The Prince’s Bride (19 page)

Nicholas handed her a clean folded handkerchief.

“What happened between you?” Véronique asked. “Did you tell him the truth about your
condition?”

Gabby lifted her face and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Yes, I told him as we
were walking back to the house. I didn’t know how he would react at first, but he
took me into his arms and told me I had made him the happiest man alive. Then he got
down on one knee and proposed. He said the most romantic things to me. I barely had
a chance to say anything beyond a laughing yes before he grabbed me by the hand and
dragged me into the house and upstairs to the drawing room. I never even told him
about you and Nicholas, or that the two of you were engaged.”

Véronique embraced her sister. “So he stood up to his father without knowing you were
about to become sister-in-law to a prince. I am so happy for you, Gabby. He is everything
you deserve.”

Gabby snorted as she nodded in agreement, then she turned to Nicholas on the opposite
facing seat. “This is all
your
doing, you know. I believe you are an angel sent from heaven to rescue us all.”

His eyes lifted. “An angel? Me? I hardly think so, but I appreciate the compliment,
and I am pleased to be of service.”

She smiled broadly at him, then blew her nose like a trumpet. “Have you two set a
date for
your
wedding?”

Véronique looked to Nicholas, for she felt it was he who should decide. Perhaps he
would choose a very long engagement to give them each a chance to come to their senses.

“I would like to be married immediately at d’Entremont Manor,” he said, surprising
her with his reply. “We must return for the funeral in a few days. Will your parents
be willing to join us?”

Véronique was speechless at first, then managed to regain control of her senses. “Yes,
I am sure they would be delighted to attend.”

“Good,” he replied as he slouched lower in the seat and folded his arms across his
chest. Then he closed his eyes and dozed for the rest of the journey.

Chapter Eighteen

The Marquis of d’Entremont was entombed in the mausoleum overlooking the English Channel.
It was also conveniently within view of the giant oak tree that dominated the hill
on the northeast corner of the estate, which did not go unnoticed by Véronique as
the carriages made their way to his final resting place.

Nicholas had instructed the vicar to refrain from mentioning his relation to the marquis
during the service, for he did not want the world to know of it—at least not yet.
Perhaps he would never want anyone to know.

The steward and butler each agreed to respect his wishes, but that did not stop the
inquiries. During the funeral, there was much speculation about how the property would
be divided and bequeathed, for everyone knew the title had already died with the marquis.

It was a massive and invaluable piece of land. Whom had he named as his heir? the
guests wondered insistently, and why was Prince Nicholas of Petersbourg in attendance?
D’Entremont was a well-known Bonapartist. Was there some political connection?

And where in the world was Pierre Cuvier, the illegitimate but devoted son of the
marquis’s dead sister? Why was he not present?

All those questions remained unanswered as the guests drove off after the final good-bye.

Véronique was equally curious about Pierre’s whereabouts, for he had left the premises
the night the solicitor revealed the contents of the will at dinner, and had not yet
returned.

Perhaps he had traveled to take possession of his property outside of Paris, and would
never set foot here again. She would not be sorry if that were the case.

She hoped he could start a new life for himself there, and appreciate the bounty he
had been given.

*   *   *

That evening as Véronique was dressing for dinner, a knock sounded at her door. Her
maid hurried to answer it.

“Good evening,” Véronique’s mother said as she entered the room. “You look lovely.
Remember when I used to do your hair when you were younger? You always liked it when
I brushed it before bed.”

Véronique, seated at the dressing table, smiled at her mother’s reflection in the
mirror, for she was standing behind her, looking radiant in a royal blue gown of Indian
silk.

“Would you like to help me with the combs tonight?” Véronique asked. “I am sure Marie
has better things to do,” she added, speaking to her maid with a smile. “You can go
now and see to Gabrielle.”

The young maid curtsied and left the room. Véronique’s mother took over the task of
placing the adornments in her hair.

