The Trouble With Princesses (13 page)

He watched, enchanted.

After taking a moment to make sure the garden door was securely latched, he scanned the grounds for a choice spot for their picnic.

While she wandered deeper into the well-tended foliage, he spread a large blanket over a patch of thick, springy grass. Nearby stood a great tree, its heavy branches stretched above like a pair of sheltering arms to provide protection from the sun and afternoon heat. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the blanket that shifted with the light breeze.

He opened the hamper and began laying out the food.

“Oh, that looks delectable,” she said, appearing suddenly at his side.

“Yes, Emma’s cook appears to have outdone herself,” he agreed, motioning to a selection that included a cloth-covered ramekin of pâté, a plate of lobster-and-watercress sandwiches, deviled quail eggs, fresh strawberries, and a wedge of ripe golden cheese. “And there are still a few more things I’ve yet to unpack.”

“Gracious. She clearly wanted to give us a variety. Here, let me help,” she offered, kneeling down. Her skirts billowed around her in a riot of color, putting him in mind of the flowers she had just been admiring.

He reached into the hamper again.

She reached in too. Their hands touched, skin sliding against skin in the shallow depths of the basket.

Their gazes lifted and locked. He could see the faint beating of her pulse at the base of her throat beneath her fair, nearly translucent skin. He caught hold of her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. With his thumb, he drew a slow circle against the tender flesh of her palm.

Her lips parted and he thought he detected an increase in her pulse.

He smiled. “Which shall it be? Bread or wine?”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, breathless.

“Bread?” He circled his thumb again and felt an answering quiver of her hand. “Or wine? I believe those are two of the items left in the basket. Which one would you like?”

She blinked. “Bread. Or the wine. I-it doesn’t matter.”

He nearly tugged her forward, images filling his mind of pushing the hamper out of the way and forgetting all about their meal. How easy it would be to tumble her back across the blanket, how simple to jump directly to the best part of their outing.

But they should eat first. There would be time to play later.

He moved his hand away. “In that case, I’ll take the wine—that way I can open it. The bread I leave to you.”

She gazed into the hamper, giving her head the tiniest of shakes as if trying to clear out the lingering haze.

He smiled to himself, pleased to know he had the power to unsteady the nerves of the brash, seemingly fearless Princess Ariadne. He looked forward to unsteadying her a great deal more.

While he opened the bottle with a few deft twists of a corkscrew, she laid out the loaf of crusty, freshly baked bread together with china plates, silverware, and glasses.

“Here,” he said, pouring a glass of golden wine and offering it to her. “Tell me what you think.”

She accepted and first raised the glass to her nose to test the bouquet, then took a sip. “
Hmm
, it’s delightful.” She drank again. “Fruity but not overly sweet. It should be excellent with our meal.”

“I am glad you approve.” He poured himself a draught. “It’s one of mine. That is to say, the vintage was produced on one of the royal farms in Rosewald. It’s an experimental variety I’ve been working on, crossing native grapes with a few cuttings from France and Spain.”

“Really? I didn’t realize you took an interest in wine cultivation.”

“In other words, you thought I just liked to drink.”

She chuckled. “Well, you must admit that as regent you have a great many duties. I didn’t imagine vintner might be one of them.”

“Everyone needs an occasional distraction, even us royals.”

She nodded in agreement and took another sip of wine.

“My father enjoyed farming before his health began to fail,” he told her. “Potatoes were one of his favorite plants to grow. He said they were a worthy challenge. I remember him when I was a boy, carrying a pitchfork and shovel out to a field behind the palace and digging up the mounds himself. The servants, of course, carried the tools and the baskets full of muddy potatoes back to the kitchens.”

He paused to drink his wine.

“My mother thought he was insane,” he continued. “Some of the court did as well. He became known as King Kartoffel, although no one ever dared call him that to his face. But he was happy when he was out in his fields. I think if he hadn’t been born a prince, he would have been a farmer. I suppose you could say I inherited the trait, although potatoes are of little interest to me except when they appear on my plate.”

