Читать книгу The Princess And The Duke - Allison Leigh - Страница 9

He’d been the son of a clergyman. Had even, briefly, considered following in his father’s stead. How could he have forgotten? How could he have overlooked this one small, fateful detail?

Why hadn’t it occurred to him what sitting next to Meredith at the wedding ceremony would entail?

Nerves strung tighter than piano wire, Pierce turned to the elderly woman on his left. She was a countess from somewhere in Belgium, but he’d be blasted if he could remember just where. Until Meredith and Anastasia had entered the church, she’d been busy reminiscing in her slightly shrill voice about the wedding of the King and Queen, thirty-five years earlier.

She’d rattled on and on until Pierce had wanted to put a muzzle on her. Particularly when she’d gone on to the tragedy of “poor, dear Edwin’s senseless killing.” But he could hardly be rude to the woman and tell her he wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about that particular event.

Smiling tightly at the elderly woman, he bussed her on first one heavily powdered cheek, then the other. She smiled beneficently at him and patted his cheek as if he were five instead of thirty-five.

And then Pierce turned to face Meredith. Her tears had dried, and her expression was cool as she stared at him. Then she regally lifted her chin just a hair.

It was rare for Pierceson Prescott to be rattled. But he was now. And that cool movement of Meredith’s, that regal little tilt started a slow burn deep down inside him.

All around them, people were greeting each other, laughing and delighting over the lovely quaint custom, but Pierce was aware of none of it. For the world had shrunk to an impossibly small bubble. Containing only him and the woman beside him.

A woman who, he would swear his army commission on, was watching him with challenge lighting her green eyes.

What Pierce wanted to do was sink his fingers into the rich brown waves of her hair, tumbling it from the roll into which it was pinned at her nape, and explore every inch of her mouth with his.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She was a member of the royal family, which was his duty and honor to protect and serve. Nor could he ignore the custom, not when it was entirely likely that it would be noticed. There were television cameras posted in the rafters of the cathedral watching every move of the royals and those nearby, for God’s sake!

Jaw aching, he lowered his head those few inches and touched Meredith’s cheek with his lips, barely grazing the satiny skin. And in return, he felt her lips, feather-light and soft as a dream, against his tight jaw.

Trembling like a leaf, Meredith nearly sighed aloud when Pierce’s lips touched her cheek. The brief moment seemed to stretch into an eternity as they parted. Anyone else would have simply kissed the other cheek and been done with it.

But not with Pierce. Never with Pierce.

Her gaze was caught in his, and her stomach tumbled a mile at the dark flame that seemed to burn in his. Her lungs felt starved for air, her heart starved for blood. And then, without conscious thought, she tilted her head and touched his lips with hers. Briefly, so very briefly.

Yet she felt him go stock-still. Felt the harsh inhalation of his breath after that first moment of shock passed. Felt the press of his lips against hers in that fraction of a second, demanding and hot.

Her lips softened, parted. Clung as the kiss threatened to go deeper. Shocked to the core at her own daring, she hastily stepped away, looking everywhere but at him, struggling to catch her breath.

The bride and groom had moved around in the chancel, all smiles. Megan swept into a low, utterly graceful curtsy to her father, the King, and Jean-Paul bowed. Then the triumphant strains of the recessional rang through the church, and they began their walk down the aisle, this time as husband and wife.

The bishop followed, along with the King and Queen. Then Jean-Paul’s supporters. Anastasia surreptitiously jostled Meredith’s arm, giving her an odd look, and realizing that she was hanging back, Meredith quickly ordered her shaking legs to move and stepped out of the pew to take her place in line as the family left the cathedral.

She didn’t look at the colonel.

She didn’t dare.

The light breeze had deepened to a cool wind, and when she stepped through the entrance onto the steps outside the cathedral, she had to catch her skirts from being blown around her knees. If the crowd had been boisterous before the ceremony, now they were positively wild as the bridal couple descended the stairs and entered the first horse-drawn coach, which would transport them through the central streets of Marlestone before making its way to the palace where the reception was being held in the grand ballroom.

The King and Queen were in the next coach, this one glass-enclosed, unlike the open-air one the bridal couple occupied. Then came their own carriage, Owen joining them for the return trip. The young bridesmaids and page boys went last, and Meredith, who was facing the rear, watched with a faint smile as little Sarah Julia flounced into her seat and waved at the crowds as if she were the Queen herself. There was a fleet of waiting motorcars to carry Jean-Paul’s parents, Prince Bernier and the other visiting royals to the palace.