Véronique watched her mother in the mirror, taking note of the renewed color in her
cheeks and the light of contentment in her eyes as she tucked the decorative combs
into her thick upswept hair. “You look well, Mama,” she said. “May I dare to presume
you are happy for your daughters?”

Her mother smiled. “Happy is too small a word. I have known for years that Gabrielle
was in love with Robert, but I was never certain that a marriage would be possible.
And you … You have taken us all by surprise with your handsome fiancé. I see the way
you look at each other. How can I help but be overjoyed? And to have our home back …
It is like God has granted many miracles all at once. My heart was heavy before, but
now my girls are happy and in love. It is everything a mother could wish for.”

Véronique reached over her shoulder to clasp her mother’s hand. “I am pleased you
are feeling better.”

Her mother nodded as she slipped another comb into place. “Nicholas is a true prince
in every way,” she continued. “Not only is he exceptionally handsome, but he is so
very chivalrous. But I cannot help but ask … and I hope you do not resent me for prying …
but why was he named as d’Entremont’s heir? People were curious today, and there was
much speculation about political dealings and such. Everyone knows Nicholas has a
voice in any peace treaties that may be negotiated. Some were saying this property
was some sort of bribe. Others suggested it was Nicholas’s winnings in a card game.
All sorts of rumors were flying about, and I must admit I am curious. I only hope
that it is not something shady. Do
you
at least know the truth?”

Having set the last comb in place, her mother stepped back. Véronique stood and turned
to face her. “Yes, I know the truth, but I cannot reveal it, for I have promised Nicholas
my discretion. He trusts me to keep that knowledge to myself, and I must not betray
his trust, not even to you. I am sorry.”

“Do not be sorry,” she replied. “I am proud of you for keeping your word to him, for
he is your future husband. Trust between you is paramount.”

Véronique rolled her shoulders in an attempt to relax and ease the tension that suddenly
flooded to the forefront of her mind.

Trust, at least on Nicholas’s part, seemed a great distance away at present, considering
the grand deception under which they had begun, and his own misgivings about his future
fidelity. But she could not unload that emotional burden on her mother, who was finally
smiling again for the first time in months.

“You are quite right,” Véronique said. “Nicholas has shared everything with me, because
he trusts me.”

“So I have nothing to worry about, then,” her mother replied with cautious relief.
“This inheritance has nothing to do with Bonaparte, and it will not cause some horrendous
scandal in the future?”

Véronique placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “I assure you it has nothing
to do with Bonaparte.” At least she was telling the truth about
that.
“And he didn’t win the house in a card game either.”

But was there something shady or scandalous about the inheritance? Yes, there most
definitely was, but she was not at liberty to say so. Not even to her own mother.
So she simply smiled cheerfully and went in search of earbobs.

*   *   *

For the first time since his arrival at d’Entremont Manor, Nicholas sat at the head
of the dining table, which was only proper since he was now master of the house.

On the night of the funeral, Véronique, Gabrielle, and the Montagnes joined him for
a sumptuous meal of roast pork with spiced gravy, and fresh garden vegetables. Dinner
was a somber affair, however, for the funeral service was not far from anyone’s thoughts,
Nicholas’s especially.

He had buried another father today—one with whom he had spent a single hour. He did
not know him at all, yet over the past few days he had at least read his private love
letters, and had learned all there was to know about his business holdings and family
history.

The steward, Monsieur Bellefontaine, had been indispensable and forthcoming in every
way. He had held nothing back, even when Nicholas asked the most personal questions.

Bellefontaine revealed his admiration for Lord d’Entremont and considered him an honorable
man, except when he gambled, for he lost more often than he won.

“With regards to his taking ownership of the Montagnes’ property,” Bellefontaine had
said as they talked late into the night upon Nicholas’s return from Véronique’s home,
“I considered it a fair winning, and while I sympathized with the ladies of the house
who had lost their home, I could not feel sorry for Monsieur Montagne, who had been
very foolish to wager everything he owned.” Bellefontaine slowly sipped his brandy
and reflected upon recent events. “I believe it was good of Lord d’Entremont to offer
Véronique a chance to earn it back. Why did she not see that? Why did she continue
to despise him?”

