Praise for Carolyn Zane

“Carolyn Zane provides readers with very funny scenes and lighthearted banter that will surely put a smile on your face.”

—Romantic Times

Sebastian was claiming to be the missing heir to the throne of St. Michel?

Marie-Claire stood in the doorway, not sure that she’d heard correctly. His words hung in the air.

Why had he never told her this before? And, if he were the missing heir, wouldn’t that make him the Crown Prince? And, if he were the Crown Prince, wouldn’t that make him Philippe’s son, which would then make him—

Marie-Claire’s ears began to buzz. Her face caught fire and bile rose in her throat. Suddenly, the enormity of this moment hit her like a ton of bricks and she felt as though she would faint.

But it was her heart that refused to believe what he was saying. Because with the feelings she had for Sebastian LeMarc, there was no way he could be her brother.…

Dear Reader,

Calling all royal watchers! This month, Silhouette Romance’s Carolyn Zane kicks off our exciting new series, ROYALLY WED: THE MISSING HEIR, with the gem Of Royal Blood. Fans of last year’s ROYALLY WED series will love this thrilling four-book adventure, filled with twists and turns—and of course, plenty of love and romance. Blue bloods and commoners alike will also enjoy Laurey Bright’s newest addition to her VIRGIN BRIDES thematic series, The Heiress Bride, about a woman who agrees to marry to protect the empire that is rightfully hers.

This month is also filled with earth-shattering secrets! First, award-winning author Sharon De Vita serves up a whopper in her latest SADDLE FALLS title, Anything for Her Family. Natalie McMahon is much more than the twin boys’ nanny—she’s their mother! And in Karen Rose Smith’s A Husband in Her Eyes, the heroine has her eyesight restored, only to have haunting visions of a man and child. Can she bring love and happiness back into their lives?

Everyone likes surprises, right? Well, in Susan Meier’s Married Right Away, the heroine certainly gives her boss the shock of his life—she’s having his baby! And Love Inspired author Cynthia Rutledge makes her Silhouette Romance debut with her modern-day Cinderella story, Trish’s Not-So-Little Secret, about “Fatty Patty” who comes back to her hometown a beautiful swan—and a single mom with a jaw-dropping secret!

We hope this month that you feel like a princess and enjoy the royal treats we have for you from Silhouette Romance.

Happy reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

Of Royal Blood
Carolyn Zane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Rita Dubenko, neighbor, friend,

one dang fast race-walker, and sister-friend

of whom it is said, “She is faithful.”

Thanks to You, Lord, for Your amazing faithfulness.

Do not be afraid of sudden terror, nor of trouble from the wicked when it comes. For the Lord will be your confidence.

—Proverbs 3:25-26

Books by Carolyn Zane

Silhouette Romance

The Wife Next Door #1011

Wife in Name Only #1035

*Unwilling Wife #1063

*Weekend Wife #1082

Bachelor Blues #1093

The Baby Factor #1127

Marriage in a Bottle #1170

It’s Raining Grooms #1205

†Miss Prim’s Untamable Cowboy #1248

†His Brother’s Intended Bride #1266

†Cinderella’s Secret Baby #1308

†The Rich Gal’s Rented Groom #1339

†Johnny’s Pregnant Bride #1402

†The Millionaire’s Waitress Wife #1482

†Montana’s Feisty Cowgirl #1488

†Tex’s Exasperating Heiress #1494

Of Royal Blood #1576

Yours Truly

Single in Seattle

How To Hook a Husband (and a Baby)

Silhouette Books

The Coltons: Brides of Privilege

“Destiny’s Bride”

The Coltons

Taking On Twins

CAROLYN ZANE

lives with her husband, Matt, their preschool daughter Madeline and their latest addition, baby daughter Olivia, in the rolling countryside near Portland, Oregon’s Willamette River. Like Chevy Chase’s character in the movie Funny Farm, Carolyn finally decided to trade in a decade of city dwelling and producing local television commercials for the quaint country life of a novelist. And even though they have bitten off decidedly more than they can chew in the remodeling of their hundred-plus-year-old farmhouse, life is somewhat saner for her than for poor Chevy. The neighbors are friendly, the mail carrier actually stops at the box and the dog, Bob Barker, sticks close to home.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Chapter One

Princess Marie-Claire de Bergeron—third daughter of Philippe de Bergeron, king of St. Michel, a small nation just north of France—squeezed between her two older sisters in order to better view the amazing physique of Sebastian LeMarc: playboy, aristocrat, successful import/export trade businessman. Clutching her sisters’ arms to keep from falling too far back in the crowd, she watched with rapt fascination as he paused in his approach to the seventeenth hole to sign an autograph for a giggly young fan.

In St. Michel, Sebastian was a local celebrity. A good-natured philanthropist, a sex symbol and an all around hotty.

“Hotty, hot-hot,” Marie-Claire murmured, loving faddish American slang nearly as much as she loved American movies, TV and cheeseburgers.

“Get away, Marie-Claire.” Her oldest sister, the newly married Lise batted at her. “You are breathing down my neck.”

Obligingly, Marie-Claire popped up over her middle sister, Ariane’s, shoulder and allowed her gaze to follow the handsome Sebastian as he signaled his caddie.

In homes all over the globe, golf enthusiasts followed this action on a cable sports channel. Color and comment announcers strained toward a bank of television monitors and murmured, “He’s approaching the tee…uh-oh.” Muffled laughter.

“We seem to have a bit of a problem on the course. Sebastian LeMarc’s caddie has taken a spill.”

“That’s right, Frank. Looks like it’ll be a minute.”

“From what we are able to gather here in the press box, LeMarc’s regular caddie was under the weather…”

“Too much celebration after yesterday’s rounds?”

More male laughter. Papers rustled.

“Rob, the caddie pinch-hitting for LeMarc today is, believe it or not, the son of the de Bergeron palace gardener, eighteen-year-old Eduardo Van Groober from St. Michel. Eduardo was on his high school’s golf team last year and hopes one day to be the next Tiger Woods.”

“Let’s see if he can stay on his feet.”

More chuckling.

“I think he was distracted.”

“The king’s daughters would do that to the most seasoned caddie, I’m afraid.”

On television, cutaways of Marie-Claire and her attractive sisters filled the screen.

Marie-Claire watched as the flame-faced Eduardo fumbled with the golf bag, rushing to insert the clubs and frantically searching for one to offer Sebastian.

Sebastian found a club lying on the ground and, stepping over the still-flailing Eduardo, moved to the tee.

“Frank, Sebastian LeMarc looks to be using a seven iron, an excellent choice. With his powerful swing and ability to focus, this next shot could put his team in the lead.”

Marie-Claire wriggled with excitement, but when a thoughtless member of the press obscured her view, she dropped down and poked her head under Lise’s elbow, only to receive a glare of exasperation for her effort.

“Stop skulking around beneath us, Marie-Claire,” Lise admonished in low tones. “Your hair is so filled with static, you look as if you’ve been electrocuted.”

