Royal Affair (6 page)

She squeezed him. “I loved it.”

“Next time at the palace, I think,” he said.
“It wouldn’t do for the people to find their Prince Royal creeping
around the city as if he had something to hide.”

“It wouldn’t.” Which brought up the question
of what they could let people know and what they’d need to keep
secret. Everything for now. In the future? Tell his sons and their
wives they were having an affair? What should the public find
out?

She squeezed him again. She could have
squeezed herself. She was having an affair. Her first true love
affair with the sexiest, most desirable man alive.

“I’ll think of an occasion for a formal
family dinner and send you an invitation,” he said. “We’ve done
that often enough.”

“Don’t make me wait long.” After what they’d
shared this afternoon, only a cruel man would deprive his lover of
more.

“Impatient thing.” He gave her one of his
radiant smiles. “No more so than I.”

It was early for brandy, but after the
events of the afternoon, Friedrich needed to sort out his thoughts.
Taking a relatively unused corridor of the palace, he made his way
to the small sitting room that had served as his grandfather’s
study. In a quiet corner overlooking the kitchen garden, the space
offered privacy, and so he’d had his favorite portrait of Cecile
hung here so he could visit it without intrusion, even from his
sons. Today, he closed the door behind him and avoided looking at
his late wife’s image until he’d poured himself some liquor from
the decanter on the sideboard. Then, drink in hand, he turned and
gazed up at her.

The artist had painted her shortly after
she’d conceived Dev, and she’d had to interrupt the sessions
occasionally for morning sickness. And yet, you’d never know from
her serene expression that anything in her life marred her perfect
existence. The quintessential princess. If only she’d lived with
him into old age the way they’d planned.

I did it, Cecile. I’ve formed a bond with
another woman. I’ve made love to her.
When his wife had known
she was dying, she’d made him promise to fall in love again. Love
was too precious to let it wither from disuse, she’d said.

She’ll never replace you.
That went
without saying, and Marta would never expect more. But he hurt when
the image of his wife’s face faded and he had to look at pictures
to remember the details. Would he lose her completely now?

No. He couldn’t bear that. He went to an
armchair and sat, sipping his brandy, savoring the complexity of
flavors. His body was saying wonderful things to him. And yes, he
had to allow himself a bit of male pride. He’d performed, and
rather well based on the noises she’d made and the orgasms. Two of
them, each one so precious. He’d been randy enough that, at a
younger age, he might have finished before the fun really started.
But he’d lasted long enough to satisfy her.

He could be with her again as soon as he
created an excuse to invite her to the palace. Maybe he wouldn’t
even wait until his rather unpleasant houseguests—Dixie’s family,
the Beaumonts—left. The thought warmed him as much as the brandy
did. He could stay the night in her bedroom, sleep in heat of her
body, find her face on the pillow next to his when he awoke. He
could be in love again.

Twice in his life, he’d fallen completely
and utterly in love. Most people counted themselves blessed if
they’d loved once. Now his heart told him the Almighty had given
him that gift for a third time. Each time had been different, each
suited to his role in the world—the young lover, the husband and
father, and now a man free to make his own choices.

As he drank more brandy and let the finish
fill his mouth, his thoughts went back to Pamela. Her image only
existed in faded photographs he’d taken so long ago. He didn’t even
know what she looked like now or if she was happy or even alive.
Because she’d been a commoner and his marriage had already been
arranged, he’d had to put his love of her behind him at the death
of his parents when he’d assumed the throne. Now he couldn’t even
talk to her the way he did to Cecile. She was utterly and truly
gone, and that loss continued to the present day. Perhaps somewhere
in an alternate universe their counterparts had found a way to stay
together. Perhaps they had grandchildren.

Bah, he needed to deal with reality. And
that reality included the fact that he hadn’t told Marta about his
first love all those many years ago. He hadn’t promised to tell her
every detail of his past, and it had been over for so long. He’d
probably never hear from Pamela again, so why dredge up a past that
was dead?

