Читать книгу The Princess And The Duke - Allison Leigh - Страница 8

Grand bells chimed from every steeple, ringing out a chorus the likes of which the country of Penwyck had not heard in decades. Citizens of the island country lined the streets of the capital city, Marlestone, shouting and clapping and singing and pushing eagerly against the barriers as the anticipated hour drew near.

Some had turned out at the crack of dawn to jostle for a position against those who’d slept on the streets all night long. Though slept was undoubtedly overstating it, Meredith thought as she rode along the street, her face stretched into a calm smile. Judging by the elaborate setup some in the crowd possessed, she was certain that more revelry had been going on during the night before her sister’s wedding than any sleeping.

Anastasia nudged her foot, her eyes laughing as they passed the last corner before turning up the road that would lead to Marlestone Cathedral. A particularly patriotic fellow with his face painted in red and gold waved madly at their open motorcar as they passed.

The closer they drew to the cathedral, the more closely spaced were the security guards, the less boisterous the crowd became, though spirits were most definitely high. Meredith wiggled her toes in her high-heeled pumps. It didn’t matter how well designed the satin shoes were, they still pinched her toes.

But at least she and Anastasia were carried in comfort. The men in the wedding party, including her brother Owen, had already walked under the late-afternoon August sunshine a good half mile on foot to the cathedral. They walked through spotless streets lined with people who were as interested in getting a close-up view of the young man most presumed would one day be king as they were in seeing the bridegroom, Jean-Paul Augustuve, Earl of Silvershire, who hailed from neighboring Drogheda.

Their car drew to a slow, measured stop at the base of the steps leading to the cathedral, and Anastasia stood first, the fabric of her long blue gown unfolding smoothly as she was helped from the vehicle to the pristine stone step. With wisps of hair drifting about her slender neck in the gentle breeze, she was a vision, and the crowds let her know it. They cheered when Anastasia ascended a few steps, then stopped to wait for Meredith.

And why wouldn’t they cheer for Anastasia? She was wildly popular. And today she looked very much the princess she was with delicate diamond pins glistening among the curls pinned up in an artfully tousled style.

Aware that she was moving just a little too slowly, Meredith gathered her skirts and stepped from the car. The timing of the processional was all carefully orchestrated, right down to the last minute. Just that morning, she had listened with the rest of the family as they’d been run through the drill as if it were a military maneuvering of the highest order.

Despite the fact that Penwyck was on the cusp of signing groundbreaking alliances with a neighboring island country, Majorco, and an even more important alliance with the United States, every branch of the Penwyckian military had given support to the first royal wedding Penwyck had seen since that of the King. There had been a run-through the previous day, without any family members present, of course, to ensure that the timing of everything—from the speed of the motorcars during the procession to the trumpet fanfare when the King arrived with Megan to the gait of the horses that would pull the carriages used during the recession—was spot on.

Meredith sighed a little as she joined Anastasia on the steps to the ornate west entrance to the cathedral. It was hard not to be moved by the bells ringing out so joyfully. And she was very happy for Megan. Of course she was. Megan was in love, and Jean-Paul returned it. What more could a woman ask? Even a princess, blessed with untold privilege, deserved love.

Yet there was a little part deep inside Meredith that was, well, a bit envious. She’d never had a man look at her with his heart in his eyes the way Jean-Paul looked at Megan. She’d never been swept away by passion the way Megan and Jean-Paul had been, evidenced by the fact that the heirloom wedding gown Megan was wearing had had to be carefully altered to hide her slightly thickening midriff.

At the thought of a coming niece or nephew, Meredith forgot her envy, as she always did. Megan would be a wonderful mother.

“I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall flat on my face with these shoes. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into wearing such high heels,” Anastasia murmured under her breath as they left the brilliant sunshine and entered the wide entrance of the cathedral.

“You can’t wear riding clothes all the time,” Meredith countered easily through her smile. “And keep your voice down. There are television cameras watching all this, remember?” She didn’t know the name of the young army officer who extended his arm to escort her along the nave past rows and rows of guests, then beneath the soaring arch into the more intimate choir, and even farther up three shallow marble steps to the seats where, for generations, the royal family had sat near the chancel.

It was a long walk. And for a moment, Meredith wondered how Megan would fare, as her sister was still touched by a bit of morning sickness now and again. Not to mention her recent, frightening brush with encephalitis.

But Megan would be supported by their father. And King Morgan was more than able to escort petite Meggie.

Her escort’s job finished, Meredith automatically held her heavy silk skirt with one hand and turned toward her seat.