I feel that way, Marie-Claire thought, catching an exhilarating glimpse of her hero from between the reporter’s lanky legs as Sebastian took a few practice swings.

“Ouch! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Ariane demanded as Marie-Claire’s knees found the tips of her toes.

“Trying to see…him.”

Ariane guffawed. “He’s got to be what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Mon Dieu! You’re too young for him.”

“I am not.”

“Are too. Just look at you now.”

“He’s noticed me before.”

Lise and Ariane exchanged droll glances. “When?”

Marie-Claire considered silence but their expressions spurred her to divulge. “It began five years ago. When I was sixteen, and we had a…moment.”

“A…moment?” Lise asked.

“Sixteen? You are hallucinating.” Ariane smirked.

“No. He remembers me, I know it.”

“What kind of moment? Did you run over him in driver’s training?” Pretty heads together, Lise and Ariane hooted. Marie-Claire pulled herself to her feet and, eyes blazing, attempted to tame her flyaway hair.

“He knows who I am, I tell you.”

“He knows all of Papa’s offspring.”

“That’s not what I mean. This is a special connection. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ariane snorted. “Marie-Claire, you are such a dreamer.”

“Be that as it may, he carries a tiny place in his heart just for me.” Marie-Claire turned her back on her skeptical sisters and focused on Sebastian, who in that moment, turned, caught her eye, and shot her a sexy wink. “See? Did you see that?” Her voice a tinny squeak, she yanked on her sisters’ arms. “He winked at me!”

Lise lifted her nose. “He was not winking at you. The sun was merely in his eyes.”

“The sun is behind his head!”

Ariane had to give her that. “Then he winks at all the pesky little kids in the kingdom. See? He just winked at Eduardo.”

“And,” Lise pointed out, “if I’m not mistaken, Eduardo just winked at you, Marie-Claire.”

“He wants you, Marie-Claire.” Ariane laughed.

“Shut up.”

“Marie-Claire Van Groober. That’s very pretty, don’t you think?” Lise and Ariane made slobbery smooching sounds and then snickered into their hands.

Marie-Claire decided to ignore them.

Sebastian…LeMarc.

Marie-Claire LeMarc. Mentally, she traced the letters of his surname in her mind. For five long years he’d starred in her fantasy life, playing the part of her future husband and the father of their four yet-to-be-conceived children, three sons and a beautiful daughter.

Oh, that he would only notice her again, the way he had that night. She flushed, as those memories came flooding back. She knew he remembered. He must. How could he forget?

As he surveyed the fairway, she studied the confident curl of amusement that seemed so permanently etched in his upper lip. She took in the slightly cynical, yet thoroughly charming creases that bracketed the corners of his mouth. The thick, dark-brown hair with the tiniest smattering of silver at the temples. The squarish, masculine chin that sported an angel’s thumbprint. The velvety midnight-blue eyes and the come-hither look he seemed completely unaware he exuded from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Somehow, he looked more like George Clooney than George Clooney.

All around her, women were salivating, posing to attract his attention, applying lipstick and nudging each other. Marie-Claire’s shoulders flagged. Her sisters were right. He had no time for her. Sebastian was an experienced, sophisticated man. And she? Well, at twenty-one, she was surely an overly sheltered case of arrested development. It was hard to become an independent, worldly wise woman with bodyguards and security cameras monitoring her every move.

Wildflowers need air. Light.

Hunkering low, Sebastian peered down his club, a thoughtful expression on his boyish mug. With a nod and a last murmured confab with Marie-Claire’s father, King Philippe, he stood, pressed his tee into the grass and set his ball atop. Carefully, he positioned his feet and squinted once again down the fairway.

Oh, this was so exciting. Even the back of his head was enthralling. Sebastian was about to bring her father’s team to certain victory.

Marie-Claire strained forward, knocking Ariane off-balance.

A hush descended over the crowd.

Sebastian laced his fingers over the handle of the club and, having lined up his shot, drew back.

On the down swing the words “Go, Sebastian!” pierced the hush and too late, Marie-Claire realized that the giddy shriek had come from the depths of her own throat. She wanted to die.

People turned to stare.

King Philippe rolled his eyes.

Buck teeth poking through his smile, Eduardo shot her the thumbs-up.

Her sisters’ strangled giggles revealed their horror. Lise hissed, “You’re not supposed to yell at a golf tournament, you silly twit, have you lost your mind?”

Ears still ringing, Ariane gawped at her. “It’s no wonder he’s noticed you. You’re a loon.”

Much to his credit, Sebastian managed to execute a perfect shot, straight down the fairway, ending up a mere yard from the flag. The crowd went wild. Grins broad, King Philippe and Sebastian locked their hands overhead in a victory high-five and the paparazzi went nuts, scribbling on their pads, cameras flashing.

Through the throng, Marie-Claire felt Sebastian’s eyes search her out as he turned and, once again, winked at her. Hands to face, her cheeks scalded the cool tips of her fingers and, in spite of her mortification, she smiled.

Their gazes met and clung, as they had, from time to time, over the years.

Around them, noises and colors swirled. Reality fell away. Marie-Claire’s heart skipped several important beats and planet Earth seemed suddenly to be rotating backwards, so slowly was everything moving.

Sunlight glinted off the back of Sebastian’s head, highlighting his dark hair in a glorious crown of burnished gold. He dipped his regal chin, his deep bedroom eyes never leaving hers and he arched a brow so loaded with questions that Marie-Claire knew.

He remembered.

Now that the tournament had ended, people were headed home to get ready for the victory celebration being held at the de Bergeron Palace that evening. A great ocean of humanity flowed past the clubhouse to the parking lot and gridlock was immediate. Impatient horns sounded and threatening shouts only added to the festive feel of victory.

Sebastian LeMarc watched his caddie as the lanky, flamehaired Van Groober lad stood staring after Marie-Claire. His freckled face wore the twitter-pated look of unrequited love. Sebastian knew the feeling. He’d been watching the stunning Marie-Claire de Bergeron from afar for half a decade now. Along with most of the male population of St. Michel.

But that was going to change.

Tonight.

She was twenty-one. Fully grown and fair game. And he had a good feeling that his interest was reciprocated. At least he hoped so. She was an amazing young woman. Full of vitality and as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.

Apparently, Eduardo thought so, too.

“She’s something, huh, man?” Sebastian clapped the gangly lad on the back.

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir! I’m not…I could never…” He tore his gaze from Marie-Claire’s retreating form and stared up at Sebastian. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Le-Marc?”

Sebastian took his golf bag from the skinny Van Groober and shouldered it with an easy move. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He squinted off into the throng. “Yet.”

From where she stood in her suite behind the king’s state apartment, Marie-Claire could hear the muted strains of a victory party gearing up from the grand Crystal Ballroom below. She pressed her nose to a balcony window to better see the headlights swinging around the circular drive at the front of the castle to the valet parking area.

