Capturing the Crown Bundle

“No, you’re not.”

She was rewarded with the rich sound of his laugh as it echoed down the long, winding hallway lined with portraits of her ancestors. They seemed to approve of him, she thought.

“All right, maybe I wasn’t,” Russell admitted. “Then,” he quickly qualified. “But I am now.” He saw her raise her delicate eyebrows in a silent query. And just for the tiniest of moments, he had an overwhelming urge to trace the arches with the tip of his finger. He squelched it. “I frightened you.”

“You made me jumpy,” Amelia corrected, then in case that would arouse some kind of unwanted pity, she quickly added, “You also made me strong.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

With the grace of a princess trained at putting others at ease, Amelia slipped her arm through his and urged him down the hallway. If her heart sped up just a little bit at the contact, well, that was a secret bonus she kept to herself.

“Because of you, I became disgusted with myself. With being a mouse.”

“You were thirteen.”

“I was a mouse,” she repeated, then added with the loftiness that befitted her station, “I resolved to be a tigress.”

Russell looked at her for a long moment. “A tigress, eh?” At first, he’d thought of her as too sweet, too innocent. But there was something in her eyes, something about the way she carried herself. Maybe the image was not as far-fetched as it initially seemed.

He felt his blood stirring again and this time upbraided himself. He had no business reacting like this to his future queen.

“A tigress,” she repeated with a lift of her head. “I pleaded with my father to get me trainers, not just for my mind, but for my body.”

Short on water balloons, Russell sought refuge in humor. “So that you could flip intruders who crossed your path?”

Her eyes danced. “Exactly.”

Another woman, he thought, might have taken insult just now. While he had his doubts about the kind of king Reginald would ultimately make, he was beginning to feel that at least Silvershire’s future queen was a woman who did not take herself too seriously. That spoke of a magnanimous ruler.

He laughed softly under his breath. “Judging from the way that ended up, I’d say you need a little more training.”

“I’ll work on it.”

They had come to a split in the hallway. Her rooms were on the far end at the right. The guest quarters were in the opposite direction, on another floor. It wouldn’t seem proper for her to walk him to his room, even though she found herself wanting to. Rules, always rules, she thought impatiently, chafing inwardly.

She forced a smile to her lips. “I’ll have someone show you to your quarters.”

“No need. I’ve already settled in.” Russell saw the protest rising to her lips and knew just what she was going to say. “I assumed that I would be staying in the same quarters I occupied the last time I was here.”

What had been adequate for the boy was not so for the man. She was surprised that he wouldn’t know that. “Actually, my father had left instructions for a suite of rooms to be prepared for you.”

But Russell shook his head. “The room I’m in will do just fine. I don’t need a suite of rooms,” he told her. “After all, I’m only going to be here long enough for you to gather together your entourage.” Since she’d been forewarned, he assumed that would only take her perhaps a day.

“My entourage,” she echoed. The term made her want to laugh as she imagined traveling about with an entire tribe of ladies-in-waiting trailing after her. The very idea made her feel trapped, hemmed in. And she was experiencing enough of that already without adding to it.

“You mean Madeline.” Madeline Carlyle was the Duke of Forsythe’s youngest daughter. With fiery red hair and a fiery spirit to match, Madeline was the perfect companion in her opinion. Madeline could always be counted on to tell her the truth.

Russell looked at her, mildly surprised. “Madeline? Just the one companion?”

“Just the one.”

Russell paused to regard her with deepening interest. Princess Amelia was certainly different from the man she was betrothed to, he thought. Reginald never went anywhere without at least a dozen people in tow. The prince had a hunger for an accommodating, accepting audience observing his every move.

“What about a bodyguard?”

Unconsciously rocking forward on her toes, Amelia raised her eyes to his, unaware of how terribly appealing she looked. “I expect that would be you.”

There was something about the way she looked at him that stirred things deep within him. It made him want to stand in the way of an oncoming bus just to protect her.

