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LET IT BE KNOWN that “spare heir” Roland masqueraded as a stable hand at the Montague keep (we’re still curious why) and fell for Princess Lillian, herself masquerading as a commoner….
LET IT BE KNOWN that Lillian, who’s been rather reclusive in recent years (some say she was betrayed by a gold-digging love), along with Roland, have helped to ease the feud between their families that has been ongoing for decades….
Now, if only Lillian’s widower brother, Prince Damon, could marry and provide the heir his parents and countrymen so desperately demand!
Dear Reader,
March roars in in grand style at Silhouette Romance, as we continue to celebrate twenty years of publishing the best in contemporary category romance fiction. And the new millennium boasts several new miniseries and promotions…such as ROYALLY WED, a three-book spinoff of the cross-line series that concluded last month in Special Edition Arlene James launches the new limited series with A Royal Masquerade, featuring a romance between would-be enemies, in which appearances are definitely deceiving….
Susan Meier’s adorable BREWSTER BABY BOOM series concludes this month with Oh, Babies! The last Brewster bachelor had best beware—but the warning may be too late! Karen Rose Smith graces the lineup with the story of a very pregnant single mom who finds Just the Man She Needed in her lonesome cowboy boarder whose plans had never included staying. The delightful Terry Essig will touch your heart and tickle your funny bone with The Baby Magnet, in which a hunky single dad discovers his toddler is more of an attraction than him—till he meets a woman who proves his ultimate distraction.
A confirmed bachelor finds himself the solution to the command: Callie, Get Your Groom as Julianna Morris unveils her new miniseries BRIDAL FEVER! And could love be What the Cowboy Prescribes…in Mary Starleigh’s charming debut Romance novel?
Next month features a Joan Hohl/Kasey Michaels duet, and in coming months look for Diana Palmer, and much more. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration!
Happy Reading!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
A Royal Masquerade
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Books by Arlene James
Silhouette Romance
City Girl #141
No Easy Conquest #235
Two of a Kind #253
A Meeting of Hearts #327
An Obvious Virtue #384
Now or Never #404
Reason Enough #421
The Right Moves #446
Strange Bedfellows #471
The Private Garden #495
The Boy Next Door #518
Under a Desert Sky #559
A Delicate Balance #578
The Discerning Heart #614
Dream of a Lifetime #661
Finally Home #687
A Perfect Gentleman #705
Family Man #728
A Man of His Word #770
Tough Guy #806
Gold Digger #830
Palace City Prince #866
*The Perfect Wedding #962
*An Old-Fashioned Love #968
*A Wife Worth Waiting For #974
Mail-Order Brood #1024
*The Rogue Who Came To Stay #1061
*Most Wanted Dad #1144
Desperately Seeking Daddy #1186
*Falling for a Father of Four #1295
A Bride To Honor #1330
Mr. Right Next Door #1352
Glass Slipper Bride #1379
A Royal Masquerade #1432
Silhouette Special Edition
A Rumor of Love #664
Husband in the Making #776
With Baby in Mind #869
Child of Her Heart #964
The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler #1131
Every Cowgirl’s Dream #1195
Marrying an Older Man #1235
Baby Boy Blessed #1285
Silhouette Books
Fortune’s Children
Single with Children
The Fortunes of Texas
Corporate Daddy
ARLENE JAMES
grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
The obsequious little man in state dress, complete with the sash of office, made yet another bow and droned on. “We of Wynborough understand, of course, and most assuredly admire the rich maritime history of our trusted and revered ally Thortonburg.”
“Our piratical history, you mean,” Roland Thorton interrupted with droll impatience, secretly amused to see the little man jerk and grapple with his composure.
“Oh, no, Your Highness. Never!” The man gasped, as if shocked to his core.
“Come now,” Roland said, frowning and drumming his fingertips on the ornate arms of his chair in a show of regal boredom while delightedly baiting the snobbish little twit. “We Thortons are not ashamed of our forebears. Pirates they were, fierce and unscrupulous, and they kept our marvelous isle afloat with their ill-gotten gains. Our current shipping concerns are but a pale, distant image of those magnificent marauders of our past. We are pirates of banking and horseflesh, oil and tourism now. And it is the same with our smaller neighbor of Roxbury, though I have little doubt that Prince Charles would deny it. Pirates we were, sir, battling for the same plunder. Now we are but dignified and proper purveyors of goods, vying for the same contract year after year with your honorable King Phillip for no good reason except that it is tradition. So, who shall it be? Does my father, the Grand Duke of Thortonburg, or Prince Charles Montague of Roxbury win this year’s shipping contract with Wynborough?”
The little man gulped and dug a finger beneath the tight, starched collar of his shirt, bobbing from the waist in that perpetual bow. “As to that, my lord Roland, His Majesty King Phillip bears the highest regard for Thortonburg and all its interests.”