Nicholas sighed heavily that night. “She is loyal and protective of her family,” he
explained, “and felt that d’Entremont had taken advantage of a man who was clearly
in his cups and in a weakened position. You cannot blame her for resenting the marquis
for that. He could have refused the wager and sent Montagne home.”

Tonight—as Nicholas pondered that conversation and watched Véronique converse with
her parents at the table—he was glad he had defended her to the steward, for she would
be mistress of this house one day. She would require everyone’s respect.

If he decided to keep the property, that is.

Then he found himself watching the Montagnes, admiring how they seemed so at ease
with one another. There were no pretentions here. They were a close-knit family.

“So tell me, Nicholas,” Madame Montagne said pleasantly as she set down her fork,
“will you and Véronique be able to attend Gabrielle’s wedding to Lord Robert, or will
you be traveling back to Petersbourg immediately after your own wedding?”

The mere mention of his wedding day should have put him in a foul mood, for he had
never imagined himself capable of becoming a husband. In fact, he had always considered
marriage a form of prison with iron shackles. This evening, however, he found himself
imagining the pleasures of a wedding night to a woman he found completely irresistible
as she gazed at him alluringly from across the polished mahogany table. Her cheeks
were flushed in the candlelight, and her lush full bosom in that lavender gown made
it impossible for him to remain focused on the question at hand.

Just as he was about to form an answer, however, the dining room doors flew open and
his gaze shot toward the unexpected intruder.

Pierre Cuvier shoved a footman out of the way as he staggered the length of the room
behind Madame and Monsieur Montagne.

“And here he is!” Pierre bellowed, spreading his arms wide. “The notorious Prince
of Petersbourg! Eating off a dead man’s dishes as if he were lord and master here.”

Nicholas stood. “I
am
master here, and you, sir, were not invited to dine this evening.” Two larger footmen
hurried into the room. “Show him out,” Nicholas commanded.

They moved to surround Pierre, but he swung his arms clumsily about and dropped to
his knees in a fit of sobbing. “You don’t deserve any of this!” he cried. “It should
have been mine!”

Véronique’s father stood up as well. “Who is this man?”

Pierre fell onto his backside on the floor, still flailing his arms about at the servants
who tried to restrain him and pull him to his feet. He was a large, bullish man, however,
and it was an impossible task.

“I am Pierre Cuvier. The marquis was my uncle, and I loved him like a true father
all my life—which is more than this privileged royal pirate can say.
You
never loved him. You didn’t even know him. Why you, and not me? You are as much a
bastard as I am!” Pierre was now rolling on the floor and kicking his legs at anyone
who tried to touch him.

Nicholas left his place at the table to approach. “Step aside, everyone. Leave him
be,” he said to the footmen. He stood over Pierre, looking down at him in such a pathetic
drunken state. “Pull yourself together, man,” he firmly said. “You’re making a spectacle
of yourself.” He offered his hand to help Pierre rise.

For a long moment his half cousin stared up at him with bloodshot, tear-filled eyes
and mud-stained clothing. Nicholas suspected he had walked here from the mausoleum.

“I don’t need any help from you,” Pierre said as he struggled to his feet and swayed
ominously. He tried to grab hold of the back of a chair to keep his balance, but fell
against the table, causing the china to rattle. One glass of wine tipped over and
spilled.

“You’re drunk, sir,” Nicholas said. “Allow us to show you to your room, where you
can recover and collect yourself.”

Pierre sobbed wretchedly. “It’s not
my
room anymore. Everything belongs to
you
now. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

Véronique stood up and slowly circled around the table. Without saying a word, she
carefully approached Pierre from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, as if startled, and every nerve in Nicholas’s body sparked to high alert,
for he would knock Pierre flat on his back again if he was foolish enough in his flummoxed
state to mistreat Véronique.