For the umpteenth time, she wondered when he would arrive. She strained to make out his sleek Peugeot through the gloaming and almost thought she saw it parked in the family’s private guest area. No doubt he was already downstairs, mingling. Though there were slated to be somewhere between twelve- and fifteen-hundred guests, for Marie-Claire, there was only one.

Sebastian LeMarc.

Light-headed with anticipation, Marie-Claire pushed the window ajar and music wafted in on the evening breeze. Every window in the palace blazed, and the gardens that unfurled from its rock walls were strategically lit to invite the fairy Queen Mab’s dreamers, or young lovers in clandestine escape.

It was unusually warm for the first week in September, sultry, deceptively lazy, for the humidity lent an electric quality to the air, almost as if the thunderclouds looming in the distance might roll by and let loose with a wild abandon that would rival the emotional storm brewing beneath her breast.

Palms to the ornately carved window casing, she levered herself from her fascination with the arriving guests and moved to her vanity to give her gown a tentative twirl and to check her makeup one last time for flaws. After a breathless inspection, she deemed herself to be as ready as she’d ever be, and set off to find her sisters.

“How do I look?” Marie-Claire burst into Ariane’s suite to find her helping Lise fasten a dazzling choker of platinum, gold and diamond baguettes about her neck. No doubt a gift from Wilhelm Rodin, Lise’s husband of less than a month. Appearances were important to Wilhelm.

They both spared Marie-Claire a casual glance.

“You look quite grown up this evening,” Ariane allowed. “Hoping to catch Sebastian in a weak moment and club him over the head and drag him by the hair to your cave?”

Fingers to lips, Lise pinched back her amusement.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” With a grin, Marie-Claire waved off the sisterly jibe. “Any advice?”

Lise sobered. “Yes. Stay away from men.”

“This from a newlywed?” Marie-Claire’s own smile faded and she exchanged a concerned glance with Ariane.

“Wilhelm and I were never a love match, you know that.”

“Yes, but we thought you were at the least very good friends.”

Lise shrugged. “They say that even for lovers, the first year is the hardest. For friends, I imagine it to be…less appealing.”

Marie-Claire ached for her sister. She could never imagine agreeing to a marriage of convenience. It was lucky Papa hadn’t chosen her to create a political alliance between St. Michel and Rhineland because, though Wilhelm was handsome and charming, there was no warmth in the depths of his velvety brown eyes.

Not at all like the sexy twinkle that sparked in Sebastian’s eyes when he caught her gaze and held it across a crowded room. Marie-Claire gave her head a slight shake. She would ponder Lise’s marriage another time. Tonight, she had a date with destiny.

To Ariane, “What from you, dear sister? Any words to impart, to aid me in my mission?”

Ariane sighed. “Quite simply? Stay off the floor, try to keep your hair pinned neatly to your head, and check your teeth for spinach, if you must eat. Speak when spoken to, and don’t, under any circumstances, let on that you care. Play it cool. Men like that.”

Marie-Claire frowned. They did?

Always the practical one, Ariane had little time for whimsy.

But Marie-Claire was a much freer spirit. “I’m off.”

“But we’re not ready.”

“So?”

“You’re surely not thinking of descending the stair by yourself?”

“Oh, pish, Lise. This is the new millennium. You don’t have to do everything you are told to do, you know.” Marie-Claire moved to the heavy double doors and swished through to the hall. “Don’t dally, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

As Sebastian LeMarc watched Marie-Claire descend the grand staircase into the spectacular Crystal Ballroom—named for the priceless one-of-a-kind set of Austrian crystal chandeliers that shimmered fire the full length of the ceiling—he was transported back five years, to a night not unlike this.

His eyes caught hers and held and the age-old tightening kindled within his gut. Just as it had every time he’d caught her eye for the last five years.

Yes, it had been a night very much like this indeed. The second of September, to be exact. The air had been heavy that day, too. Muggy. Thunderclouds threatened harmlessly on the horizon, omitting an occasional distant rumble. The trees were only just beginning to turn into what would soon be a kaleidoscope of lemon-yellows, burnished golds, rusty oranges, and blood-reds.

It was that hour of the day just before the sun fell off its tentative perch on yonder hilltops and cast an ethereal glow over the land, turning raindrops to diamonds and ordinary leaves into a vibrant, translucent mass of color that would rival any pirate’s treasure trove. Against the charcoal gray of the dramatic sky these colors came to life in a way that only the most talented old masters had been able to replicate on canvas.

Sebastian had been out riding with friends when he reined in his mount in order to bask in the glory of this magic view. His friends—royal consorts and visiting dignitaries deep in a political discussion—hadn’t bothered to look up and rode on ahead for the palace stables.

The air held anticipation.

But of what? Sebastian couldn’t pinpoint the source of the restlessness he felt burning deep in his gut. Perhaps it was the changing of the seasons. Or, the melancholia of saying goodbye to another warm sunny time of year and heading inside to spend months beside the fire.

Then again, perhaps it was the feeling that in three short years he’d be thirty. An age when people began to look toward producing a legacy of some sort. A marriage. An heir. To contribute to society in ways other than hunting with the boys and making the aristocratic social scene that had been handed him at birth.

For a long moment, Sebastian sat on his mount and pondered his universe as the sun began its nightly descent behind distant hills and the shadows grew long.

And then, just as he was about to turn homeward for the night, a blinding streak shot out of one of the royal stables farthest from the main compound. With a gleeful war whoop, this shrieking banshee took off across the meadow on a horse—or a bolt of lightning, Sebastian couldn’t be sure—and headed toward the woods nearly a kilometer away from the rear of the stables.

Sebastian squinted into the setting sun. Where would a stable boy be charging off to at this hour? Unless he was up to no good.

Reining his horse around, Sebastian set off after the boy, knowing that King Philippe would never have sanctioned such after-hours escapades. The quickest way to ruin prime horseflesh was to ride at breakneck speeds in the dusk.

The wind whistled in his ears as he hunched low and followed the boy over the rolling hills of St. Michel to the edge of a great forest that was rumored still to harbor a fire-breathing dragon and a band of magical fairies. Well, Sebastian didn’t know about that, but when he caught up with this kid, be might just breathe a little fire himself.

Upon reaching the forest, he had to slow dramatically to pick his way through the trees to avoid being clothes-lined by a low-lying branch. He could hear the horse and rider just ahead, crashing through the underbrush, and then the roar of falling water as a rushing river cascaded over a precipice at one end of the king’s well-stocked fishing pond.

A poacher, no doubt. There to catch a few illegal fish for his undoubtedly lazy, thieving family. Jaw grim with determination, Sebastian stayed just far enough behind to keep this unsavory character in view, while at the same time taking care to avoid being detected. Slowly now, he wove amongst the dense foliage. It was darker deep in the woods, growing more so as the sun’s rays began to fade.