“I should hope so,” Roland drawled. “He saw his daughter married to Thortonburg’s heir apparent, after all.” He leaned forward suddenly, skewering the statesman with a pointed glare. “I should think that as my brother Raphael is son-in-law to your king, special consideration might be given to us. Even now Princess Elizabeth awaits the birth of a child who will further both royal lines.” Actually, it was his father, the Grand Duke, who thought special consideration should be given, despite the fact that Rafe refused to ask his wife to intervene on Thortonburg’s behalf. Roland had his personal doubts, which his father, as usual, chose to ignore.
Wynborough’s Deputy Minister of Trade drew himself up to his official best and finally—finally—approached the heart of the matter. Roland gritted his teeth, suspecting what was coming and dreading what would follow.
“There, Prince Roland, you have hit squarely upon the problem. Surely you understand that His Highness must avoid all semblance of favoritism. He means to rule justly, you see.”
Impatiently, Roland crossed his legs and flicked lint from the trousers of his ceremonial costume. “Yes, yes. Out with it, if you please, while I am still young. Do we or do we not have the contract?”
The minister pursed his lips, abandoned diplomacy and answered baldly, “Not.”
Roland slumped, half in relief, half in regret and wholly in exhaustion. The celebration of King Phillip’s twenty-year reign as monarch of Wynborough continued unabated, despite the fact that numerous business meetings such as this one were taking place all over Wyndham Castle. In truth, it was the business that brought Roland to Wynborough. Although his presence as a member of the royal family of Thortonburg was required and expected, he had little patience with pomp and circumstance, which, to his mind, was to be endured rather than enjoyed and then only when absolutely necessary. Twenty-six years of training, however, immediately had him straightening his spine again. Squaring his shoulders, he gave his head that regal tip.
“You are telling me that we have lost the contract precisely because my brother has married a royal princess of Wynborough. Is that correct?”
The bureaucrat bowed his head. “I regret to say that it is.”
It was just as Roland had suspected. His father would not be pleased, and though it was Raphael’s connections that had cost them the contract, it was he, Roland, who would bear the blame. He, after all, had been running Thorton Shipping while his brother had been establishing a construction business in America. Not that he blamed Rafe. Indeed, he would have gladly joined him. The trappings of royalty, he knew only too well, were often as much trap as bother. But someone had to tend the till. Raphael could not suspect how delighted Roland was to have his older brother home and involving himself in the running of the country. Or perhaps he did. Rafe was no one’s fool, and love seemed to have made him unexpectedly insightful. That was one complication Roland was determined to avoid.
Love was well enough when it brought his brother home to his duty, but Roland intended to simplify his own life now. It was time to see to his own future, and he had in mind a certain lush little island nestled neatly between Thortonburg and Roxbury. A Thortonburg principality, it had been suggested for development because of its pristine beaches, but Roland had quietly quashed that idea, envisioning instead a horse ranch and stud farm of unparalleled prominence. To that end, he had begun acquiring the finest stock to be had in all of Europe and was even now arranging the transport of an Irish thoroughbred of supreme line and conformation, a most spirited beast as fast as the wind and black as the night. Roland hadn’t decided on a name for him yet. Something piratical perhaps.
The minister droned on, assuring Roland that Thorton Shipping enjoyed the favor of the Wyndhams and that only circumstance had cost them the contract. He would have said the same things to Montague had the Thortons secured the contract instead. Only the fact that he was a guest at Wynborough prevented Roland from simply getting up and walking out of the opulent chamber. It was with relief and bemusement, then, that he watched a concealed door open in the wainscoting next to the fireplace and a costumed footman appear.
The Deputy Minister scowled at the interruption, but the footman could not be outdone in magisterial hauteur. Back and shoulders straight, he looked down his nose into nothingness and announced pompously, “Begging your pardon, Deputy Minister, I have an urgent personal message for Prince Roland of Thortonburg.”
The Deputy Minister flattened his lips together, obviously disgruntled to have his official business curtailed before all the appropriate niceties were performed and he was given his due by the prince of Thortonburg. Nevertheless, protocol demanded that he cease and desist.
Roland was both thrilled and wary. He welcomed the opportunity to be rid of the minister at the very same moment that he prepared himself for yet another thankless assignment. Rising, he concluded his business with the minister, curtly thanking the silly man for his time. Silently, the deputy backed away, bowing and scrambling as Roland strode straight for the footman. Bending his head, he allowed the footman to whisper into his ear.
“The Grand Duke and Duchess of Thortonburg request your immediate audience, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you to a private apartment via the quickest route.”
