot. “What have I done now?”

      “Your…prince has come.”

      For a second, Lexie froze. And Stanley, against every fiber of his butler being, allowed his disapproval to show. He hadn’t said, he never would, but he thought she and her mother were making a mistake. She redoubled her efforts on her boot, hiding her surge of elation. The boot came free in her hands and she dropped it beside the first and stood. “He’s early.” Perhaps he had been so eager to see her that—

      “I believe with the changeover of your mother’s secretary there has been some confusion about the times. The prince was of the impression that you would be accompanying him back to San Philippe this afternoon.”

      “But the dinner?”

      “Precisely.”

      “Mother has explained?”

      “Of course. You’ll be leaving in the morning as planned.”

      “Oh, dear.” She didn’t suppose it was good practice to thwart a prince’s expectations, but it couldn’t be any worse than thwarting her mother’s.

      “Precisely.” The merest twinkle glinted in Stanley’s gray eyes, and she got the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling her. No doubt she’d find out soon enough.

      “Where are they now?”

      “The croquet lawn.”

      “I’d better get out there.” She turned, but stopped at the sound of Stanley again clearing his throat.

      “Perhaps you would like to freshen up first?”

      Lexie scanned her mud-splattered jodhpurs and laughed. “Holy—” She stopped herself in time and winked. “Good heavens, yes.” She mimicked her mother’s cultured tones. “Thank you, Stanley.”

      He inclined his head.

      Thirty minutes later, Lexie, now wearing a demure—and clean—sundress, lowered herself into the chair in the arbor. A dark jacket lay draped over the arm of the chair next to her. Drawn to touch it, Lexie trailed her fingers over the sun-warmed leather and the exquisitely soft silk of the lining.

      Pulling her hand to her lap, she took in the croquet game that looked close to ending. There were only two people on the lawn: broad-shouldered Adam, his back to her, lining up a shot, and her fiercely slender mother. It was easy to tell from the rigid set to her mother’s shoulders and the too-bright society laugh that drifted across the lawn that Antonia was losing. A result that didn’t bode well. Her mother didn’t quite have the power of the Queen of Hearts—no one would lose their head. Not literally. But…

      Lexie watched with surprise as Adam swung his mallet and played a merciless shot, sending her mother’s ball careening miles from where she’d want it. While she wouldn’t expect him to throw a game, she would have thought he’d be more tactful. He was renowned as a master diplomat, and he usually managed to charm her mother. The tinkling laughter that followed his shot was anything but charmed, and Lexie cringed.

      Adam straightened and turned, and her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. Then she caught his profile, and her breath stalled in her chest as she looked and, disbelieving, looked again.

      Not Adam Marconi, crown prince of San Philippe.

      But his brother, Rafe.

      A heated flush swept up her face.

      As if sensing her scrutiny, Rafe turned fully. Across half the lawn his gaze caught hers. Slowly, he inclined his head, almost as Stanley did, but with Stanley the gesture, though it could convey a dozen nuanced meanings, was usually genial or at least respectful. Rafe’s nod, the stiff little bow, even from this distance, communicated displeasure.

      Which made two of them. She did not want to see Rafe.

      Fighting for composure, Lexie had to remind herself, as her mother so often did, that she, too, had royal bloodlines, her ancestors having once ruled the small European principality that Rafe’s father was sovereign of. A Wyndham Jones was cool and self-possessed at all times. Supposedly.

      Lexie wasn’t a particularly good example of the name, but she tried. As the shock of seeing Rafe ebbed, it