The Prince’s Bride (9 page)

“She gave birth to me eight months later.”

Véronique absorbed this shocking piece of news and considered what it meant for Nicholas.
Not only had his mother betrayed her vow of fidelity, but his father had been ruthless
in his desire to keep his wife’s adultery a secret. For those reasons, Nicholas had
never known that he was not a true blood royal, that the king was not his father.

In addition to that, his brother, Randolph, was only his half brother. The same would
be true of his sister, Princess Rose. Nicholas was not only the wild and wayward middle
child of a dead monarch; he was a secret bastard son. He had no claim to the throne.

He was also the son of a man she despised with every breath in her body.

“What will you do?” she asked, pulling her hand away.

Nicholas shrugged. “I have no idea. My brother knows nothing of this, nor does my
sister.”

She gave him a moment to consider the future, then could not help but ask the question
that was screaming for an answer in her mind.

“Why did he tell you this now?” she asked. “Why did he kidnap you, like some primitive
barbarian lord?”

Nicholas breathed deeply. “He was desperate. He wanted to see me urgently, and could
not risk that I would refuse, or put him off.”

“Why so urgently?”

Nicholas paused. “Because he is dying, Véronique, and he needs an heir.”

She blinked a few times. Her astonishment, and the hatred she felt for d’Entremont,
was making her feel rather nauseated. “He is dying?”

It was selfish of her, and she was ashamed of herself for thinking such thoughts,
but she could not help but wonder what it would mean for her family. D’Entremont held
the deed to her home and had agreed to sign it over to her upon completion of this
task. She had brought Nicholas here, as promised. He must now sign the property over
to her … he
must.
And quickly.

“Has he already named you as his beneficiary?” she asked.

“I do not know that yet. He said he wished to bequeath everything to me upon his death,
but I have not accepted those wishes. I did not behave as a loving son should. I was
angry and in shock. I told him I wanted nothing from him … that I did not want to
be acknowledged as his son. Then I walked out.”

Véronique folded her hands on her lap. “How sick is he?”

“I cannot be certain. He couldn’t walk, though. Did you know that?” He regarded her
inquisitively.

“No, I did not. The last time I saw him, he seemed in perfect health.”

“When was that?”

“Four months ago, the day after he won our house at the card table. Since then, I
have been dealing only with Pierre.”

Nicholas was watching her steadily in the firelight, and she noticed again how blue
and piercing his eyes were. “Why doesn’t he name Pierre as his heir?” she asked. “He
is his nephew, his dead sister’s only child. Pierre has served him faithfully all
his life.”

“I asked him that question. D’Entremont said he does not believe Pierre to be a man
of honor. He does not trust him, nor does he feel that Pierre deserves any of this.”

“But he trusts
you
?” she replied. “Pardon my candor, Nicholas, but he doesn’t even know you.”

Nicholas held up a hand. “Do not apologize. You are quite right. Certainly my reputation
does not represent me as a man of honor on any count. But I am his true blood son,
and I suspect in these last weeks of his life, he is romanticizing the past and remembering
the great love of his younger days. More important, he has just lost his only legitimate
son on the battlefield at Waterloo. Now he wants the whole world to know that I am
his.”

Véronique fought to stay focused on the decision Nicholas must make, for it could
impact her situation greatly.

“Your family—your father’s entire monarchy—would be forever tainted if you allow d’Entremont
to reveal this to the world. The scandal would be colossal.”

Nicholas turned his head rather sharply to look into the fire. “Scandal is nothing
new to me. I’ve always had a reputation for it. Now I know why. My life makes perfect
sense to me now, for I am the son of a scoundrel. No wonder my father hated me. I
was not even his.” He cupped his forehead in a hand. “Bloody hell.”

She forced herself to touch Nicholas’s knee, to offer comfort, even while she was
reeling inside with the possibility that he—or Pierre—could become her landlord if
she did not get her property back very soon. “What will you do?”