But the unexpected sight of the man sitting in the row beside that seat brought her up short. Her feet, inside her slightly pinching priceless pumps took root right there on the polished floor. “You.”

The uniformed man rose, politely offering his hand to help her up the step to her seat. Feeling foolish, as Anastasia had gracefully stepped around her and was already slipping into the wooden bench that gleamed from years of loving attention, Meredith swallowed and rested her fingers lightly on his hard, warm hand, quickly moving up the step.

Just as quickly, she removed her hand from his as she seated herself. “Thank you, Colonel Prescott,” she said politely. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“Your Royal Highness.” He inclined his head as he greeted her. Barely an inch. Just enough to show his respect of her status. Just enough to let her know he was a man who really bowed to no one except perhaps the King.

And why would he? He was the Duke of Aronleigh, after all. An award of great merit bestowed on him by her father a decade earlier.

“I didn’t expect to be seated up here, either.” His big hand casually brushed aside a fold of her pale gold skirt as he sat beside her. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

Meredith’s smile felt strained. “Thank you. Your troops are looking very smart today.” He made a soft sound. Almost of impatience, she thought. “You didn’t bring a date?”

At that, she did feel his silvery-green gaze turn her way. “I’m hardly here in a social capacity.”

Her eyebrow rose. “Are you armed to the teeth then, Colonel, beneath that dress uniform of yours? Prepared to do battle against any interlopers set on disrupting the nuptials?”

His bland expression changed not a whit. Perhaps that was what made him such an exceptional colonel. He was head of Royal and Army Intelligence, after all, and a member of the Royal Elite Team—a small group of men personally selected by the King as his closest advisers. He was no longer a mere lieutenant standing post at a spring ball. He was a powerful man in his own right.

A man who made her nerves feel as if they were being tormented by a horde of buzzing bees.

“If you are unhappy with the seating arrangement, I’d be happy to sit elsewhere,” he assured her evenly.

Meredith stifled the impulse to kick his shin. He knew she was uncomfortable sitting beside him. Since her seventeenth year, in fact, she’d gone out of her way to avoid him. And he her. Unfortunately, over the years there’d been many occasions not in the least bit social when they’d had to deal with one another.

“Not at all,” she assured him blithely. “Goodness knows how many meetings it took for the seating arrangement to be finalized.” She opened her ivory program and stared blindly at the golden script. Jean-Paul’s parents had just been seated across the wide aisle, and Meredith smiled and nodded their way. Prince Bernier, the ruler of Drogheda, was seated near them. He was Jean-Paul’s uncle, and rumor had it that Jean-Paul might become his uncle’s heir, as Bernier only had one daughter. A flighty nut who Meredith had little use for. As far as she was concerned, Bernier could do no better than Jean-Paul. He’d make a fine ruler one day.

Any minute, she knew her mother would be seated, and judging by the sudden hush that fairly echoed up to the lofty mural-painted ceilings of the cathedral, Queen Marissa was undoubtedly even now gliding down the center aisle to the accompaniment of the understated prelude.

As many times as Meredith had practiced that walk as a youth, she’d never figured out how her mother was able to accomplish it. As if she were floating, hovering an inch above the ground as she moved.

Considering the people of her country thought Queen Marissa no less than a living angel, it was an apt thought.

Only it was also a thought that led Meredith to wonder what exactly the man beside her thought. She wasn’t thrilled to be seated beside him. Was stunned, in fact, to see him at all. Because, unless it was strictly required of him in his official capacity to attend an event where any member of the royal family was to be present, he avoided it like the plague.

She closed her program and folded her hands on top of it in her lap. If the wedding hadn’t been planned in such a rush—an unheard of three weeks, actually—she supposed she might have taken the time to review the seating arrangements and been better prepared. “If not social,” she said, determined to remain pleasant, “then it must be official?”

She’d never know if he intended to answer, for her mother came into view, and everyone rose in deference to her.

Meredith sighed again. Beauty radiated from her mother in a way Meredith could never hope to emulate. It came from inside her, she was sure. And Marissa probably never had feelings of envy for a sister on the happiest day of her life.

Only Marissa had never had any sisters. She’d only had one brother, Edwin, and he’d been killed on neighboring Majorco ten years earlier.

“It’s a shame my uncle isn’t alive to be here today,” Meredith murmured as the Queen was seated in one of the two seats closest to the high altar. A uniform shuffle could be heard as everyone followed suit.

“Why?”

She looked at the colonel. Then just as quickly looked away. It was too hard to look at him without getting that infuriatingly breathless feeling inside her chest. “How can you ask that?”