Overhead, the sky rumbled an ominous growl, and Sebastian felt the first of several warm drops splat on his head and hands. Urging his mount forward, he peered through the branches and was instantly rewarded with a view that stole his breath away.

This was no boy, standing on an outcropping of rock, hastily shedding his clothes.

No.

This was a young woman!

Casually grazing, her horse was tethered to a tree near the water’s edge, about a dozen or so feet beneath the spot where she stood silhouetted against a fiery backdrop of fir trees. Lit from behind as she was by the sun, dusty rays fanned out in a long star pattern as she moved, giving her an almost wraithlike appearance.

Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched as she snatched open her buttons and pulled her blouse free of her jeans. Next, she yanked down the zipper of her pants and eased them over her slender hips. An impatient kick sent them into a haphazard pile with her blouse to the shore below.

Clad in only a pair of lacy wisps that left little to the imagination, she stood and surveyed the way the setting sun shimmered like gold coins bobbing on the surface of the gently lapping waves.

Sebastian’s breathing grew shallow. Who was this woman? She was no stable hand, this he knew, as females were never hired in such a capacity in this particular kingdom.

Her body was long and lithesome, yet curvy in all the right spots. Her thighs and calves were shapely, well muscled obviously from years spent riding, and her shoulder-length hair was wild, glowing gold with the slanting light of the setting sun.

Sebastian’s mouth went dry. He knew he probably had no business standing there, staring at her this way, when she thought she was by herself, but on the other hand, she had no business being out here alone. It wasn’t safe. Anything could happen to a young woman out swimming after dark.

Deciding to stay put, just in case she needed him for whatever reason, he watched as she moved to the edge of the outcropping of rock and surveyed the black water below. As if in slow motion, she balanced on her toes, crouched low, and then using the rock as a springboard, arched out over the water and executed a perfect, nearly splashless, dive.

Sebastian felt as if he’d swallowed a golf ball whole as he watched her disappear from view. When the water’s ripples had calmed, his guts began to churn. Where the devil was she? She should have been up already.

He stood in his stirrups and craned in her direction, mentally preparing to go in after her. He waited another three or four seconds.

That did it.

She was in trouble. Likely hit a rock, or maybe she was caught by the hair on some branch beneath the surface of the water.

Throwing a leg over his saddle, he dismounted and hit the ground running in one fluid move. Just as he reached the edge of the pond, she burst forth from the water’s surface, like a phoenix rising, her giddy laughter ringing out as she whipped her bra and panties in a circle over her head and flung them onto the beach.

Sebastian could only stand there and stare. His heart was beating ninety miles an hour and the battle he waged was whether to paddle this brat for scaring him so, or to kiss her because she was alive.

And beautiful.

In his life, the plastic, well-bred beauties that vied for his attention had jaded Sebastian. Aristocratic women could be so dull. Vain. In search of a trophy to call husband.

But this woman was different, he could tell. Her complete lack of affectation captivated him, and he found himself wanting to know more. Was she a commoner? If so, who was her father? What did he do?

Then reality struck.

Could she be taken? She certainly did not act the staid, married matron. Her body and her carefree personality betrayed her youth and he judged her to be no more than twenty. Twenty-two at the most.

A perfect complement to his twenty-seven.

Watching her, he felt his world-weary cares begin to seep away. There was something mysterious about this mermaid. She inspired ridiculous thoughts. Flights of fancy he’d given up entertaining long ago. Thoughts of the magic of finding one’s true love.

His heart began to pound and his blood rushed powerfully through his body. He flexed his hands, and watched her move to stand waist-deep at the opposite shore, her back toward him, wet hair tickling her shoulder blades. Hands cupped, she used them as a scoop to douse stray tendrils away from her face.

Then, as if she suddenly sensed that she wasn’t alone, the woman slowly turned to face him, her arms snaking across her bare breasts just before she sank to her shoulders in the water.

“Who is there?” she demanded.

Sebastian stepped forward and their eyes locked for an infinite, supercharged moment before he spoke.

“Perhaps I should be asking you the same question, woman. This is the private property of His Royal Highness, King Philippe. You are breaking the law by stealing one of his horses and swimming in his pond after dark.”

The woman did not seem daunted, and instead smiled. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then perhaps you’d consider being afraid of me.”

“And who, pray tell, are you?”

“I am Sebastian LeMarc, a friend of the royal family and, when I have to be, the nude-beach police. Who are you?”

She tossed back her head and sent throaty laughter into the twilight. “You know, Sebastian LeMarc, you should probably join me. To cool that hot head of yours.”

Sebastian stared at this cheeky sprite. Who the devil did she think she was? “If I have to, I’ll come in there after you.”

“Suit yourself. Or not. This is a suit-optional pool.” She giggled, tickled with herself, and Sebastian couldn’t help but smile as she dove beneath the water’s surface, sending a spray of drops into the air.

What was he going to do with this woman? Dragging a slippery porpoise, one that had no intention of being caught no less, out of the water would be a challenge indeed.

She surfaced, this time nearer the waterfall and beckoned to him. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to play naked with strangers?”

She laughed. “Yes. But you are not a stranger.”

“You know my name only.”

“I know that my father trusts you.”

“And who would your father be?”

“You really don’t know?”

“If I did, would I have to ask?”

“I am the third daughter of Philippe de Bergeron, King of St. Michel, and owner of this pond.”

Sebastian stared, mouth agape. That was impossible. Marie-Claire de Bergeron was a child! He wracked his brain, attempting to recall her age, but she was certainly no more than twelve or thirteen. He’d never given the king’s young daughters a second thought, as over the years they seemed more occupied with the affairs of dolls and roller skates than with affairs of state. On the odd social occasion that he’d come in contact with the king’s children, he’d been preoccupied. Concerned with the well-being of his date du jour, or the hour’s political topic.

Languidly, she swam toward the beach where he stood and finding purchase on a submerged rock with her toes, allowed her shoulders to protrude from the water.

His eyes dipped to the cleavage she cradled in her arms. Seems he’d lost track of her birthdays. Suddenly guilty at the lascivious direction his thoughts had taken, he took a giant step back.

“Does your father know you are here?”

“Papa is too busy to keep track of me.”

“Every father wants to know that his children are safe. Especially after dark.”

“I am no longer a child,” she argued hotly. “As of yesterday, I am sixteen years old. A royal debutante, of an age to begin dating.”

Sebastian snorted, even as a keen disappointment settled in his gut. Sixteen? She was a child. “You are a royal pain, of an age to be spanked and I’m tempted to be the one to do it. Get out of the water now.”

“Make me.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “You are a brat.”

“And you are a killjoy.”

She aroused myriad emotions within him, and his jaw flexed as he pondered his next move. It was rare that anyone, let alone a teenaged girl, challenged his authority. And strangely, it exhilarated him.

For the longest moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were those of the rushing waterfall and the soulful cadence of the cricket’s song. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The sun disappeared altogether, leaving the storm clouds on the horizon, silver-plated. The steady plipplop of raindrops turned into an all-out shower, but still neither of them moved. Nor spoke.