It also made him want to tell her to turn and flee before it was too late. Before Reginald had an opportunity to defile her.

But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t warn her in any way. His duty, first and foremost, was to his king, to his country and to his prince. Not to a princess from another kingdom. The fact that his duty was elsewhere stuck in his throat.

After a beat he finally replied quietly, “That would be me. I suppose that means there won’t be much ‘gathering’ involved.”

“I suppose not.”

Amelia tried not to think of what she was saying. Of what her words actually meant. That she was leaving Gastonia, leaving everything she loved for a man she didn’t. For a man she didn’t even like.

With just the faintest inclination of his head, Russell bowed. It was time to take his leave before he forgot himself and misspoke. “Until the morning, then.”

“Until the morning,” she echoed.

She stood there for a long moment, watching the man who had become the Duke of Carrington, who would always be the boy who reveled in ambushing her with water balloons and bugs, walk down the hall. Away from her.

She didn’t know what to do with the emptiness inside.

“We can’t leave.”

Those were the first words Amelia uttered in greeting him the following morning as she swept into the dining room. Rather than take his breakfast in the formal dining room, Russell had chosen to take his first meal in Gastonia in the palace’s informal dining room, the one that only sat twenty people instead of fifty.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, with disturbing dreams that all centered around Amelia and the marriage that was to be, Russell hadn’t even heard her enter. He rose quickly to his feet now in acknowledgment of her presence. They might be friends of a sort, but there were traditions to honor and he had been trained long and well in them.

Taking a seat, Amelia waved for him to sit down again. Since the king had yet to arrive at the palace, she sat at the head of the table. Russell was to her right. Having him there made the room seem oddly intimate, despite its size.

Instead of exchanging obligatory small talk, Russell picked up the conversation she’d started up as she’d entered the room. “By leave, are you referring to leaving the palace, Princess?”

“No, the country,” she corrected.

He looked confused. And sweetly adorable. Did he accompany Reginald when the prince made his endless rounds at the various clubs where they knew him by sight rather than reputation? Was Russell just as eager as the prince to have women pour themselves all over him?

That’s not supposed to matter, she reminded herself sternly.

But she went on wondering.

“Madeline is ill,” she explained, “and I won’t leave without her.”

Amelia’s position seemed reasonable enough to him, seeing as his assignment had been to bring back the princess and “her entourage.” Curiosity prompted him to ask, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Madeline has always had a passion for exotic foods.” She spread the gleaming white linen napkin on her lap. “Sometimes that’s not such a good thing.” Madeline was up for anything; when they were children, Madeline was the one who could be counted on to swallow a bug whole to discover what it tasted like. “Something she ate yesterday didn’t agree with her. From what she told me, she’d been up all night, reacquainting her knees with the tile on her bathroom floor. The doctor gave her something. Depending on how she feels, she might not be able to travel for at least two, perhaps three days.” She watched his expression for signs of irritation.

But Russell took it in stride and nodded his head. “I’ll inform King Weston to have the tubas put in storage for a few days,” he deadpanned.

“Tubas?”

The somber expression vanished as he flashed a grin. She caught herself thinking that he had a delicious smile. “You didn’t think you could enter Silvershire without a parade, did you?”

A parade. Amelia groaned inwardly. “I thought you hated the spotlight.”

“I do. But it won’t be shining on me,” he pointed out. “The parade is for you.”

She would just as soon have it canceled. But she knew that was asking for too much. Fanfare was something that was required by the people. And something, she had learned, that had to be borne with quiet, resigned dignity.

On impulse, Amelia leaned in toward him, lowering her voice even though there were only the two of them in the room, not counting the man whose duty it was to serve the meal. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I don’t like fanfare, either.”

A breeze from somewhere brought just the subtlest whiff of her perfume to him, teasing his senses. Russell did his best to ignore it, succeeding only moderately.

“Must be hell for you, then,” he commented with sympathy.

“At times,” she acknowledged.