There would be no good-natured scrambling for rides at this wedding. It was too well orchestrated.

Meredith’s gaze drifted up the steps to the guests who were beginning to stream from the cathedral doors, and like a homing pigeon, her attention went straight to Colonel Prescott, who stood on the topmost step, a bit aside from the throng. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was watching her ride away.

Anastasia nudged Owen and laughed softly. “Me-thinks our fair Meredith has a crush. Still.”

Owen raised one eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. A gaggle of teenagers lining the street nearby screamed as if he were the latest pinup, but he gave no notice. He looked at Meredith. “Who, Prescott? He’s a good man.”

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” Meredith said flatly. “Far too old for crushes.”

Anastasia smiled impishly. “What about—” she waited a beat “—love?”

Meredith deliberately ignored her sister.

“You should have seen the kiss she planted on the man,” Anastasia pseudo whispered to Owen. “Everyone in the cathedral could feel the heat, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows or the way Jean-Paul devours Megan with his eyes.”

Meredith’s cheeks burned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said more sharply than she intended.

Anastasia’s grin gentled. She could be a holy terror, but she was utterly softhearted. “Meredith, I’m only teasing you. I know how you feel about the colonel. Honestly, where is your sense of humor today?”

“I don’t feel anything about the colonel,” Meredith said flatly. “And I really do wish you’d drop it.”

Anastasia did, but Meredith could feel her sister’s pensive gaze on her for the remainder of the ride through the city. By the time the carriage passed through the massive gates leading to the palace, Meredith felt well and truly shrewish. She waited until they’d alighted from the carriage and caught Ana’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her sister smiled faintly, but there was little time to go into it, for the wedding guests were converging on the palace at an alarming rate. Meredith, who was used to playing the role of hostess at any number of royal functions, gathered her skirts and, putting Pierceson Prescott out of her mind—as far as he would go, at any rate—swept up the palace stairs and through the grand hall, greeting guests while subtly maneuvering them toward the ballroom and away from the doors to alleviate the bottleneck that occasionally formed there.

She was supposed to have gone straight to the private quarters where the official photographer planned to take a few photos, but knowing what a madhouse that was likely to be, she decided the staff needed her help in the ballroom more.

She didn’t let herself dwell on the fact that, while she was greeting and herding guests, there was no sign of Colonel Prescott.

The orchestra was playing, and the solemnity of the ceremony was fading as the noise level rose in the ballroom. It didn’t matter what one’s heritage was, royal or common. A party was a party was a party.

And this one was undoubtedly going to be a grand one.

But before the royal family could truly participate, there were those formal photos to be taken, and Meredith was one of the last to skip up to the balcony where the bride and groom had gathered, along with both sets of parents, cousins, distant or otherwise, and a veritable horde of other people.

“There you are, darling,” the Queen greeted Meredith when she’d finally extricated herself from the guests and arrived. “I was about to send Gwen after you.”

Meredith dashed a smoothing hand over her hair and with barely a blink slid into her customary position, behind and to the left of the Queen and King, who were always in the center of every photo but today would step toward the side in honor of the bridal couple.

She hid a smile at the way Jean-Paul and Megan’s hands were wound together, all but hidden by the drape of Megan’s dress. Meredith was long used to endless photography sessions, and her mind wandered as the photographer put them through their poses. Then it was out to the balcony over the ballroom where Megan and Jean-Paul smiled and waved and pleased the crowds waiting outside the palace gates by kissing each other.

It was joyful and great fun, and by the time the family descended the elegant stairs from the upper story to the ballroom proper, Meredith felt a little refreshed.

Which was a good thing, because judging by the revelers inside the ballroom, it looked to be a long evening ahead of them.

There was still the sit-down dinner, for one thing. For approximately five hundred of the couple’s nearest and dearest. The food was delicious, as was everything that came from the palace kitchens. From starters of smoked salmon canapés and delicate Gruyère and spinach tarts, through herb-stuffed veal to the finish of crème brulée and the official royal wedding cake that had taken two full weeks to prepare in the highly secured culinary institute affiliated with the Royal Intelligence Institute. It was all delicious.

Only Meredith could have been eating sawdust for all the notice she took of it, thanks to the seating arrangements. She’d had more than enough shocks for the day when it came to Colonel Pierceson Prescott. Seeing him in the cathedral at all was the first. Then that ridiculous insanity of hers that led her to actually kiss the man was next. But to find out that he had come to the palace for the reception while she’d been busy upstairs with the photography session was even more of a shock.