“What a wonderful story. I’m surprised Emma never told me anything about it.”

“She was too young to remember much of it. Papa had already begun to slow down by the time she was out of leading strings, and after our mother’s death, he gave his gardening up entirely. Actually, I haven’t thought of him like that in years. He’s so frail now; I’d nearly forgotten how strong he used to be. As big and stalwart as an ox. He used to toss me in the air and carry me around on his shoulders.”

He drank more wine, remembering.

He didn’t realize she’d moved until he felt her hand covering his where it lay on the blanket. “I am sorry. Such things are very difficult.”

He met her eyes. “Yes, but then, you understand. My troubles must seem slight compared to your own. You do not speak of them often, but I know you miss your family.”

Seeing the shadow that passed over her face, he wished immediately that he had not brought it up. She was very stoic about her loss, about the murders that had stolen her parents and siblings from her. He wondered if that was why she let so few people past her guard. Why she kept almost everyone in her life at arm’s length, sometimes even her best friends, Emma and Mercedes.

“I miss them terribly,” she answered, pulling her hand away. “But dwelling on the loss will not bring them back. One must look to the future rather than staying locked in the past. They would not wish me to mourn endlessly or to be perpetually sad. I know that, so I am resolved to live my life with pleasure.”

She drew a deep breath. “Speaking of which, we are letting all this excellent food go to waste. Shall we eat?”

He surveyed the picnic meal laid out before them. “Most definitely yes. Here, have some more wine.” He refilled her glass.

She picked up a plate. “Lobster sandwiches first?”

He smiled. “And some of that pâté, if you please.”

Their conversation moved on to less personal topics as they ate.

He didn’t honestly know why he’d told her all of those things. Usually he was careful not to mention anything to do with his worries about his father, or his past. But Ariadne was surprisingly easy to talk to, especially now that they weren’t trading barbs with each other every other second.

Determined to set their outing back on a more lighthearted path, he regaled her with amusing stories about some of the flamboyant characters in both his own court and those he had encountered on his visits to England.

She contributed more of her own.

Soon they both were laughing.

“More wine?” he asked, taking up the bottle again and angling it so that the sun shone through the colored glass to reveal a last liquid inch. “There isn’t even a full glass remaining. No point letting it go to waste.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said with a shake of her head. “Then again, why not?”

Her eyes twinkled audaciously as she held out her glass.

Obligingly, he poured.

She took a long, appreciative swallow, her head tipped back to expose the swanlike grace of her throat. Watching her was a revelation; she enjoyed everything with such carefree panache, especially now that she was full of wine and good food.

She straightened, nearly all of the wine in her glass gone, then hiccuped loudly. Giggling, she laid a guilty hand over her mouth. “Oops.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have opened that second bottle,
he mused. He’d drunk the majority of both bottles, so she could hardly have consumed enough to get tipsy. On the other hand, he really didn’t know her tolerance for alcohol. He’d seen her sip wine at balls and dinner parties but he couldn’t say he’d ever paid attention to the actual amount she was drinking. Perhaps she didn’t carry her wine well.

For his part, he was simply feeling pleasantly relaxed. He had a hard head for liquor, though; it took a great deal to get him drunk.

Hopefully Ariadne’s head would clear quickly and he wouldn’t have to concoct an excuse for bringing her home inebriated. With luck, Emma and Nick would still be at the estate auction in Hampstead that they’d agreed to attend with Nick’s aunt that afternoon, and for which he and Ariadne had made their excuses. Considering that Emma and Nick would most likely stop for an early dinner on the way back, he and Ariadne should still have plenty of time before their absence would be noticed at the town house.

Unless Ariadne really was seriously tipsy. In which case he should just drive her home and save their first lesson for another time.

He didn’t believe in taking advantage of women—well, at least not
unfair
advantage, he amended.

She giggled again—something she never did—and drained the last drops of the wine from her glass with a flourish.