He paused. “I will think on it. Perhaps old secrets are better left in the past. Both
my mother and father are gone now. What good can come of it, except to satisfy a dying
man who is a stranger to me, and a villain to you?”

Véronique considered that, and knew that if he did not accept what was bequeathed
to him, it would go to Pierre.

D’Entremont was right about one thing at least: Pierre was not an honorable man, and
she doubted he would hold true to his uncle’s promises if he inherited everything.
He would never relinquish possession of her home. He would take great pleasure in
keeping it just to spite her and Gabrielle. Or perhaps he would demand that one of
them accept him as a husband in order for their family to continue living there. It
did not bear thinking about.

She looked up and realized that Nicholas had been watching her for the past few minutes.
Did he know she was thinking of her own troubles, not his?

“Thank you for listening,” he said. “I needed someone to talk to.”

All this was unimaginable. It hardly seemed real. Her heart was aching for Nicholas.
She felt terrible for all that she had put him through, and she wanted—she
needed
—him to consider her as his friend.

She squeezed his hand. “Please, there is no need, not after what I did to you. I hope
you can forgive me for that—and I am relieved it was not some other sinister plot,
as we imagined it to be. I was worried while you were in the library. I did not know
what was happening. I wanted to break down the door and go to your rescue with a horsewhip
or some other weapon.”

She was not lying about that. Despite her selfish deliberations just now, she did
care for Nicholas. Far more than she should.

“I would have enjoyed being a witness to that,” he replied with a hint of a smile
that sent her heart sailing.

He was d’Entremont’s son.

He was a rake and a seducer of women.

She must be very careful with her feelings, for she really did not know him at all.
Yet every move he made … every sound … every glimmer in his eyes, was immensely spellbinding
to her in more ways than she could fathom.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, and she felt that persistent, fiery spark
of desire in the depths of her womanhood.

Heaven help her, she was already knee-deep in potential scandal, having kidnapped
a prince, not to mention attending a masked ball without a chaperone. Now she was
alone with this prince in his bedchamber at midnight, considering how she must behave …
how she must feel about him.

He could end up as her landlord. It occurred to her that she mustn’t incite his scorn
or displeasure. She must make up for what she had done to him and win his allegiance.
But what sort of alliance would it be? And how far would she go to ensure it?

“Perhaps I should leave now,” she heard herself saying.

She should speak to the marquis, before it was too late. He must pay her what he owed
her. Then she would be free of this sticky web.

This time, Nicholas squeezed
her
hand. “Please do not go yet.”

He weaved his fingers through hers, and she found herself luxuriating in the intimacy
of such a simple mingling of hands and fingers.

Another rush of desire heated her blood, and she forced herself to think of his reputation.
He was a notorious libertine, and he had all the power here, especially if he was
soon to be master of her father’s property. The attraction she felt toward him made
this a very dangerous situation.

He kept his intense blue eyes fixed upon hers as he leaned forward in the chair and
brought her hand to his lips. “Stay,” he whispered as he laid a few light kisses across
the sensitive flesh of her knuckles. “Just for a little while.”

His touch continued to disrupt her balance while her blood quickened.

“Why?” she asked, fighting to remain strong in the wake of his provocative appeal.

“You have been an unexpected friend to me tonight,” he said. “All I want is to be
with you a little longer.”

I must control this situation,
she thought.
I must influence his decisions.

“I am glad you consider me a friend,” she said, “even though I began as your enemy.
If I had the chance, Nicholas, I would go back to that night and act very differently.
You know that, don’t you? I wish I had trusted you and confided in you at the outset.”

“Do you trust me now?”

She hesitated slightly, then willed herself to nod.

“Then stay with me,” he said. “I promise I will not take advantage.” He paused. “It
has been a difficult night, Véronique, and I have been captive in this room for days.
Stay and have a glass of wine with me. We can talk about how to proceed from here.
I still want to help you,” he said, and she was immediately pulled in. “I haven’t
forgotten that you want your property back.”