She couldn’t recall the last time Pierceson Prescott had stepped foot in the palace, though she supposed he certainly must have done so at some point since he’d been awarded his dukedom all those years ago. He had frequent dealings with the King, after all.

Meredith let her mind puzzle over his absences for some time, mostly because it was safer to concentrate on that than succumb to the memory of the feel of his lips or the warmth of his breath on her cheek in the cathedral.

Never in her life had she been so preoccupied with another individual. She was also quite sure she didn’t like being preoccupied. She could only hope it was because of the rarity of his presence.

Instead of the traditionally long banquet tables, the ballroom was filled with round tables to accommodate the number of guests, with the bride and groom and their parents at the long head table on the dais. The rest of the family were interspersed about the room, and Meredith thought that if it weren’t for Megan’s happiness, she’d have had to have had a serious word with her middle sister about the planning that had gone into the seating arrangements. For she was seated directly opposite Colonel Pierceson Prescott.

Admittedly, there were six other individuals at the table, as well, two married couples who were distantly related to Jean-Paul, an eligible single man and an equally eligible single woman who was doing a bang-up job of flirting with Colonel Prescott.

She stifled a sigh and dug her fork into the incredibly rich confection of cream cake and delicate fresh raspberries that the culinary institute had created for the wedding cake. No rum cake for Megan—she’d overruled that typical selection because of her pregnancy.

Keeping half an ear out for the toasts that were being made, she surreptitiously slid her heels out of her shoes. It was safe enough in light of the ivory and royal-blue linens that swept to the marble floor.

What she really wanted to do far more than wiggle her toes, however, was toss her linen napkin across the table to cover the low-cut bodice of Juliet Oxford. She was leaning toward the colonel, undoubtedly giving him quite an eyeful.

The man beside Meredith said something, and she murmured an absent assent, only to realize a half second later that she’d unthinkingly agreed to have dinner with him. His narrow face gleamed with a broad smile, and Meredith squelched yet another sigh. She couldn’t back out. It would be utterly rude.

Her cheeks heated, however, when she caught the colonel’s amused gaze. As if he knew exactly what had transpired to lead her into an unwanted dinner engagement.

Her smile firmed, and she ignored the colonel. “If you’d be good enough to call my personal secretary tomorrow, George, we’ll settle on a date.”

George smiled winningly. Meredith would go out to dinner with the man, and she would have a perfectly lovely time. George Valdosta was a few years older than she was, and she’d known him practically forever. He was well read, had a decent sense of humor and—

—wasn’t Pierceson Prescott.

She picked up her champagne and smiled brightly at George, determined to ignore the little voice inside her that insistently compared George’s modest appeal with the colonel’s overwhelming magnetism. It wasn’t George’s fault he wasn’t as tall as the colonel. Or that his thinning blond hair wasn’t the rich chestnut the colonel kept rigidly cut in order to control the lustrous waves. George couldn’t help the fact that his blue eyes were just that. Blue. Ordinary and not the least bit full of anything that seemed to speak to her soul.

Annoyed with herself more than ever, the moment the speeches were completed and the orchestra began playing again, Meredith drained her champagne and practically leaped from her chair to drag poor George through the tables to the dance floor.

The bride and groom danced first, of course, but were soon joined by the King and Queen. The guests stood on ceremony only long enough to receive an invitation to the gleaming dance floor from King Morgan before they crowded on. It didn’t matter whether it was a stately waltz, a smooshy love song or the latest rock hit from America, Meredith thought, as she swung in George’s arms to the quick tempo. These people were ready to dance.

Not even the departure of Megan and Jean-Paul dimmed the celebration, Meredith noticed later, as she hovered in the private courtyard. The limousine that would carry the couple to the private port where Jean-Paul’s sailing ketch, the West Wind, was docked had long departed. But Meredith had little desire to go back to the reception, though she knew she should.

“Quit mooning.” Anastasia slid her arm through Meredith’s and leaned close as they finally turned and headed toward the ballroom through the formal gardens. “They’re honeymooning at sea. It’s very romantic.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to miss Meggie.”

“Yes.”

Anastasia sighed a little. “I will, too.” But she brightened almost immediately. “So, any smoldering looks from our lovely Duke of Aronleigh across the dinner table this evening?”

“Anastasia, please.”

“What? The man looks at you as if he is mentally salivating.”

Meredith’s cheeks heated, and she was glad the only light in the gardens came from the plethora of tiny white bulbs twinkling in the trees. But, as she and her sister were utterly alone, she couldn’t keep her thoughts in any longer. “If Colonel Prescott had ever been the least bit interested in me, he would have said or done something long before now. He’s a man of action, Anastasia.”