At least, not with words.

Even so, they knew that what was passing between them was life-changing, for them both. He waged a battle in his mind, but was far too ethical to take advantage of her foolishness.

You’re too young.

But I won’t always be.

I’ll wait.

Do.

With a nod, Sebastian turned and easily mounted his horse and set off through the trees.

“Get dressed,” he ordered over his shoulder. “I’ll wait for you at the edge of the woods and escort you safely home.”

This time, she did not argue.

Chapter Two

She’d turned twenty-one just yesterday. This Sebastian knew, as he’d etched the date on his brain five long years ago. And now, as the beautiful Marie-Claire de Bergeron descended the stair alone, all eyes in the steadily growing crowd turned to greet this vision with approval and, he noted with a swift glance about, some lechery.

A fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him and he excused himself from a conversation he was having with Lise’s new husband, Wilhelm Rodin, and moved to stand at the bottom of the stairs.

As it had so often in the past, his gaze drew hers and they were locked in a world of their own making. Only now, they both knew she was a full-fledged adult, legal in every way and responsible for her own decisions in this life.

Seeming to sense the moment was perfect, the royal orchestra struck up a rousing waltz and Sebastian held his hand out to Marie-Claire.

“Dance?”

“Oui.”

Bashfully, she extended her hand and he suppressed the grin he felt surging up from his belly. She was such a conundrum. One minute, she was wildly cheering him to victory on the golf course and the next, a blushing innocent, struggling to exude sophistication. Though soft and small, her hand was strong, and she clung to him as he led her through the throng to the dance floor.

When they arrived, a number of couples were already sweeping about the gleaming marble. King Philippe danced with his wife, Queen Celeste; Philippe’s mother, the Dowager Queen Simone danced with the prime minister, Rene Davoine; and a number of court consorts, celebrities and political acquaintances from different countries also whirled across the Russian imported flooring.

Sebastian drew Marie-Claire’s lithe body against his own and it was like a homecoming. He breathed in the scent of her perfumed hair and rested his hand at the small dip in her lower back. Holding her this way was far more exhilarating than any dream he’d ever had. As he’d known they would, they fitted as if they were born to be together.

Shyly, she glanced up at him, and it was the first time ever he’d seen her at such close range. Her skin was the flawless stuff of youth, peachy smooth and the color of cream with a hint of cinnamon. Tonight, her sun-streaked hair was upswept, revealing the graceful length of her neck, and her almond-shaped eyes reflected the emerald sheen of the satin confection she wore. Shadowed by the ghost of a smile, her lips were slightly parted and Sebastian longed to press his mouth to them, to see if their kiss would be as explosive as he’d imagined over the years.

However, this was not the time or place for such a first. He wanted it to be perfect. And he wanted them to be alone. For now, he would settle for the joy of simply holding her in his arms. That, and the knowledge that he was the luckiest man in the room.

“Your twenty-first birthday was yesterday, no?”

Marie-Claire’s gaze shot to his. “How did you know?”

“Math.”

“Math?” Her smile was quizzical.

“On this day, five years ago, you had been sixteen for a whole day.”

A charming flush crawled up her slender neck and settled in her cheeks. “You remember that day?”

“Vaguely.” Someday, when they’d been long married, he’d confess how the memory had plagued him, ruining subsequent relationships and making sport of his sleep. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“What did you do to celebrate this time?”

“For one thing, I stayed out of the pond.”

“Too bad.”

Again, the endearing blush. “Papa took me to Paris for the day. I went shopping for this gown.”

“Excellent choice.”

“You think so?”

“Mmm. I think you are easily the most beautiful cheerleader in the room.”

Marie-Claire heaved a heavy sigh and stared down at the floor. “So you heard that?”

Unable to restrain the grin that tugged at his lips, Sebastian ducked his head so that he could peer into her face. “Marie-Claire, thanks to the wonders of cable television, the entire world heard that.”

“How singularly mortifying.”

“I thought it was charming. Cute.”

“Cute?” She made a face. “Now everyone thinks I have a schoolgirl crush on you.”

He tipped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. “And do you?”

Suddenly seeming to forget her mission to prove herself the sedate lady, her candid laughter had his pulse surging.

“Well, since the entire world knows, I suppose there is no point in lying to you. I guess you could say I have an…infatuation, where you’re concerned. But…” she held up a finger, smiled brightly and blathered on, “I’m struggling to overcome that. I’m thinking of joining a twelve-step program. Not that I’m a stalker or anything—”

“Don’t do that on my account.”

“What?”

“Don’t abandon your…addiction.”

She stumbled over his foot. “No?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She stared up at him and smiled.

He smiled back, and her heart took wing. This moment was perfect. The musical medley picked up pace and segued into a driving rumba. Marie-Claire loved to rumba.

“May I cut in?”

Marie-Claire froze.

Eduardo, his teeth pointing at Marie-Claire from behind his eager smile, tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. His wild, rusty head of hair had been tamed with what looked like an entire bottle of styling gel and his tuxedo was inches too short in the sleeve and cuff. Fingers itching, he fairly pried Marie-Claire from Sebastian’s grasp.

She wanted to scream as Sebastian stepped aside and with obvious reluctance handed her over to the young Eduardo Van Groober’s arms. Darn! Just as things were getting interesting. Eduardo clutched her close and her back already ached from the pressure he exerted.

“Save another dance for me?” Sebastian called as Eduardo jerked her away, rattling her teeth in the process.

Marie-Claire nodded dumbly and watched with longing as Sebastian backed across the room and straight into the voluptuous—and morally emancipated—Baroness Veronike Schroeder of Germany.

Before Sebastian had time to react, Veronike cast out her web, snared him, and then dragged him out to the dance floor for the kill.

Eduardo made an awkward attempt at conversation and Marie-Claire listened with half an ear. And, when he wasn’t trying to impress her with his prowess on the high-school golf team, his nose was buried in her hair. Marie-Claire batted at him in a distracted fashion, straining to keep her sights on Sebastian.

And Veronike.

Euro-trash with pretensions to the Hapsburg dynasty, Veronike was a formidable personality and when she wanted something, she usually got it. And Veronike did enjoy the occasional dalliance with a handsome playboy.

Jealousy seared like a hot knife through Marie-Claire’s heart. Compared to Veronike, Marie-Claire felt quite the underdeveloped adolescent. Insecurity assailed her as she watched Veronike swivel seductively to the pounding beat. Veronike draped over Sebastian like a skimpy chiffon window dressing, all fluttering lashes and fat, blood-red lips.

The dress the German siren wore tonight seemed less a gown and more a figment of the imagination. Smashed against Sebastian’s firm chest, Veronike’s ample bosom strained to be set free of its wispy confines and her hips ground against Sebastian’s in a way that would have Marie-Claire’s molars reduced to dust before the end of the evening if she didn’t make a concerted effort to change her train of thought.

Ooo.