He glanced up at Cecile’s portrait and
couldn’t help but remember how she’d cried when he’d told her about
his first love. Why should he risk the same with Marta for no good
reason?

I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you
needed to know.

That he hadn’t loved her when he’d married
her. True. That he still held Pamela in his heart. Also true. He
always would. She’d seen it as a betrayal and only recovered when
his words and actions had proved to her that he’d dedicated himself
to his marriage.

And then, he’d only told one other living
soul about Pamela—Felice, his oldest son’s wife. And he’d done it
to convince her she had to sacrifice her love the way Pamela had so
Dev could ascend the throne with an acceptable princess at his
side. Thank heaven the two younger people hadn’t gone with
tradition and had married out of love. Thank heaven, he’d finally
seen the light.

What would have happened if he’d insisted on
marrying the woman he loved? Things had changed so much in the over
thirty-five years since the death of his parents and his
ascendency. Now the nation of Danislova and its people could accept
an American with no noble lineage as Princess Royal. When he and
Pamela—a middle-class Englishwoman—had fallen in love, royals
married royals. Period. They could have caused a scandal. She might
have been the object of derision and gossip.

He gazed up at the portrait again.
And I
wouldn’t have married you, and our three boys wouldn’t have been
born.

Maybe he was a foolish, old man, talking to
a painting of a woman who’d been dead for years as if expecting an
answer. He had come here over that time asking for her guidance.
Whether she’d reached out to help him somehow or he’d made
decisions on his own, things had worked out well for his family and
his country. He could have done worse.

The door opened, and Dev entered. Or
half-entered, standing on the threshold with his hand on the knob.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Come in.”

Dev stepped into the room and closed the
door behind him. “I’m not intruding?”

“On what? I’m alone.”

Dev glanced up at the portrait. A perceptive
fellow, he clearly realized Friedrich wasn’t truly alone.
Friedrich’s oldest. His heir. A fine man with a wife he adored. So
like Friedrich at that age.

“It’s a little early for brandy, isn’t it?”
Dev said.

“Just a spot of it.” Friedrich finished his
drink and put the glass on the table next to him. “Did you need me
for something?”

“I wasn’t looking for you, actually.”

“Ah.” Friedrich followed Dev’s gaze and
found his son staring at the portrait of his mother again.

“I’ve been coming in here more and more
lately.” Dev’s skin flushed slightly. “It’s probably silly.”

“No sillier than my doing it.”

“You were married to her. I never got to
know her adult-to-adult.”

Friedrich rose, went to his son, and put a
hand on his shoulder. “She loved you children more than anything
else.”

“I remember that.” They stood together for a
moment in silence.

“Now, with Felice, I understand what you
meant to each other,” Dev said. “And I’m realizing what it means to
be a husband and a father.”

For a second, Friedrich could hardly
breathe. “Father?”

Dev blushed more deeply. “We’re working on
that part.”

“Good, Son.” Friedrich squeezed Dev’s
shoulder. “I hope the chore isn’t too unpleasant for you.”

Dev’s laughter filled the room. “I’ll bear
up somehow.”

“Say, Son…” He probably should have had this
talk with Dev already, but it hadn’t seemed important before. “Did
Felice ever tell you about the last conversation the two of us had?
I mean, the two of us alone.”

“When would that have been?”

“The night before she almost left.” Before
Friedrich had almost made the one of the worst mistakes of his
life—tearing Dev and Felice apart. He’d almost committed the same
blunder with his second son, Kurt. At least, he’d finally learned
and hadn’t been as stupid with his youngest, Ulrich.

Dev thought for a moment. “You two spoke
that night?”

He’d told her about Pamela and how he’d had
to leave her. He’d insisted Dev would have to do the same. He’d
shared his deepest secret with her.

“I didn’t tell her she couldn’t discuss it
with you.” How could he have? They were husband and wife.

“She never said anything about it.”

“You have my permission to ask her,”
Friedrich said.

Dev stood in silence, gazing up at his
mother. “Is it something I need to know?”