Feeling comforted by the fact that her departure was postponed for at least two days, and just a tad guilty that her unexpected boon was due to Madeline’s misery, Amelia nodded toward the palace servant who stood unobtrusively at the ready. Words were not necessary. She’d had the same thing for breakfast for the last three years. Three slices of French toast. The man slipped away to bring it to her.

Feeling progressively more cheerful by the moment, Amelia let impulse continue to guide her. “Since we’re not going away, I’ve decided to take you sightseeing.”

He was surprised by the offer. And pleased. He’d assumed that he’d be left to his own devices until departure. This promised to be a great deal more entertaining than the book he’d brought along.

“Oh, you have, have you?”

The servant returned with her plate and placed it before her before deftly standing back. Amelia offered the older man a smile of thanks before continuing. “Yes, I have.”

“Is that a royal decree?”

She couldn’t read his expression. It was completely inscrutable. Had she been too quick to judge him so favorably? Or was he just teasing her, the way he used to? “Does it have to be?”

He thought of stretching out the moment. He liked the way her eyes widened when she seemed confused. But it wasn’t fair to her and besides, he had no business placing things on anything but a respectful footing. They weren’t children anymore.

Maybe that was just the problem, he thought. They weren’t children anymore. And he was having some definitely unchildlike feelings about her.

Tread lightly here, Carrington, he cautioned himself. This is going to be your queen, not your consort.

“No,” he answered. Then, because he’d been on more than one tour during his visits here, he added, “I’d love to see your country through the eyes of an adult.”

She gave her own interpretation to his answer. “Then you have given up dropping water balloons?”

Amelia slipped the fork between her lips. Finding the action arousing, Russell forced himself to look away. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

Slim shoulders rose and then fell again in a careless motion. “Once burnt, twice shy…”

He didn’t bother to suppress the laugh that rose in his throat. “As I remember it, it was a few more times than once.”

That it was, she thought. “Twenty-three times to be exact.”

Mild surprise highlighted his features as he looked at her. “You kept score.”

“I did.”

His eyes met hers. He saw humor there. “Should I be worried?”

She deliberately took a few bites of her breakfast before leaning in his direction and saying, “Be afraid, Carrington. Be very afraid.”

Though neither one of them had planned it initially, they wound up spending the entire day together. Acting as his guide, Amelia took him to two museums, one devoted to art, the other to history. Though neither had ever really interested him, Russell discovered that, seen through her eyes, both had a great deal to offer. In between, she took him to one of Gastonia’s many parks for an impromptu picnic lunch.

“I’m not the picnic type,” he’d protested.

And she’d laughed as if he had said something really amusing and told him with a knowing look that yes, he was, and she was going to prove it.

So he ate the healthy-size sandwiches she’d produced out of a picnic basket while sitting on a maroon-colored blanket beneath the drooping shade of a weeping willow. If asked, he couldn’t have said what, exactly, was between the two pieces of bread. It wasn’t that it was tasteless, it was just that his attention had been completely and utterly taken by his companion.

She charmed him with her wit, with her knowledge, with her laugh…with the shape of her mouth as it pulled into a smile. Over and over again, he kept thinking that Reginald should have been there, in his place, learning to appreciate this woman who had miraculously been given to him on a platter.

And secretly he was glad that he was here instead.

Russell found himself not wanting the day to end.

And in the evening, with a myriad of stars littering the sky, they returned to the palace.

The second they came through the massive double doors, they were informed by the butler that King Roman was waiting to meet with the duke.

“I’ll come with you,” Amelia offered.

“Your Highness, he asked only for the duke,” the butler said tactfully.

Russell expected Amelia to back away. Instead, she tossed her head and said, “But he will get a princess, as well.” She looked at him. “My father will undoubtedly say something that will either concern Gastonia or me. In either case, I should know.” Slipping her arm through his, she said, “This way,” and brought him to the royal study, her father’s favorite place.