Wilhelm tapped Eduardo on the shoulder and cut in, no doubt feeling it was time to put in the appearance of caring, Marie-Claire thought churlishly. Eduardo obviously hated to let her go and there was an awkward scuffle as Wilhelm dismissed the hormone-ravaged boy. Where Eduardo was chatty, Wilhelm was stony, allowing Marie-Claire to drift.

She winced as she retraced the inane conversation she’d made just now with Sebastian, and wondered if she wasn’t better off eating her heart out over Veronike’s physical charms.

I’m joining a twelve-step program for stalkers.

Her sisters were right. She was certifiable. During her next dance with Sebastian, she hoped—if there was a next dance with Sebastian—she’d be able to control her idiotic tongue before she blurted out that she wanted to snatch Veronike bald.

Oh.

Marie-Claire’s eyes slid closed as she reflected on how unbelievably right it had felt to have Sebastian’s arms around her. She knew he’d felt it, too. She moaned, and an involuntary shiver wracked her body. Head back, she clutched Wilhelm a little tighter at the memory of Sebastian’s powerful body steering her around the dance floor. She immediately regretted the impulse as the rigid Wilhelm looked down at her with a curious frown.

“Stiff knee,” she fibbed.

After a frightfully dull turn on the dreary Wilhelm’s arm, her father at last rescued her, just before Eduardo could reach her again. The boy’s disappointment was plain.

“You are looking well tonight, daughter. This gown suits you.”

Coming from her father, this was high praise. Though King Philippe was not effusive in speech, Marie-Claire knew she was loved. Cherished. And, because she was the youngest of three daughters by his first—and now deceased—wife a tad favored.

“Thank you, sir. You’re looking rather dapper tonight, yourself.” She gave his satin cummerbund a playful tug.

“Oh, I know you’re simply trying to put a bit of a bounce in an old man’s step.”

“Fifty-one is hardly old.”

“I’m sure it must seem that way when you are just twenty-one. You know, I was Sebastian’s age or thereabouts when you were born.”

“Oh?”

His smile was gentle. “I see the way you look at him.”

“I don’t suppose my ladylike caterwauling on the golf course has anything to do with your assumption that I’m smitten.”

A chuckle rumbled from deep within Philippe’s robust chest, and Marie-Claire couldn’t help but notice how handsome her father still was. The little cleft in his chin and the twinkle in his eye put her in mind of another of her favorite American actors, although Michael Douglas was perhaps not quite as tall. But the physical resemblance was something folks had remarked upon before. That and the fact that they both preferred young, beautiful wives.

Marie-Claire spared a glance in Celeste’s direction, and noted the raucous laughter and phony social-climbing demeanor her stepmother had assumed with the prime minister. Her father was blind when it came to Celeste’s rather lengthy list of foibles.

“I suppose you could do worse than Sebastian.” Though Philippe’s remark was offhand, as he looked at his daughter, his gaze roved her suddenly burning cheeks.

“Papa!”

He ignored her weak protestations. “You are a beautiful woman, Marie-Claire. Unfortunately for me, the time has come to let go of you. To let you loose upon the world….” King Philippe pulled Marie-Claire close, the gesture at odds with his words.

“Heaven forbid!”

“You will do great things in this life, my dear. Always know that I love you, and am so very proud.”

Marie-Claire felt her throat tighten at his sweet words, and impulsively stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. This pleased the king and he blinked back the tears.

As the evening wore on, Marie-Claire and Sebastian were obliged to dance with other people. Thankfully, Veronike was a popular partner and had not been available for a second go at Sebastian. And, though they were not always in proximity, Marie-Claire could feel Sebastian’s proprietary gaze and her confidence soared. Unable to tear her eyes away from him for more than a moment, she found keeping up with the task at hand nearly impossible.

“So,” Charles Rodin, Wilhelm’s twin brother commented, “I understand you are a fan of old movies. Have you seen Adam’s Rib?”

“I have never eaten there, though I do enjoy American barbecue…”

“Oh?” Charles frowned.

Prince Etienne Kroninberg of Rhineland told her, “It is my understanding that your sister, Ariane, is planning to come to my country for a visit.”

“No, Ariane is around here somewhere, I think. I just saw her…”

Etienne opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better and shut it.

The prime minister said, “Your grandmother is looking well tonight. The king’s victory seems to have put roses in her cheeks.”

“Yes, she has ten green thumbs, at least.”

More than once, she trod upon her partner’s toe and had to beg pardon. And more than once, she caught Sebastian’s smile of amusement.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Sebastian finally made his way back to her and solicited her hand from a stodgy third cousin and whisked her off.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” Sebastian angled his head and cocked a playful brow.

“I think there is no chaste way to answer that question.” Marie-Claire returned his grin.

Admiration for her wit flashed in his eyes. “Shall we set the tongues to wagging and head out to the verandah for a breath of fresh air?”

“Why not? The tongues have been wagging all day.”

“Come on then. Let’s give them some more grist for the rumor mill.”

Marie-Claire’s heart bounced about in her rib cage at the intimate quality in his voice.

The verandah outside the ballroom was nearly as large as the ballroom itself. Made of concrete, it sported a low railing with balustrades as broad as small wine kegs. Light poured from the palace windows and the music—a lilting Vivaldi piece—danced upon the gentle night breezes. In the air, there was a hint of burning leaves and the last fragrances of summer’s flowers.

Never had Marie-Claire felt more vibrant. Alive. Pulsing with vitality. Sebastian’s touch on her hand was warm and this warmth spread up her arm and burned and swirled in her chest, making it hard to catch her breath.

This was the moment she’d been dreaming of. A moment alone with a man with whom she’d bonded, once upon a twilight evening in her youth. And, though before tonight they’d only conversed on the most superficial topics, it was an unbreakable bond, for whatever magical reason. Fate. Kismet.

Destiny.

Didn’t matter what one called it. Marie-Claire believed that God himself wanted them together and there was no use even pursuing other options.

A few dried leaves skittered across the patio’s floor as a warm wind flirted with Marie-Claire’s hair and skirts. A violent shiver wracked her body as anticipation rolled up her spine and settled in her throat.

“Are you cold?”

She swallowed against the excitement that burned in her throat. “No. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Sebastian untied his bow tie and unfastened a collar stud with his free hand. “Same.”

As they strolled, other couples, seeming to find the climate in the ballroom confining, began to wander out of doors looking for a bit of fresh air and some privacy. Inside the ballroom, Eduardo could be seen, bobbing about, peering out various windows, obviously searching for Marie-Claire.

“Come on.”

Sebastian took her hand and tugged her into the shadows and down an immense stair. A sea of rolling lawn unfurled before them, and Marie-Claire bent to remove her high-heeled slippers so that she could better keep up with his rangy stride.

“So. Last time we were alone together, you were sixteen, and of an age to begin dating.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and cast a disarming grin down at her. “Did you?”