“Not really.”

“Then I’ll let it be confidential between
the two of you.” Dev stepped away. “I think I’ll go find my wife
and show her how much I love her.”

“Always a good idea.”

Dev left then, shutting the door behind him,
leaving Friedrich in thought.

Felice had decided not to say anything—even
to her husband—about Friedrich’s having loved another woman. That
affair existed in the past now, and even if he should encounter
Pamela today, they wouldn’t share anything but memories. Marta had
clearly felt uncomfortable about Herr Grossman’s gushing about
Cecile. She didn’t need to know there’d been another woman in his
life.

Cecile smiled down at him the way she always
did. She’d want him to love again. She’d told him on many sad
occasions. The time had come to take her advice.

He blew a kiss to her the way he always did
and went off to think up an excuse for a formal family dinner.

*

Marta’s heart leapt when she recognized the
display. Friedrich’s private number. She hadn’t even keyed it in as
being his in case someone got access to her phone and realized the
two of them were talking. In the days following their rendezvous,
she’d had to pinch herself to prove she wasn’t dreaming. They’d
made love. He’d called her
Liebling
. They were to see each
other again.

Nearly breathless, she fumbled a bit and
finally answered on the third ring.

“Marta,” his deep voice said from the other
end. For heaven’s sake, at some point, she’d come to love the sound
of him.

“Who else?”

“Friedrich here.”

“Who else?” If phones still had cords, she’d
be twirling her fingers around it.

“I miss you.”

She nearly melted on the spot. He’d somehow
turned her into a teenager again, and it felt so blessed good. “I
miss you, too.”

So banal and uncreative. Hardly worthy of
the intelligent conversations she’d had with Alexander and his
friends. And yet, what else could she say?

“Are you still wearing that floral perfume?”
he asked. “The one that smells like roses.”

“That’s my shampoo, actually.” She’d make a
mental note to wash her hair before she next saw him.

“Mmm. I’m imagining I’m smelling it now,” he
said.

Of course, he’d have his nose close to her
hair in the divine minutes when he’d raised himself above her and
they were joined. Her skin flushed, sending heat everywhere, and
not just from embarrassment.

“Did you call to replay our afternoon over
the telephone?” she said. Young people did that sort of thing these
days, or at least she understood they did. Intimacy of a sort, but
a little too untraditional for her.

He laughed. “I’ll leave that kind of
conversation to my sons.”

“And so, why did you call?”
To invite me
to the palace for a repeat, please.

“I wish I could see you again.” He sighed.
“I’m afraid we have a bit of a catastrophe here.”

“Oh?” Drat, she hadn’t meant to sound so
disappointed. She might sound petulant, and she would absolutely
not act that way around Friedrich VonRamsberg.

“Ulrich’s done something to hurt Dixie, and
she and her family left yesterday afternoon in what can only be
described as a huff.”

“I’m sorry. I was sure you had another royal
wedding in the making.” And another excuse for her to visit the
palace. God willing, that would still happen, for everyone’s
sake.

“So, I’m rather absorbed with being a father
at present,” he said. “Although I don’t seem to be making any
headway. He won’t talk to me about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Of course, she had no advice to
offer, never having had to deal with children. Ulrich was hardly a
child any longer, but Friedrich would no doubt think of him that
way forever.

“I’m hoping his brothers can figure it out
and find a solution,” he said. “I do love Dixie, although her
family is something else.”

“I’m sure everything will work out.” It had
better. The two young people had seemed so in love.

“Say,” he said, his voice warm with
affection, “hadn’t you better answer your front door?”

“Front door?” She had a butler for that, as
he well knew.

Just then, the bell sounded, and in a moment
Feder entered carrying a huge plant. “A delivery, my lady.”

She indicated the table by the window. “Set
it there.”

The delivery turned out to be a cattleya
orchid almost two feet tall with sprays of violet flowers, probably
a dozen of them.

“I’m instructed to tell you it’s from Herr
Schmidt,” Feder said.