Her father often retired to the study to contemplate matters of state and to partake of his evening brandy. More often than not, she would join him for the latter. His life centered around his country and his daughter, in that order. Amelia took no offense. It was just the way things were. But if she took no offense, she also did not take a back seat.

King Roman looked far from surprised that his daughter was accompanying his royal guest. Looking up from the book he had been casually perusing, he asked, “What’s this about you creeping in like a leper, Carrington?”

“The duke doesn’t care for fanfare,” Amelia said, taking the liberty to answer for the man she’d taken sightseeing.

The king nodded. “Refreshing.” Setting aside his book, he picked up his goblet of brandy. “This aversion of yours, I trust, does not extend to the reception I have arranged in your honor.”

Russell glanced at the woman beside him. He noticed that the princess had caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Obviously, she had forgotten to tell him about that. “Reception, Your Majesty?”

“The one in the royal ballroom taking place in—” the king paused to look at the timepiece he kept in his pocket “—oh, I believe half an hour.”

Having learned long ago to have nothing rattle him, Russell inclined his head. “Then I had better go and get ready. If you will excuse me?” He bowed first to the king, then to Amelia.

She was born to this, Amelia thought. To pomp and circumstance and tradition. But it still felt strange, at times, when she stood back to analyze it, to see someone bowing to her just because whimsical fate had bestowed a title on her. It could have just as easily been someone else.

Her father turned to her. He looked pleased, she thought, and not at all upset by the note she’d left in her wake informing the king on his arrival that Carrington was already here and that she had taken charge of him. “I see you two have buried the hatchet.”

“There was never any hatchet, Father,” she corrected gently. “Not between the duke and myself.”

Roman caught the inference and looked at his daughter. “And the prince?”

“Is another story,” she concluded evasively.

“Amelia,” he began, his voice heavy with regret. “Amelia, you know that if there were any other way to secure Gastonia’s safety against her enemies, I would do it. In these modern times, there are terrorists and countries that would take us over in an instant if not for—”

“I know.” For her father’s sake, because she didn’t want him feeling guilty over something they both knew had to be, she forced a smile to her lips. “I’d better go and get ready for the reception. I’m afraid it completely slipped my mind.”

She’d seemed unusually happy when she’d entered the room just now, the king thought. He looked after his daughter’s departing figure, wondering what else might have slipped her mind today.

Chapter 4

From as far back as he could remember, Russell Southgate, III, Duke of Carrington, had been trained to keep his wits and composure about him at all times. Eventually, it had become second nature to him, like breathing. Never was it more important than during the most stressful occasions. To his late father’s never-ending pride, he was considered to be a tower of strength among his peers. While others lost their heads, Russell did not. He remained calm and clear-thinking. Being rattled was not something that he could ever recall happening to him.

So it came as a complete and utter surprise to Russell that, while assuring King Roman that no disrespect was meant by either Prince Reginald or the realm of Silvershire by His Highness not coming in person to escort his bride home, he found himself stopping midword. The rest of his sentence, as well as what had come before, had simultaneously and instantly evaporated from his tongue and his mind. Everything had been eclipsed by the vision in blue he saw entering the ballroom.

He felt warm. Disoriented. And completely captivated. Only past training had him closing his mouth before his jaw slackened and drooped.

Puzzled, his back to the entrance, King Roman stared at the young duke before him, waiting for the man to continue. Turning, the king looked to see what it was that had caught the man’s attention so completely, to the point of suddenly rendering him mute.

And then he saw her.

His daughter.

He saw the way Prince Reginald’s more-than-able-bodied representative was looking at her. While his father’s heart took pride in the fact that Amelia was a vision of loveliness that could even distract the well respected Duke of Carrington, when he viewed the moment with the eyes of the ruler of Gastonia, he was more than a little dismayed. Instincts that had allowed Roman to guide his small country from its past quaint state to what it had now become, a country devoted to both industry and the pursuit of knowledge, sent up red flags of alert and alarm.