“You were barely eighteen when your uncle died. How well did you even know him?”

Her lips parted. She was as much startled by his awareness of just how old she’d been as she was by his cool tone, which seemed almost a dismissal of the tragedy. “I…well, I remember him from my childhood, of course.” Her uncle Edwin had bounced her on his knee and told her tales of knights and dragon slayers. When she was a teenager, he’d been a less frequent visitor. “I was referring to my mother, in any case. He was the last of her side of the family. This is the first wedding of one of her children. I’d think you’d be more sensitive to that since you lost your only family, too.”

“My parents died long ago.”

“Twelve years.” He wasn’t the only one who had a long memory.

His gaze sharpened. “I’m surprised you remember that.”

“I remember many things,” Meredith said smoothly. She also remembered the spring following his loss. When he’d succeeded in making her feel a humiliated fool on the dance floor of the Royal Spring Ball.

“How is your sister feeling?”

If he could be polite, so, certainly, could she. She could hide her agitation. Of course she could. “Megan is doing well. Quite recovered. Thank you for asking.” Her fingertips toyed with the parchment edge of the program. Only in his company had she ever had to scramble for topics of conversation. “Plans for the children’s facility at the base are going well.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Meredith’s position as the royal family’s liaison to the Royal Intelligence Institute kept her closely involved in several efforts of the world-renowned institution. One of the latest was Horizons, a child-care and activity center located on the army base in the north-central portion of Penwyck. “Will you be at the opening celebration next week?”

“No.”

She didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that she felt. But a rustling from the vestry heralded the entrance of Jean-Paul and his supporters as they took their place in the chancel, and she focused her attention on the men.

Behind her, Anastasia leaned forward and murmured in her ear that Owen looked particularly smashing in his formal wear.

Meredith had to agree. Her little brother would probably be king one day—though her father had yet to officially name which of his twin sons would be his successor even though Owen was a more natural leader than Dylan. Looking at Owen, she thought the mantle of authority already sat well on his broad shoulders, despite his mere twenty-three years.

“It’s a shame Dylan isn’t here,” Anastasia whispered. “I still can’t believe no one has been able to get hold of him.”

Meredith nodded. Owen’s twin was roaming the hills of Europe somewhere and had completely missed the recent scandal of quiet Megan’s stunning revelation of being pregnant.

A sudden muted roar made itself heard from outside the cathedral, and to a one, every guest inside the soaring structure felt a surge of excitement in that half moment before the Royal Trumpet Corp burst into the first brilliant notes of the fanfare that had been written specifically in honor of Megan’s wedding. Meredith knew what that cheer meant, what that fanfare meant. It meant that Megan, on the arm of their father, King Morgan of Penwyck, had ascended the steps and was waiting in the cathedral entry.

Shivers danced down her spine. She couldn’t help it. Her little sister was getting married.

The moment the fanfare concluded, the processional began. The congregation rose again as the low tones from the pipe organ, overlaid with the beautiful, stately notes of a lone trumpeter, soared through the cathedral.

Within minutes, Megan and the King came into view. Meredith’s eyes stung as she blinked back tears. Meggie looked beautiful. Simply beautiful. And their father had an uncharacteristically broad smile on his handsome face.

Behind Megan and the King trailed the three little girls who were serving as bridesmaids and the matching three young page boys. They looked sweet as could be, and for a moment, Meredith remembered when she’d been a young girl, participating in some distant relative’s wedding.

She glanced over her shoulder at Anastasia, smiling shakily at seeing her feelings mirrored on her sister’s face. Anastasia caught Meredith’s hand in hers and squeezed. Her striking blue gaze flickered to the groom, and Meredith followed the gaze. A look of adoration and, well, hunger shone from Jean-Paul’s handsome face.

“He loves her.”

Meredith swallowed, surprised at the soft comment coming from the colonel. “Of course he does. Why would we be here today if he didn’t?”

Pierce thought about answering that, but decided it would be wiser if he didn’t. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the sake of the royal family, nothing he hadn’t done for them already. But everyone in the country had been witness to the scandal surrounding Megan and Jean-Paul’s engagement. Thanks to the oft invasive media, what should have been a private matter between Her Royal Highness and her lover had instead been splashed across newspapers from one shore of the isle to the other. Pierce knew there had been pressure on the couple to make things right. And though he’d rather chew nails than admit it, he was pleased for the quiet middle princess that this marriage was based in love and not a result of public or private pressure.

But while Princess Megan did make a lovely bride, Pierce was more interested in studying the man escorting her down the aisle.

