Pure Princess, Bartered Bride

“But our wedding night should be commemorated, should it not?” he asked.

“I don’t—”

But he wasn’t really asking.

His mouth came down on hers as uncompromising and hard as she remembered, as he had been since she’d met him so few hours before. This time he tasted her lips only briefly, before moving across her jaw, her temple, learning the shape of her. His mouth was hot. Gabrielle felt her own fall open in shock—in response. She felt feverish. Outside herself.

Something in her thrilled to it—to him—even as the rest of her balked at such a naked display of ownership. Her hands flew to his shoulders, though it was like pushing against stone.

Then, as suddenly, he set her away from him, a very masculine triumph written across his face.

“You are mine,” he said. Claiming her.

Caitlin Crews discovered her first romance novel at the age of twelve. It involved swashbuckling pirates, grand adventures, a heroine with rustling skirts and a mind of her own, and a seriously mouthwatering and masterful hero. The book (the title of which remains lost in the mists of time) made a serious impression. Caitlin was immediately smitten with romances and romance heroes, to the detriment of her middle school social life. And so began her life-long love affair with romance novels, many of which she insists on keeping near her at all times.

Caitlin has made her home in places as far-flung as York, England, and Atlanta, Georgia. She was raised near New York City, and fell in love with London on her first visit when she was a teenager. She has backpacked in Zimbabwe, been on safari in Botswana, and visited tiny villages in Namibia. She has, while

visiting the place in question, declared her intention to live in Prague, Dublin, Paris, Athens, Nice, the Greek Islands, Rome, Venice, and/or any of the Hawaiian islands. Writing about exotic places seems like the next best thing to moving there.

She currently lives in California, with her animator/ comic book artist husband and their menagerie of ridiculous animals.

MILLS & BOON

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To Jane Porter: inspiration, mentor, and the big sister I always wanted.

Thank you, for everything.

Prologue

LUC GARNIER did not believe in love.

Love was madness. Agony, despair and crockery hurled against walls. Luc believed in facts. In proof. In ironclad contracts and the implacable truth of money. He had been relentless and focused all his life and as a result, wildly successful. He did not believe this was a matter of luck or chance. Emotion played no part in it.

Just as emotion played no part in picking out his future bride.

The Côte d’Azur preened itself in the warm afternoon sun as Luc strode down a side street in Nice, headed for the Promenade des Anglais, where the famously luxurious Hotel Negresco sat in gracious Victorian splendor, looking out onto the sparkling blue waters of the Baie des Anges and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. The Hotel Negresco was one of Luc’s favorite hotels in France, and thus the world, overflowing as it was with museum-quality art and a famously accommodating staff—but he had a far more pressing reason for visiting Nice’s landmark hotel today.

Luc had flown in that morning from his Paris headquarters, determined to see for himself if the latest potential bride—who looked so good on paper—looked even half as good in person. But then, they all looked good on paper, as they had to be of a noble family to so much as make his list. The last woman he had considered for the position had seemed like a perfect match on paper—but a few days spent tailing Lady Emma around her London society life had quickly revealed that the young noblewoman had a secret penchant for late nights with rough gentlemen.

It wasn’t that Luc necessarily minded that his wife might have a past—he simply preferred that, whatever the past was, it had involved the sort of people who would not make interesting headlines should the tabloids catch wind of them. Lady Emma Prefers Goths to Garnier. He could imagine it all too well.

“That’s the way modern women are these days,” his number two man had told him, after Luc had discovered Lady Emma’s late-night bar-crawling. Alessandro was the closest thing Luc had to a friend, but even so, he’d thrown his hands up in the air when Luc had glared at him across his opulent Paris office.

“Modern women may be as loose as they like,” he’d snapped. “But my wife will not be. Is this so much to ask?”

“This is not all you ask!” Alessandro had replied with a laugh. He’d begun to tick off the necessary items on his fingers. “She must be noble, if not royal, to honor your bloodline. She must be pure in word and deed. She must never have been young or stupid, as no scandal can ever have touched her.” He’d shaken his head sadly. “I do not think this woman exists.”

“She may not,” Luc had agreed, closing the dossier he had compiled on Lady Emma and setting it aside with distaste. “My mother taught me long ago that beauty is too often a mask for dishonor and betrayal. One cannot depend on it—only on an irreproachable reputation.” He had smiled at Alessandro. “If she does exist, I will find her.”

“And what if this paragon does not wish to marry you when you have hunted her down?” Alessandro had asked dryly. “What then?”

Luc had laughed. “Please.” He’d sat back in his chair and gazed at his friend, crooking his brow in amusement. “That is not very likely, is it? What woman would not benefit from becoming my wife? What can any woman possibly want that I cannot give her? I will place all of my wealth and power at the disposal of whatever woman can fill the position.”