There they were—the words she needed to hear. But nothing was set in stone yet. D’Entremont
still held the deed, and Nicholas was clearly torn over what to do.

She swallowed uneasily and bolstered her resolve to tread carefully and remain guarded,
when what she really wanted to do was surrender herself completely to his safekeeping.
Perhaps she could. He knew what she wanted.

“You indicated a moment ago that you trusted me.” He rose to his feet and stood tall
and handsome before her. “On my honor, I will not behave like the scoundrel that you
and everyone else believe me to be. At least not tonight.”

“I do not think you are a scoundrel,” she told him. Then she narrowed her eyes at
him accusingly, but with a hint of teasing. “Unless you say that to
all
the women…”

His lips curled into a small smile. “I confess, I
have
said it before, but I always keep the promise when I make it.”

She sighed dramatically. “Now I don’t feel special.”

He chuckled, and his response thrilled her beyond comprehension as he held out his
hand to escort her somewhere.

To the bed?

No, surely not.…

Nevertheless, taking a great risk, she slid her fingers across the warm flesh of his
palm and allowed him to lead her to the table by the window, where a tray was set
out with a decanter of wine and two glasses.

Chapter Nine

Véronique’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of birds chirping outside and a heavy
crashing thunder in her brain.

Grimacing at the explosive torment that seemed to stretch her skull and cheekbones
outward, she pressed her palm to her forehead and slowly leaned up on one arm.

She glanced toward the window. It was not yet dawn. Only a faint hint of blue had
touched the sky. Her gaze then shifted to the rest of the room, and she realized in
a flash of panic that she was still in Prince Nicholas’s bedchamber, and had spent
the night there.

The panic shot a new frisson of pain into her skull.

Fighting through her discomfort, she turned her head on the pillow to look for Nicholas
in the bed beside her, and discovered, with profound relief, that she was alone.

A swift scan of the chairs in front of the fire revealed the shadow of his form. He
was slouched very low with his head resting on the back of the chair.

She squinted agonizingly at the empty wine decanter and realized what had occurred:
The maids must have taken the decanter she had delivered to Pierre’s room with the
supper tray, and brought it here for Nicholas instead.

Véronique tried to remember what had taken place after he poured their drinks.

Nothing. She was quite sure of it. She had slept in her clothes and so had Nicholas.
He had probably been in no condition to seduce anyone if he had consumed more of the
wine than she had.

She should check on him, however, and make certain he was still breathing, for he
appeared to be out cold. Then she would return to her own bedchamber as promptly as
possible and prepare for what she must do first thing today: see Lord d’Entremont
and demand that he pay her for her work. She had delivered what he wanted. He must
therefore give her what he’d promised.

Carefully—so as not to cause another crash of thunder in her brain—she slid over the
side of the mattress and touched her feet to the floor. She was not wearing her shoes
and did not remember taking them off. Where were they?

A quick survey of the foot of the bed revealed them on the upholstered bench. She
fetched them and slipped them on, then tiptoed lightly across the room to touch Nicholas’s
forehead. His temperature seemed normal, and he was breathing steadily.

She stood briefly in the pale dawn light, admiring the peaceful, handsome contours
of his face and body, the way his massive form was sprawled so serenely in the chair.
Images of the night before flashed in her brain, and she remembered talking to him
about her home not far from here, and her mother’s weakened condition over the past
few months.

He had been sympathetic, but then the laudanum must have taken effect. She remembered
wanting to lie down. He had taken her to the bed, sat on the edge of it.…

Véronique backed away as she recalled the weight and feel of his body coming down
upon hers, his hands cupping her face, the whisper of his breath in her ear as he
brushed his lips across her cheek and down the side of her neck.

What else had happened after that?

She remembered nothing, until the moment she woke alone a short while ago.