Roland straightened and lifted an imperious brow. The quickest route, was it? Immediacy was ever one of his father’s requirements, but this summons contained the flavor of true haste. The mention of his mother made it a family matter. Curious, but convenient. His mother’s presence would temper the Grand Duke’s outburst when Roland told him that his coveted shipping contract was to be denied him for another year. It would be fuel to the fire, however, of the ongoing feud between the Thortons and the Montagues of Roxbury. Personally, Roland found the whole thing asinine. He understood that once the shipping contract had meant the difference between prosperity in the coming year or hard times for the common people, but that had ceased to be a real issue before the Second World War. These days, it was more a matter of ego, a personal vendetta waged by minions on behalf of his father and Prince Charles of Roxbury—and Roland was, unfortunately, one of those minions. Ah, well, best get the thing behind him for another year.
Tugging at the cuffs of a black cutaway coat of a costume that was as much tuxedo as uniform, Roland nodded at the footman. “Lead on, then.”
The footman slid a triumphant look at the thwarted deputy, putting that man firmly in his place, and executed a neat pivot on the heel of one foot, plumes bobbing from his ridiculous headdress. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.” With that he stepped into the opening in the wall and led Roland through a maze of winding, identical passageways and staircases. To Roland’s bemused amazement, they stepped through yet another wall and into the hallway just outside the opulent apartments assigned to his family. The footman stepped up to the door and rapped it smartly with his gloved knuckles.
Roland pushed past him to open the door and walk into the large salon joining his assigned rooms with those of his parents. He was not surprised to find that he was the last to arrive, since he naturally would have been the last summoned. The Grand Duke lived and breathed protocol, hence the heir would always be called upon before the “spare.” Fortunately for Roland, he was genuinely fond of his elder brother and did not covet his birthright in the least. It was difficult, however, to constantly feel the lack of his father’s approval, especially since Raphael was the one who had escaped to America all those years, leaving Roland behind to deal with his royal responsibilities and autocratic parent alone. Now that Rafe had returned to the fold and established a truce with their father, Roland was beginning to scent escape. He truly hoped that Rafe and Elizabeth would eventually settle permanently in Thortonburg and take up the reins of power.
Roland smiled and nodded to his mother, then strolled over to test the waters by delivering a companionable whack to his brother’s shoulder. Rafe slid a small, taut smile at him, his gaze trained warily on their father. Something serious was afoot then, and not even Rafe knew what it was all about yet. Roland turned his attention to the Grand Duke and was surprised to find one-time Wynborough royal bodyguard Lance Grayson standing at his father’s back. Lance was a member of the Thortonburg security team now, head of the Investigative Division.
Roland felt a chill of premonition. His training served him well, however, and he kept the worrisome emotion firmly masked.
“Your timing is impeccable, Father. I had just gotten to the heart of the matter with that little cockroach of a deputy minister.”
Victor, Grand Duke of Thortonburg, removed his elbow from the mantle of a cold marble fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin imperiously. He was a tall, big man, long-limbed and thick in the chest with silver hair and sharp blue eyes, every inch the regent. “And?”
Roland shook his head, his dread carefully concealed. “King Phillip does not want to appear to be playing favorites. The contract goes to Roxbury again this year.”
Victor turned away in disgust. Something akin to shock settled over Roland as he realized that his father wasn’t going to explode—yet. Raphael sighed loudly and commented, “So you were right, Roland. Good call. Unfortunately.”
Roland’s mouth quirked in a grateful smile. That sensitivity of Rafe’s was working overtime.
“Maybe it’s connected,” Victor said suddenly, turning to Lance Grayson.
Grayson looked down at something in his hands and shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but at this point, no one can say.”
Sara Thorton spoke up from her place on the small, French provincial sofa where she sat with her tiny hands folded in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her soft platinum gray hair swept into a classic roll. “Isn’t it time we were all told what has happened? Frankly, you’re frightening me, Victor.”
Victor Thorton sighed, and for the first time in memory, Roland saw his father as tired and uncertain. “I fear you’re all going to be terribly shocked,” he said in an oddly strained voice, “as I am myself. A man’s mistakes often rise up to devour him, and, dammit, I know no other way to fight this thing than to simply take it by the throat. You might as well hear for yourselves, then.” Straightening, he once more clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at Lance Grayson, who cleared his throat, lifted a paper, unfolded it and began to read.
“‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter.”’
The duchess gasped. Like Roland, Raphael stood in frozen shock for a moment, but then he chuckled. “What kind of joke is this?”
Roland, however, was looking at their father, who seemed to have aged several years in the past few moments. “Doesn’t sound like a joke to me,” he murmured.
“What else could it be?” his mother exclaimed. “We don’t have a daughter!”
“You don’t have a daughter,” Victor ground out, turning away guiltily.
“Victor?” Sara said, her voice wobbling high.
“Could we please take this one step at a time?” Victor growled. “Let us at least get through the note. Grayson, if you please.”