Alessandro had sighed heavily, his romantic Italian soul no doubt mortally wounded at the prospect of filling the position of wife. “Women like romance and fairy tales,” he’d said. Luc rather thought Alessandro was the one who preferred such fripperies, but had not said so. “They do not want marriage to be conducted as a business proposition.”

“But that is what it is,” Luc had said, shrugging again. “The correct woman must understand this as well.”

“I fear you will be looking for a very long time, my friend,” Alessandro had said, shaking his head.

But Luc had never been afraid of hard, seemingly fruitless work, he reflected as he turned the corner and saw the famous façade of the Hotel Negresco before him. In fact, he thrived on it. His famous parents had died when he was barely twenty-three, and he had had to make his own way in the world in their considerable shadows. Even before their deaths in a boating accident he had been more or less on his own—his parents having been far more interested in each other and their endless romantic complications than in their son.

Luc could not bring himself to regret his unorthodox upbringing, no matter how many people seemed to think it pointed to some lack in him—something no one had dared say to his face in some time. Growing up in such a way, surrounded by so much heightened emotion mixed with jealousy and betrayal and avid outside interest, had stripped him of many of the needs that ruled other men. It had also made him that much more successful, which was all he cared about—for what else was there? He did not need the emotions that other men did. He was not interested in love, and all the upheaval and agony it brought. He wanted a wife in the most traditional sense, for the most traditional reasons. He was nearing forty now, and it was time he created a family to carry on his legacy and his mother’s royal Italian bloodline. The wife he chose would have to be from an equally august bloodline—noble for centuries, at the very least, as his family was. It was tradition. It was his duty.

He needed a wife who knew her duty.

He strode into the elegant old hotel, past the white-gloved doormen, and did not bother to gape like a tourist at the sparkling lobby that emanated old French charm and elegance all around him. He had seen it many times before. The Hotel Negresco prided itself on its luxuriousness. Luc made his way toward the Salon Royal, with its Gustave Eiffel-designed dome and Baccarat chandeliers sparkling over a crowd of some of the world’s foremost philanthropists. He ignored the well-dressed and genteel throng, as well as the priceless art that graced the walls. He searched the room until his eyes fell on the woman he’d been looking for—Princess Gabrielle of Miravakia.

She stood out from the crowd in a good way, he was pleased to note. She did not call attention to herself. She did not display her chest in an inappropriate manner or hang all over the men who competed for her attention. She seemed cool and elegant, refined and royal, as she stood in the center of a knot of extremely well-dressed patrons.

She was lovely—but then, she should be. She was a royal princess, after all—the heir to her country’s throne. He ignored her looks and concentrated on the way she presented herself: her public persona, which was by all accounts completely without blemish.

Her hair was swept back into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore a simple cocktail dress with restrained hints of jewelry at her ears and one wrist. Nothing flashy or gauche. She was all sophistication and class, presiding over this great reception for one of her pet charities with all the grace for which she was known. She was every inch the perfect princess.

He liked what he saw. But he couldn’t trust what she showed the world at a reception for six hundred. Could a woman really be as above reproach as this one appeared to be?

Luc signaled a passing waiter and requested a drink, then moved to the outskirts of the crowd, from where he could watch her without being observed in return. She was in Nice for the week, he knew, and was expected to make a number of appearances—which interested him less than what she got up to in her free time.

He was sure that, like Lady Emma before her, Princess Gabrielle would eventually show herself to him. He had only to wait, and watch.

But as Luc watched the perfect-looking princess make her rounds, he allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism as he sampled his drink.

If she proved to be as perfect as she looked, he had done it. He had finally found his bride.

Chapter One

“DO YOUR duty,” her father ordered her only moments before the organ burst into life—his version of an encouraging speech. He frowned at her. “Make me proud.”

That was the entirety of his fatherly pre-wedding advice.

The words swam in Princess Gabrielle’s head even as the heavy weight of her silk taffeta wedding gown tugged at her and slowed her down. The long train swept back from her dress, extending almost ten feet behind her as befitted a royal princess on her wedding day. Gabrielle only knew that it was hard to walk with ten feet of fabric to pull along with her, though she kept her spine erect and her head high—as always.

Thank God for the veil that covered her face, hiding the expression she was afraid she couldn’t control for the first time in her twenty-five years—to say nothing of the prickly heat flooding her eyes.

She could not cry. Not here. Not now.

Not as she walked down the aisle of her kingdom’s holiest of cathedrals, holding fast to her father’s arm. Her father—King Josef of Miravakia. The man she had spent her life trying—and failing—to please.