He shook his head with a regretful sigh and began packing the remains of their meal back into the hamper.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “I haven’t had any strawberries yet.” Leaning dramatically forward, she reached for the dish and plucked out a ripe red berry.

She popped it straight into her mouth, sliding her tongue around the fruit before sinking her teeth in up to the small green hull.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she ate the strawberry, which left her lips moist and pink and looking extraordinarily kissable.

“
Mmm
, delicious!” she pronounced. “You have one.”

“Thank you, but I have had sufficient.” He forced himself to continue packing up the hamper.

“I have had sufficient,”
she repeated, lowering her voice in a mocking impression of him. “Don’t be so stuffy, Rupert.”

He gave her a half smile. “You, my dear, have had too much to drink.”

“I have not. But even if it were true, whose fault would it be? After all, you’re the one who’s been plying me with alcohol all afternoon.”

“How was I to know you have no tolerance for liquor?”

She reached for another strawberry. “Here. Have one.”

“Thank you, no.”

“I insist,” she said, jumping up onto her knees and moving toward him, holding out the berry. “Eat it.”

He turned his head away and closed the lid on the hamper.

She waved the fragrant fruit in front of his lips. “As a royal princess, I command you to eat this strawberry!”

“Command me, do you?” he asked, amused. “Perhaps you forget to whom you speak.”

“And perhaps you have forgotten your promise. We’re here, alone, and yet you haven’t so much as kissed me. And now you won’t accept my offering. Have you decided you don’t want to be my lover, after all, Your Royal Highness? Shall we return home and pretend we really were only out for a driving lesson? I can always begin my search for a lover again if you find you have changed your mind.”

Desire surged within him, along with other, darker emotions. He knew it was the wine speaking, but her taunt enraged him.

Take another lover?
He would show her exactly what he thought of that idea.

Reaching out, he caught her around the waist and pulled her flush against him, all his earlier good intentions drifting away as if caught on the breeze.

“If you ever mention seeking out someone else again,” he said warningly, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.” He grasped one of the ribbons tied under her chin and yanked it free.

She gasped, the strawberry falling unheeded to the ground.

“There won’t be any other lovers, Ariadne.” He pulled off her bonnet and tossed it aside. “Only me.”

Bending his head, he crushed her mouth to his.

Chapter Eleven

A
riadne’s head swam, but not from the surfeit of wine she’d drunk. It was Rupert’s kiss that made her dizzy. Rupert’s touch that left her intoxicated. She trembled and closed her eyes, pressing herself closer and putting everything she had into their kiss.

She wasn’t really drunk—not like he thought—just loosened up enough to be bold, or rather bolder than she usually was. She sighed and followed his lead, opening her mouth so that he could slide his tongue inside.

He had a wicked, wonderful tongue.

Gifted, actually.

He could do things that she’d never dreamed a man might do, silken, seductive things that made her heart stutter in her chest and her breath come in quick, ragged puffs.

She knew this was a reaction she experienced only with him. During her kissing trials, she’d had one or two of her suitors try putting their tongues in her mouth, much to her great distaste.

But there was no distaste with Rupert; quite the opposite.

She liked this kind of kissing with Rupert—loved it, in fact.

She moaned softly as he traced her lips, then tangled their tongues together in a dance that sent her senses spinning like a whirlwind.

If she didn’t take care, she might soon find herself craving his touch like a drug, needing more from him than even she would be wise to take.

She didn’t resist when he tumbled her backward and she found herself suddenly lying against the blanket. The sun that shone through the trees in dappled splotches lay warm against her eyelids and cheeks, but she barely noticed, too caught up in the luxurious bliss of Rupert’s kiss.

His lips roamed over her face—forehead, temples, eyelids, cheeks, nose, chin—before traveling the length of her throat. He paused at the base and buried his face there for a moment, his thick golden hair brushing like silk against the underside of her jaw.

Then he opened his mouth and drew against the flesh of her neck with a gentle, yet insistent pressure that tingled all the way to her toes. She shivered and angled her head so he could repeat the process on the other side.