His Majesty looked much as he always did. Instead of his typical attire, in honor of the occasion he wore his full regalia, complete with the orders of his ancestors pinned to his royal white sash and his lapels emblazoned with the dozens of military medals he’d earned over his career before his coronation. Not a strand of his short, wavy brown hair looked out of place, something the tall, commanding figure carried off without looking the least bit plastic.

Pierce watched the King closely as they neared the chancel. He had just the right amount of emotion in his eyes as he drew the filmy veil from Megan’s face, kissed her lightly on the cheek and took his place next to the Queen.

A soft sniffle near his shoulder dragged at his attention, and he looked at Meredith. He knew she topped the five feet mark by exactly seven inches in her bare feet—there were very few details regarding any member of the royal family he wasn’t privy to—but in her high heels, she was only a few inches below his six one.

She was tall enough to fit him. Endowed with enough curves to be dangerous to a man’s peace of mind. She had a wicked intelligence, eyes the color of emeralds and a mouth made for sin.

Meredith Elizabeth, Princess of Penwyck. Eldest child of the monarch. He’d felt the sting of want for her when she’d been a mere teenager and he a young army officer. Back then, when life was easier, it was her royal status and youth that had kept her out of his reach.

Now, more than a dozen years and an eternity of actions later, she was even more out of his reach. Every time she looked at him with her green eyes, he felt damned. Damned for wanting her. Damned for lying to her. Damned because every time they were within ten yards of one another, he could see the confusion and hurt deep in her eyes that told him she was every bit as aware of him as he was aware of her. And that his deliberate evasion of her hurt.

He glanced at the King and wished to heaven that he could have come up with some reason to avoid this wedding, the way he avoided most all of the social events involving the royal family. The sooner he got away from them all, the better.

But it really wasn’t them all that caused his current consternation. It was only the woman beside him who was upsetting his equilibrium.

His mind not at all on the service, Pierce silently offered his handkerchief. She looked at him, surprised, then hurriedly looked away. He watched her suck in her lower lip for a moment, blinking rapidly as she tried to gain control of her emotions. But it was no good. A diamond-bright tear slipped down her ivory cheek.

Almost defiantly, then, she took the square of cloth, being careful not to touch him in any way as she did so. She quickly dabbed the corners of her eyes, then held out his handkerchief.

The last time he’d seen Meredith so open with her emotions, she’d been seventeen. Back then, it had been all he could do to remember just who she was and keep his behavior properly circumspect. With age, it was easier to remember who she was but no less difficult to remain unmoved by her presence. “Keep it.”

She didn’t look at him. But her fingers closed over the square of white cloth, enfolding it in her fist.

The organ suddenly blasted the first notes of a hymn. Beside him, Meredith started, betraying her preoccupation.

She was watching the ceremony, crying tears over it, yet she’d been as unprepared for the hymn as he’d been. Because of it, he knew she’d been as lost in her thoughts—whatever they might be—as he’d been in his.

He also realized that the ceremony was nearly finished. For the couple had already retreated and returned from the vestry, along with the bishop and the King and Queen, where they had signed the register. He, master of intelligence, keeper of lies, committer of sins, had managed to miss the entire thing. All because of a woman whose waist he could span with his hands.

The congregation was singing the final hymn. The words came automatically to Pierce, without thought. And thank God—no pun intended—for it.

Considering he’d spent his entire childhood from eight to eighteen with his hind planted in one of the pews of his father’s church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday evening, he ought to know the hymns. He ought to know every in and out of every religious service in which the church could possibly participate.

It really was a measure of the powerful distraction standing beside him that he didn’t even think about what all was involved with a Penwyckian wedding.

Or what sitting beside her meant in relation to those details.

Not until the bishop had pronounced Megan and Jean-Paul husband and wife did it begin to dawn on him. Not until Jean-Paul had kissed his new bride, restrained and befitting the public setting but nonetheless a testament to the feelings that ran deep inside him for the woman carrying his child, did it fully hit Pierce.

But by then, it was already too late.

For the bishop, all smiles despite the pomp and circumstance of the event, looked at the congregation. “And now,” he intoned, “as has been our custom for centuries, we invite you to greet your neighbors in this house of God with all good grace, and peace, that we may go out into the world, sharing the blessings of this day with all those we meet.”

In some countries, Pierce knew sharing the blessing might involve little more than a handshake and a muttered, “Blessin’s to yer.”

In Penwyck, however, it meant the worst of all possible things as far as Pierce was concerned.

It meant a kiss.