Even at university she had been too determined to win her father’s elusive approval to do anything but study hard. While her peers had partied and explored all that London had to offer, Gabrielle had lost herself in her books and her research. After university, despite the degree she’d obtained in Economics, she had dedicated herself to charity work, according to her father’s expectations of the Crown Princess of Miravakia.

Anything and everything to curry her father’s favor. It was the mantra of Gabrielle’s life.

Even this. Marriage to a perfect stranger of his choosing.

Why was she going through with this? Hers was not some ancient feudal kingdom—and she was no chattel. But if there was a way to go against her father’s wishes without incurring his wrath she did not know what it was. She knew that she could have said no. Couldn’t she? Or was she simply too desperate to prove to her father that she was worthy of his approval—even when the stakes were so high?

“I have accepted a marriage proposal,” King Josef had told her one morning, barely three months ago, jolting Gabrielle from her contemplation of the day’s schedule. He had not glanced up from his breakfast as he spoke. It had surprised Gabrielle that he’d spoken at all—he generally preferred to breakfast in silence, with only his newspapers spread around him, though he insisted that she join him every morning.

“A marriage proposal?” Gabrielle had been amazed—her father had shown no interest in remarrying, not in all the long years since Gabrielle’s mother had died of cancer when Gabrielle was barely five.

“I found the combination of a royal bloodline and near-limitless wealth sufficiently attractive,” the King had said, almost thoughtfully. “And it will certainly bolster the standing of the Miravakian throne.”

It had been as if he was discussing the purchase of a vehicle. But Gabrielle’s thoughts had raced ahead anyway. Was she really to have a stepmother? She rather thought it might be fun to have someone else around the palazzo. Much as she loved her father and tried to please him, he was not an easy man.

“There will be no tedious long engagement,” he had continued, touching his thin, disapproving lips with his linen napkin and signaling one of the hovering footmen for more coffee. Finally, he’d looked at her. “I’ve no patience for such things.”

“No, of course not,” Gabrielle had agreed. Her mind had been racing wildly. Who on earth could possibly meet her father’s high standards? He had a universally low opinion of almost every woman he’d ever encountered, as far as she knew—and then again, as King of Miravakia, he would only consider a bride from a select class of royals. And how like him to keep his intentions a secret, she’d thought, almost amused.

“I expect you to conduct yourself well,” he’d said, sipping at his coffee. “None of the hysterics that seem to afflict your sex when they come into contact with a wedding ceremony, thank you.”

Gabrielle had known better than to respond to that.

He’d sniffed. “I have confidence that you can put everything together quickly and efficiently, with as little disruption as possible.”

“Of course, Father,” Gabrielle had said at once. She had never planned a wedding before, but how different could it be from the state events she’d put together in the past? She had a marvelous staff whom she already knew could perform miracles. And who knew? Perhaps a new wife would bring out the softer side of her stern father. She’d give quite a bit to see that.

Lost in her reverie, she had been startled when her father had pushed back his chair and stood. He’d moved toward the door without another word—the subject closed. Gabrielle had almost laughed. How typical of him. She’d felt a surge of affection for his brusque ways—because clearly something romantic lurked beneath the cold exterior.

“Father,” she had called, stopping him before he quit the room. He’d turned back to face her, a slight frown between his eyebrows.

“What is it?” he had asked impatiently.

“Am I to know the bride’s name?” she had asked, biting back an indulgent smile.

He’d stared at her. “You need to pay closer attention, Gabrielle, if you are to succeed me without running this country into the ground,” he’d snapped, his arctic tone making her wince. His frown had deepened as he’d glared at her. “You, obviously, are the bride.”

And then he’d turned on his heel and strode from the room, without a backward glance.

In the cathedral, Gabrielle felt her breath catch in her throat as the memory of that morning washed over her, while her pulse fluttered wildly. Panic was setting in, as heavy around her as the veil she wore and the train she trailed behind her. She fought to pull air into her lungs—ordered herself to stay calm.

Her father would never forgive her if she made a scene. If she showed anything but docile acceptance—even gratitude—for the way he’d chosen to manage her affairs. Her life.

Her marriage.

Gabrielle felt the crisp, heavy sleeve of her father’s ornamental coat beneath her trembling fingers as he led her down the long aisle, his measured steps bringing her closer and closer to her fate.

She couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of him—her groom. Soon to be her husband. A man she had never even met, and yet he would be her spouse. Her mate. King of her people when she became their queen. Gabrielle’s lips parted on a sound that was far too close to a sob—though it was thankfully hidden in the swirl of music that surrounded her.

She could not. Not here. Not now. It was too late.