The security agent cast a bland look around the room and began again. “‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter. Before you throw her life away as you did that of her mother, Maribelle, take a good look at the enclosed photograph. No doubt you’ll agree that the family resemblance is pronounced. Add to this the existence of a raspberry birthmark in the shape of a teardrop and identification is a certainty.”’
Roland traded looks with his brother. The birthmark was a closely guarded family secret, a hedge against impostors, a secret held by generations of Thortons—until now. Grayson went on reading.
“‘The life of an innocent young woman may mean nothing to you, but have no doubt that the world will know your dirty secrets if you fail to follow my future instructions to the letter. Do nothing—contact no agency—until then.’ And it’s signed, ‘The Justicier.”’
“What does it mean?” Sara asked after a moment fraught with heavy silence.
Before taking it upon himself to answer, Lance Grayson glanced at the Grand Duke, who turned to lean both arms against the mantlepiece, presenting his bowed back to the room. Grayson folded his hands, feet braced wide apart in a familiar stance. “Obviously the kidnapper considers him or herself the dispenser of justice, which I expect takes a monetary form. Otherwise, he or she would merely leak this young woman’s existence to the press and be done with it.”
“You’re saying this person, this alleged Thorton daughter, exists,” Rafe stated unequivocally.
Lance Grayson said nothing to that, merely looked pointedly at the Grand Duke. Victor slowly straightened, tugging at the hem of his eggshell-white, military-style ceremonial coat. Turning, he extracted something from a pocket, a photograph. Looking down at it, he seemed to struggle for a moment. When he looked up again, he had eyes only for his wife.
“It only happened once,” he said stiffly, “long ago, and her name was, indeed, Maribelle.”
Sara lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. In that moment, she appeared as something less than the Grand Duchess of Thortonburg. Instead, she looked, for all the world, like every loving wife facing her worst moment of betrayal. Roland felt his hands curl into fists, but by sheer habit the anger that his father all too often aroused in him remained carefully, tightly controlled. Rafe glanced his way before stepping forward to address their father.
“You’re telling us that we have a sister?”
“I’m telling you that it’s possible, even probable.” With that, Victor handed over the photograph. Rafe stepped close to Roland and lifted the small, camera-developed snapshot. The resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair, blue eyes, patrician features in an oval face. She was smiling, the photo obviously having been taken in an unguarded moment. Roland felt his heart lurch. His sister. A surge of fierce protectiveness surprised him.
“She looks to be about my age,” he said.
“A year older, I would expect,” Victor confirmed. He turned to his wife defensively. “It happened over twenty-seven years ago. We married for duty, Sara, but love came later, didn’t it?”
She nodded, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief that had appeared from somewhere. “I remember,” she said. “We were…estranged.”
“Yes. It was so hard to understand and admit that the marriage of duty into which we had entered had become so very…emotional.”
“I suppose it was my fault,” she said, looking up at him through her tears. “I changed the rules on you. I was the one who wanted, needed, more.”
The duke bowed his head momentarily and cleared his throat before saying, “That’s not entirely true. I just didn’t know how to deal with changes in my own feelings. I…ran away.”
“To Glenshire,” Sara added, remembering, “the old hunting lodge.”
“I met Maribelle there in Glenshire,” he rasped. “I thought that an affair with her would restore my perspective, and it did, only not in the way I expected. She was dear and lovely and lonely, I think, and we both knew that I would never stay with her. When I ended it, I knew that the only woman I would ever again want was waiting for me at home.”
Sara chuckled tearfully. “You pursued me—courted me, really—after eight years of marriage. I didn’t care why. Then.”
“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” Victor said stiffly, “only to support my efforts in this. Whatever I’ve done, the girl is innocent.”
For a long moment, Sara Thorton said nothing, merely stared sadly at her husband, but then she lifted her hand to her face and skimmed away her tears. “Roland came after that reconciliation. You’ve given me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. But I always wanted a daughter, and you gave her to another woman.”
Victor pursed his lips, obviously fighting his own emotions. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said finally. “I wanted to spare you this knowledge. I wanted to spare us both this moment. I never knew about the child, but if she’s mine, and it seems that she is, I must find her.”
“It could still be an elaborate hoax,” Grayson pointed out, his even tone not quite hiding his discomfort at witnessing such a personal exchange. “The girl may not be a Thorton at all. We have to find out what has become of this Maribelle and whether or not she even has a daughter.”
Sara briskly dried her eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re right, of course, Mr. Grayson. That should be our first step.”
Roland glanced down at the photo that he had taken from his brother’s hand. His gut told him that this was no hoax, but they had to be sure. Meanwhile, they had to consider what to do next. The trouble was that his own mind was whirling. You gave me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. Roland couldn’t help wondering if his brother had picked up on that statement. Personally, he was having a little trouble thinking of himself as the love child in the equation.