“Did I?” Marie-Claire could barely think. The wool of his jacket made a pleasant swooshing sound against the verdant satin of her gown. “What?”

“Date?”

“Oh.” How embarrassing. How could she couch the truth and exude the worldly persona she longed for Sebastian to see in her? Her mouth went dry and she touched her tongue to her lips. “Uh…Well, not right away. Actually, Papa caught wind of my plans and shipped me off to an all-girl boarding school.”

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“I may have inadvertently mentioned your intention to begin dating to him after I escorted you home that night.”

Marie-Claire’s jaw dropped, and a guttural gasp escaped.

“Apparently, your father was not aware of your plans.” Amusement quirked in the corners of Sebastian’s lips. “I didn’t realize you meant to keep these plans secret.”

“Oh, sure.” Bristling, she stared at him through narrow eyes. “So. You are the reason I suffered through two years in that horrendously stuffy all-female boarding school?”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. The experience was quite scarring.”

Sebastian hooted. “I can see that it left you socially retiring.”

To keep from being affected by his infectious laughter, she hiked her chin and ignored his teasing tone. “In any event, my dating career had to be postponed until…er…college.”

“Ah, but you went to an all-girl college.”

Her bravado flagged some. “Don’t tell me. All-girl college was your idea, too.”

“Of course not.” Sebastian shrugged. “I may have had some input but the final decision was always your father’s.”

Bemused, she stared up at him. How was she ever going to convince him that she was worldly when—thanks in part to him—she’d been cloistered away like a cultured pearl?

Images of Veronike’s seductive red lips, puffy and pouty, taunted her and she refused to let him go on thinking of her as some kind of inexperienced virgin.

Even if that’s exactly what she was.

“Well, it may have been all girls, but there were men.” She wracked her brain for the roster of professors. “There was, um, let’s see…Alonzo, and Barnaby and uh, and umm.” She frowned. What was his name again? “Cedric! And, uh—”

“An alphabetical accounting of your lovers?”

Her chin jerked up and she could make out the twinkle sparkling in his eyes by the light of the harvest moon. “You don’t think I’ve ever even had a date, do you?” There was a heat in her tone that she struggled to squelch.

“I hope not.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Why?”

“Because,” he answered simply, as they reached an immense yet shallow reflecting pool, “you’re mine.”

Marie-Claire was dumbstruck. For a moment, everything went fuzzy, and little pinpricks of light danced before her eyes. Her heart palpitated, and a wild joy sprung from deep within the vicinity of her stomach and, like a flash fire, spread throughout her body.

“Oh.” The breathy utterance hovered on the air between them.

“You’re not entirely surprised.” He paused and turned to face her, lifting her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“No.”

“There is something. It’s been there since that night.”

“Yes.”

“Something special. It’s almost as if we were…” He squinted off into the night sky and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he searched for the words, “…somehow kindred spirits.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He dipped his head back toward her and they stood in a shaft of moonlight, regarding each other. Discovering the truth in each other’s eyes. It was a powerful moment, fraught with a tension so palpable it generated heat that radiated between their bodies.

Marie-Claire could see that Sebastian was as stunned by the power of their chemistry as she was. For an instant, he seemed to lose his perennial confidence. There was vulnerability in his expression that endeared him impossibly closer to her soul than ever before.

In front of them, seeming to float on the vast surface of the reflecting pool, Le cheval du roi—a statue of her great-great grandfather’s royal steed—reared, flanked on each side by two equally impressive mares. Years of weather had given the cool, dark metal a streaked green patina. The fountain was especially spectacular when it was lit for a party, as it was tonight.

Seemingly unable to endure the tension that shimmered between them, Sebastian abruptly turned and tugged her to the edge of the pool. He stepped up to the top of the two-foot high wall rim, then helped her up behind him. Off in the distance, strains of an orchestra sounded over the fountain’s spray.

Sebastian stepped out of his highly polished wingtips and kicked them to the ground below. Then, reaching for the slippers that dangled from Marie-Claire’s fingers, he dropped them on top of his own shoes. “I never did get another dance.”

Marie-Claire lifted her arms and draping them over his shoulders, let her wrists dangle. “And so you did not.”

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

Marie-Claire whooped in surprise as he took her by the waist and stepped into the pool’s knee-deep water. Her gown ballooned on the surface before it sank to swirl about her ankles. Sebastian drew her close and they began to move about their watery dance floor.

Laughing, she leaned away from him so that she could better see his handsome face. This was a moment she would forever remember, she promised herself. Full of hope and possibilities. A veritable dream come to life.

Playfully, he swung her away from him and back again, then bent her low in a dip that had her giddy laughter ringing out. Their spontaneous hilarity caused those who loitered on the verandah to smile with indulgence as the king’s youngest daughter frolicked in the fountain with St. Michel’s most eligible bachelor. As the tempo of the music increased, so did their silly antics.

Sebastian lifted Marie-Claire in his arms and spun until they were both dizzy and in danger of tipping into the drink.

“You’re going to soak us!” Marie-Claire clutched his neck for dear life and wished the ebullient feelings that bubbled into her throat would last forever.

Neither seemed to notice that the music had stopped.

“Don’t look now,” Sebastian set her down and pulled her up against the solid wall of his chest, “but we’re pretty much wet.”

Pretending to pout, Marie-Claire leaned sideways. She paused to study her voluminous skirts, hanging heavy against her legs. “I can’t go back in now.”

“We’d get the floor all wet.”

“People might fall.”

“You’ll let me know if you’re thinking of shucking your dress for a skinny dip?” Grin teasing, he cupped her cheek in his palm.

“Will I ever live that night down?”

“You haven’t yet. Not in my mind.” Their noses grazed as he looked deeply into her eyes. Marie-Claire could feel his warm breath against her lips as he spoke. “Even when you were gone away to school, you were never far from my thoughts.”

“I know. It was the same for me.”

“You were so young.”

“Yes, I was.” More than once it had occurred to Marie-Claire that Sebastian could so easily have taken advantage of her foolish crush when she was but a child. But he hadn’t. He was an honorable man, and that was only one of the myriad qualities that attracted her. “But I’m not anymore.”

“No. You’re not.” The muscles in his jaw worked as his thoughts seemed to race back over the years. “Waiting for you to grow up has been tedious. I knew any involvement for us before you were of legal age could have caused problems for your father. But—” On a heavy sigh, his eyes slid closed. “For so long, I’ve wondered…and wanted….”

By now, his lips were brushing hers as he spoke and so it was only a matter of allowing himself to finally indulge in the guilty pleasure of their heretofore forbidden kiss. Ever so slightly, he leaned forward until his lips covered hers in a touch so gossamer, Marie-Claire was tempted to wonder if she was dreaming.

That was all it took for the glowing embers to flare to life.

Immediately, the kiss became heated. Sebastian’s arms circled her waist, pulling her closer as his mouth closed over hers. The years of waiting and wondering were over and it was with relief and complete exhilaration that their mouths, their bodies, their souls, came together.