The cathedral was packed to capacity on all sides, filled with Europe’s royals and assorted nobles. Political allies and strategic partners of her father’s. The music soared toward the stained glass heights, filling the space and caressing the carved marble statues. Outside, she knew, the people of Miravakia were celebrating their princess’s wedding day as a national holiday. There would be rejoicing in the streets, the papers claimed, now that their Gabrielle had found her husband. Their future king.

A man she did not know and had never seen—not in person. Not face-to-face.

Her husband-to-be was a man who had won his wife through contracts—meetings with her father, bargains struck and approved without her knowledge or consent. Her father had not asked Gabrielle for her input—he had not considered her feelings at all. He had decided that it was time she married, and he had produced the bridegroom of his choice.

And Gabrielle never argued with her father. Never rebelled, never contradicted. Gabrielle was good. Obedient. Respectful to a fault. In the hope that her father would one day respect her back. Love her, maybe—just a little.

Instead, he’d sold her off to the highest bidder.

Luc felt triumph surge through him as he watched the woman—soon to be his wife—walk toward him down the long ceremonial aisle. He barely noticed the arching stained glass above him as he stood at the altar, or the hunched statues of gargoyles peering down at him—his attention was focused entirely on her.

Finally.

Luc’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he thought of his reckless, thoughtless mother and the destruction she had wrought with her rebellions. Her “passions.” But Luc was not his temperamental, easily manipulated father. He would not stand for such behavior—not from his wife.

She must be above reproach. She must be practical—as this was to be a marriage on paper first and flesh afterward. But most of all she must be trustworthy. Because Luc, unlike many of his station, would not tolerate disloyalty. There would be no discreet affairs in this marriage. He would accept nothing less than one hundred percent obedience. There would be no tabloid speculation, no scandals for the voyeurs to pick over. Never again.

He’d searched for years. He’d rejected untold numbers of women before arriving at near misses like Lady Emma. As with everything in his life, from his business to the personal life he guarded ferociously, Luc’s refusal to compromise had first isolated, then rewarded him.

Because he had not compromised, because he did not know the meaning of the word, he had exactly what he wanted. The perfect princess. At last.

Princess Gabrielle was biddable. Docile—as evidenced by her presence in the cathedral today, calmly walking down the aisle into an arranged marriage because her father had ordered her to do so. So far, so good, he thought with deep satisfaction as he watched her slow, sure approach.

He remembered the sun-drenched days when he’d followed her in Nice, her seemingly effortless poise, no matter how many clamored for her attention. She had never caused a single scandal in her life. She was known for her serenity and her complete lack of tabloid presence. When she made the papers it was in recognition of her charity work. Never for her exploits. Compared to the other royals who debauched themselves all over Europe, she might be a saint. Which suited Luc just fine.

Luc Garnier had built an empire based on his perfectionist streak. If it was not perfect, it would not carry his name.

His wife would be no different.

He had left nothing to chance. He had had others collect the initial information, but then he had made the final decision—as he always did, no matter the acquisition in question. He had followed her personally, because he knew that he could not trust anyone’s opinion but his own. Not when it came to a matter of such importance. Others might make mistakes, or overlook seemingly small details that would later prove to be of importance—but not Luc. He would never have approached her father if he had not been absolutely satisfied that Princess Gabrielle was not just the best choice, but the only choice for his bride.

Luc had met with King Josef to settle the final contracts in the King’s sumptuous suite at the Hotel le Bristol in Paris, with its stunning view of the great Sacré-Coeur basilica that rose, gleaming white, and towered above the city from Montmartre.

“You do not wish to meet her?” the older man had asked when the business was done, settling back in his chair to enjoy his port.

“It is not necessary,” Luc had replied. He had inclined his head. “Unless you wish it?”

“What is it to me?” the King had asked, letting out a puff of air through his nose. “She will marry you whether you meet her or not.”

“You are certain?” Luc had asked lightly, though he had not in truth been concerned. Arrangements would never have reached this stage if the King had not been sure of his daughter’s obedience. “Ours is an unusual settlement in this day and age. A princess and a kingdom in exchange for wealth and business interests—I am told this sounds like something out of a history book.”

The King had made a dismissive noise. “My daughter was raised to do the right thing regarding her country. I have always insisted that Gabrielle understands her position necessitates a certain dignity.” The King had swirled his port in its tumbler. He had frowned. “And great responsibility.”

“She appears to have taken it to heart,” Luc had said, looking at his own drink. “I have never heard her mentioned without reference to her grace and composure.”

“Of course.” The King had seemed almost taken aback. “She has known all her life that her role as princess would come before any more personal considerations. She will be a good queen one day—though she requires a firm hand to guide her.” He’d sniffed. “You will have no trouble with her.”