Roman waited a moment longer. He told himself that his never-failing concern for the country’s welfare, his anxiety that all go well these next few weeks, not to mention the heavy guilt he bore as a father, were responsible for his overreaction. The duke was just taken with the sight of a beautiful woman. There was nothing more to it than that.

The king fervently hoped he was right.

Forcing a smile to his lips, he leaned slightly toward the man who, until a moment earlier, had been setting his mind at ease.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Roman acknowledged softly.

Like a man suddenly in the grip of a hypnotic trance, his eyes never wavering from their target, Russell slowly nodded his response. And then he roused himself, regaining control over all but what he had just been saying. The subject eluded him as completely as if it had never been raised.

“But that was always understood, even when the princess was a child,” he managed to murmur, hoping the king would take up this new avenue of conversation.

But the child, Russell conceded silently, did not hold a candle to the woman she had become. And even having spent almost the entire day in her presence hadn’t quite prepared him for how regal, how utterly breathtaking and captivating Princess Amelia could look.

It took effort to draw his eyes away, effort he couldn’t quite seem to muster, so he continued to look, telling himself he needed a moment longer just to absorb the vision that she was. Russell made a silent vow to Amelia that Reginald was never going to cause her any pain if he had anything to say about it.

Amelia walked into the room very slowly. Not because she wanted to draw out the moment, or because all eyes in the ballroom suddenly seemed to be turned in her direction, but because the heels of the shoes she wore were exceptionally high. Walking quickly could bring about a misstep. Or worse, cause her to fall down. That would not exactly be a royal moment, she mused, and she was fairly certain that if that did happen, a photographer would somehow magically pop out of the woodwork, immortalizing the moment for all time.

Making her way across the threshold, feeling as if she were moving in slow motion, a speed she was not on friendly terms with, she smiled warmly at everyone around her.

And then her eyes were drawn to the young man standing beside her father. Her heart whispered in her chest, undecided whether to beat quickly or freeze.

God, but he was handsome.

Gatherings parted, allowing her to pass unobstructed. She hardly noticed. Her destination was fixed. She could not seem to shake the feeling that all her steps up until this very moment had been designed to bring her to this man.

And with each step she took, her heart began to beat a little faster, like a drumroll growing in volume, in tempo. It seemed to swell within her chest. She was never more grateful than now for the upbringing which allowed her to keep her thoughts and reactions from showing on her face.

Otherwise, she thought, both she and Russell would be lost. Especially her.

Though she shouldered it well, she had never cared for duty. But in a way, duty was responsible for the moment. For bringing Russell here.

Despite the way she had to address him in public, always in the secret recesses of her mind, she thought of him not as the prince’s cohort, not as the Duke of Carrington or by any of the titles that protocol dictated. To her, he had always been, would always be, Russell.

As she drew closer to Russell and her father, she heard the orchestra begin to play. Her mouth curved as the old familiar melody unfurled its notes through the vast room. A waltz. She might have known. Her father’s favorite. The king thought she fancied them, as well. And while she liked them, she had yet to let her father know how much she enjoyed something contemporary even more.

Amelia sincerely doubted if the monarch knew that Black Eyed Peas were something other than a vegetable found on a side dish at a dinner.

Her eyes danced as she joined the two men. “I believe they’re playing our song, Carrington,” she teased and, to his credit, he neither looked confused nor tried to contradict her. “Dance with me.” Russell glanced toward the king, who inclined his head, giving his permission. Humor curved her lips as she saw the silent exchange. “I asked you to dance with me, Carrington. You can dance with my father later.”

King Roman shook his head as Russell placed a hand respectfully on her waist and took her hand in his. He watched his daughter place her other hand on the duke’s shoulder. “Always outspoken,” he said as the couple began to dance away. “From the moment she said her first word.”

“Funny,” Russell observed as their steps took them farther onto the dance floor and away from the king. “I don’t remember you being outspoken when we were children.” He liked the way laughter entered her eyes. Liked the way she didn’t take herself too seriously. Liked the way her waist felt beneath his hand. “You clean up well, Princess.”