The kiss deepened, and, laboring in sync, their lungs heaved, and their hearts pounded. They struggled to quench their insatiable urge to get closer to each other. To know each other. To learn what they’d wanted to discover for the past five years.

Marie-Claire wound her fingers into the silky soft hair at his nape as he bent to nuzzle her neck and kiss the spot where her shoulder met her neck. A hot blaze shivered down her spine and coiled deep in her belly. In great waves, gooseflesh raced across her body and she gasped at the onslaught. She could hear the thunder of her pulse and wondered how long her heart could take such exertion.

It felt so natural, standing here, being kissed by Sebastian LeMarc. It was as if they had some kind of history together that transcended time. And space. And logic. They were each one half of the other. Whole only when they were together.

And they’d known it that night, five years ago.

Sebastian held Marie-Claire’s face in both hands and pulled his mouth away from hers, a fraction. “What are we going to do?”

“Marie-Claire!”

“We’ve been found out.” Sebastian kissed her hard, then took a step back.

Marie-Claire groaned. “My sister, Ariane. Do you think if we ignore her, she’ll go away?”

“Likely not. She sounds upset.”

Marie-Claire bristled. “I don’t know why. I’m old enough to take care of myself. No doubt she saw us and wants to remind me to appear disinterested.”

Sebastian grinned. “She’s too late.”

“We could run,” she suggested hopefully.

“Your skirts are too heavy. I’d have to carry you on my back. It would slow me down, but we might stand a chance if we bolt for it now.”

Marie-Claire giggled.

“Marie-Claire! Marie-Claire! Come quickly! It’s Papa! He’s collapsed!”

Chapter Three

Six months later

It was wonderful to be home.

Marie-Claire had just finished unpacking and moved from her closet to her bedroom window to study the familiar view. It was incredibly warm for March and flowers were blooming early this year. Down below, a veritable army of gardeners swarmed over the de Bergeron Palace’s grounds. Mowers roared, clippers hummed and the sweet scent of freshly shorn grass filled the air.

Marie-Claire swallowed against the ever-present lump in her throat. Spring was Papa’s favorite time of the year. He’d liked to say it was a time for new beginnings. She stared, unseeing, at the fountain where she and Sebastian had last danced together. She hoped Papa was right. She was finally ready to put the shattered pieces of her life into the dustbin and take a stab at starting over again.

The small country of St. Michel was only just now beginning to recover from the shock of King Philippe’s unexpected death. But Marie-Claire doubted that she’d ever fully mend from the mortal wound to her heart. Her heavy sigh fogged the windowpane.

Thank God for Sebastian.

During the much-publicized funeral, and in the frenzied days that followed, he’d been a rock. Though he battled his own grief—for Philippe had been like a father to him since Sebastian’s own father had passed away when he was a boy—he was protective and solicitous of Marie-Claire. The tragedy had only strengthened their special bond and she loved him more than ever.

Even so, the overwhelming memories of her father seemed to haunt her healing process. She was an orphan now. Granted, she was a full-grown orphan, with the money, power and prestige that came of being born into royalty, but nonetheless, she felt cut adrift on an ocean of grief. That she’d been a favorite of her father’s only made her anguish that much more acute.

A deep depression had absconded with Marie-Claire’s usual carefree nature and left her weepy, exhausted and not caring if she lived or died. She’d known she wouldn’t be fit company for anyone, let alone Sebastian, until she spent some healing time with her maternal grandmother, Tatiana. And so, a week after her father was laid to rest and she’d fulfilled all of her social duties as a member of a grieving monarchy, Marie-Claire listlessly packed her bags and headed off to Denmark to find comfort in the bosom of her mother’s side of the family.

The last time she’d seen Sebastian was the day he’d taken her to the airport and kissed her good-bye. It had been an emotional kiss, fraught with promises and hope and sorrow and the terrible knowledge that separation, just as they’d finally come together, would be hard.

And it had been.

Marie-Claire was sure they could have paid much of St. Michel’s national debt with what she and Sebastian had spent in phone charges. But it was worth it to hear his soothing voice. To hear news of home. To know that he still cared.

Tatiana had helped her through the worst of her struggles, talking late into the night, drying her tears, telling her stories of her papa’s pride when she’d been born and giving her the benefit of years of living. She was a very wise woman. And for such a tiny thing, she was a tough old broad. Tatiana didn’t have time to baby Marie-Claire and after a month, put her to work as a volunteer in a children’s hospital in hopes of helping her to see that the rain fell on the just and the unjust.

It worked.

Immediately, Marie-Claire fell in love with the children and in her effort to comfort, was comforted. There was nothing like the sweet feeling of little arms around her neck to soothe her own emotional injuries and before long Marie-Claire had a new life motto and with a gentle push, Tatiana nudged her out of the nest.

“Life is too short to waste even a minute,” Marie-Claire murmured against her windowpane. Off in the distance, Le cheval du roi came into focus and a sudden burst of happiness that she hadn’t felt for half a year filled her breast. “Too short, indeedy.” She turned away from the window, rushed to the phone and dialed.

“Hello, Sebastian? I’m home.”

Sebastian pocketed his cell phone and, for the first time in ages, his smile was real. Marie-Claire was home. In less than an hour, he’d see her. Hold her. Kiss her. It had been an eternity. These last six months had seemed to drag on longer than the previous five years combined. Yes, waiting for Marie-Claire to grow up had sorely tested his patience, but once he knew the rapture of her kiss, staying away had been hell.

More than once he’d been tempted to barge in on old Tatiana and take what was his, but he knew Marie-Claire needed time. Truth was, he did, too.

Philippe’s death had been a shock. Worse, for some reason, than when he’d been a little boy and lost his own father. For as far back as either family could remember, the LeMarcs and the de Bergerons had been close. And Philippe had always been good with Sebastian, possibly seeing him as the son he’d always longed for, Philippe had been a patient mentor, a listening ear, and a model of manliness.

Sebastian missed him. Nearly as much as he’d missed Marie-Claire.

Sebastian reached for his jacket as his mother swept into the over-decorated and cluttered parlor of her sprawling country estate.

“You’re leaving? But you just got here.” Claudette’s face fell as she watched her only son shrug into his jacket and re-knot his tie.

“I’m sorry, Mère. The royal family has requested my presence at lunch today.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Claudette bristled. She gave her short, wavy and, still dark at fifty-two, brown hair a smoothing pat and pursed her lips in dismay at her attire. “This will never do. I’ll just be a moment.”

“Mère,” Sebastian said, suppressing a smile.

Claudette stopped in her tracks and without turning around, heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m not invited. Oh. Well. I see.” She waved an airy hand and settled upon a settee as if she had no cares.

But Sebastian could tell she was hurt. Claudette had always been overly enamored with anything that smacked of aristocracy. The fact that she’d been slipping in the St. Michel social ranks since her influential husband had died was not lost on her. A lunch at the palace would surely boost her weight with her cronies down at the club.

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