“Mmm. Brings delicious things to mind, doesn’t it?” Her sister giggled softly, reminding Meredith of the teenager she’d once been. “Yet he usually doesn’t make appearances at our humble abode. And he’s here tonight. Sitting right across from you.”

“Coincidence,” Meredith assured her. “Mark my words. When we go back into the ballroom, I’ll bet you my favorite bottle of perfume he’ll be dancing with Juliet Oxford.”

“With her surgically enhanced chest, you mean.”

“Anastasia!”

Her sister shrugged, uncaring. “It’s true, isn’t it? Though Juliet certainly didn’t begin there. She started with that nose. And the chin, and then her buggy eyes—”

“You’re awful.” Meredith couldn’t help but laugh at her sister’s outrageous statements. Juliet Oxford may have had some help in the cleavage department, but she’d been born beautiful, and Anastasia knew it.

Her sister grinned, then pulled Meredith toward the steps leading to the terrace. “Seriously, darling, why would the duke possibly want her when he could have you? He is probably here because of the action you took at the church with that kiss.”

Meredith appreciated her sister’s loyalty, but not necessarily the reminder of her behavior. The doors to the ballroom were open to take advantage of the lovely night, and music streamed from inside. They paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of the guests. The Queen had retired to her chambers after bidding goodbye to Megan and Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul’s parents had also departed, along with a good number of the older guests. Those who remained seemed fit to party until dawn, including the King, who was standing in conversation with a small group of people near the dais. As Meredith watched, her father tossed back his head and laughed uproariously.

Well, at least he was having a good time. Taking a small breather from the stress of the last several weeks while negotiating the alliances.

Only Meredith wasn’t interested in watching her father. After that one brief glance, her eyes had immediately trained on Pierceson Prescott. Who was, sure enough, on the dance floor, holding Juliet Oxford in his arms. “What did I tell you?” Meredith murmured to her sister. The smile on her face felt unusually forced.

Anastasia gave her a sympathetic look before being swept off by friends. Meredith headed for one of the liveried staff circulating the room and took a crystal flute from his tray.

In seconds, George was at her side, but she begged off dancing, holding up her champagne. “I think I’d like just a quiet spot for a bit, George, if you don’t mind?”

Far too good-natured to be offended, he offered his company. She could hardly decline, but she was utterly grateful when some of his friends soon came by and pulled him away. Then, while she was rather stealthily working her way toward the terrace and the peace and quiet out there, Owen looped his arm around her waist.

She barely had time to put down her glass before he swung her onto the dance floor. “You can’t rebuff your brother,” he said, grinning.

“Well, I could,” Meredith corrected, grinning back. “But I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of all your fans.”

He made a face. “There’re a lot of guests,” he said after a moment.

“It’s a wedding. Of course there are a lot of guests.”

“I overheard Gwen talking with Mrs. Ferth. There were a lot of guests added at the last minute.”

Lady Gwendolyn Corbin was their mother’s lady-in-waiting, and Mrs. Ferth the Queen’s personal secretary. Naturally, the two women had been involved in the guest list. “Owen, it’s a wedding. A royal wedding, planned in an excruciatingly brief amount of time. Who knows what details went into the guest list.” Something in her brother’s eyes made hers narrow humorously. “Imagining conspiracies?”

His lips twitched, as she knew they would. “Only of Mrs. Ferth trying to stack the room with suitable prospective missus Owens.”

Meredith laughed softly. Owen would never be manipulated that way. Even at twenty-three, he was too much a man of his own. “Well, prospective brides aside, there are a number of pretty young things in the room who would be more than happy for ten minutes of your company. So what are you doing dancing with your old sister?”

“Because he wants to dance with his sister who isn’t so old,” Anastasia said behind her, and Meredith looked over her shoulder to see her little sister dancing with Colonel Prescott.

Meredith barely had time to suck in a surprised breath before Owen and Anastasia neatly maneuvered into switching partners. Which left Meredith—right there in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by other swaying couples—facing Pierce.

“Seems we’ve been here before,” he said evenly, and held out his arms.

She needed no reminder of that long-ago spring ball when he’d not only refused a dance with her, but had told her to try her fledgling girlish wiles on someone who was interested.

Just tired enough, with just enough champagne in her system, Meredith completely ignored the dictates of good behavior. “No. I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out.” Her voice was cool. And when she turned on her high heel and slipped away through the crowd, she felt satisfaction. This time she’d turned him down flat.

At least that was what she told herself.

Only her satisfaction felt rather more painfully like disappointment.