Читать книгу The Princess And The Duke - Allison Leigh - Страница 10

The last thing in the world Pierce expected was for Meredith to turn and run. The amusement that drifted through him wasn’t at all appropriate.

Well, Meredith had always been full of surprises. Though she’d been a model daughter, she hadn’t married in her early twenties when most thought she should have done so. She’d obtained advanced degrees at universities abroad and she’d taken the type of job that was ordinarily handled by a well-heeled staff member. She had her causes, certainly. But Meredith was, first and foremost, a professional woman. And Pierce didn’t admit to many that he’d followed her career, as much with pride as with the intent of insuring her safety.

If he were smart, he’d take his leave. There really was no reason for Pierce to remain at the gala reception. There were other members of the RET around to keep a close eye on the matters that absolutely required their attention.

But Pierce was obviously not smart. Not tonight. Because he smoothly snagged a flute of champagne as a tray passed and he headed slowly, deliberately for the terrace. The two guards on either side of the door, already at attention, snapped even more so as he passed them, and he automatically returned the salute.

Young, he thought. Baby-faced soldiers who would, pray heaven, never be called upon to do things such as he’d done. Nor to see things such as he’d seen.

He held the grim thoughts close as he stepped onto the terrace, his eyes adjusting to the dark. There were strands of tiny white lights everywhere, making it look almost like a fairy tale. But the lights provided far less illumination than atmosphere.

Still, he saw her. Meredith. Standing alone, adrift in a swath of dull gold silk, her hands resting on the low stone wall at the perimeter of the terrace. Nothing glaring or flashy for Meredith. She was far too classic for that. The only time she glittered was when she wore a jeweled tiara or a collar of diamonds.

How many times had he heard his men talking about the three princesses fair? Meredith, Megan and Anastasia. There wasn’t a man living in the country who hadn’t fantasized about one of them at one time or another. Who hadn’t dreamed of sharing a word or a dance or a kiss with any one of their Royal Highnesses.

Pierce rolled the crystal flute between his fingers and wondered what she was thinking as she stood looking at the sea, her profile as pure as the cool moonlight that outlined it.

Was she thinking of Megan and Jean-Paul? Pierce knew the couple would be spending their honeymoon at sail. Or was there something else on Meredith’s mind? Someone else?

Whatever thoughts circled in Meredith’s head were none of his business, of course. None at all. Which didn’t explain in the least why Pierce was allowing himself to dwell on it. He wasn’t a masochist. And thinking about Meredith, knowing there wasn’t one bloody thing he could do about the reasons he must remain uninvolved with her, did nothing but cause him pain.

Pierce’s business was intelligence. Professionally, he’d kept more than his share of secrets. Some he’d created or caused, some he’d protected. Keeping his feelings for Meredith under control, under wraps, never to let them see the light of day, was about the most difficult secret he faced. When he was at the base, at the small home he’d inherited from his parents in the Aronleigh Mountains or even at his flat in Sterling, it wasn’t such a daily struggle.

When in Marlestone, however, the capital city, with this very impressive palace looking over it, Pierce felt constantly battered with the desire to get closer to her and the need to remain away. Far away.

And everyone said women were contrary creatures, he thought ironically as he headed not safely toward the nearest exit and home but straight toward Meredith.

She didn’t betray so much as a start when he joined her at the low stone wall. A breeze had kicked up. Moonlight caught, trapped and gently released in the swelling ripples of water so far below.

“I love the scent,” Meredith murmured.

“Sea.”

“Yes.”

“Your sister will have a good life with Jean-Paul. He’s a good man.”

Her chin tilted slightly, and he caught the gleam of the sideways glance she gave him. “Don’t read my mind, Colonel. It isn’t polite.”

“I’m not often accused of being polite.”

“Please. You are beyond polite, and we both know it.”

The thoughts circling in his head weren’t in the same universe as polite. “Why did you blow off George earlier? He looked a broken man when you came out here.”

“Why did you tear yourself away from Juliet’s charms?”

“Obvious as they are,” he added smoothly.

She let out a short, breathy laugh that sent a charge straight down his spine. In defense, he lifted his champagne glass and drank. Given a choice, he’d far prefer beer. “Are you avoiding the answer?” Holding onto the glass, he balanced it on the wall.

“George is a very nice man,” she said smoothly. “Why are you here, Colonel?”

“The music inside was giving me a headache, and I wanted a smoke.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I remember when you quit.”

“Oh, yes. During the memorable summer of your tenth year when you were busy surrounding yourself with your royal attitude.”

“The memorable summer of your seventeenth,” she countered. “When you were busy surrounding yourself with teenage girls endowed with charms easily as obvious as dear Juliet’s.”

Did he detect pique in her tone? He drank a little more champagne, figuring it was wishful thinking on his part.

“So, I don’t smoke,” he admitted. He had, briefly, but his poor mother had been so scandalized, he hadn’t had the heart to keep up the habit.

Again, he caught that sidelong look from her. He wondered if she knew the effect that kind of look had on a man. Probably. She was smooth, intelligent and well past the age of consent. Which did not mean that standing there in the moonlight with her was not one of the most foolish indulgences ever.

She finished her champagne and turned a little. Facing him. “Truthfully, I was standing here thinking about something Owen said. About all the unfamiliar faces here.”

Pierce had noticed that, as well. And done his share of wondering. Speculating. Though it was a royal wedding, it was not a state occasion, and the guest list had not gone through some of the channels it otherwise would have. He hadn’t seen the list himself until last week when it was submitted to Royal Intelligence. At that point, his men and women had kicked their diligence into high gear to insure the safety of everyone who came to the wedding.

It was what they did. Protecting Penwyck, its citizens, its interests, its ruling house.

It’s what Pierce did, as well. And had been doing for more of his life than not. More than that, it was what he was.

“Your new brother-in-law contributed to the guest list,” he said. “As did his parents and uncle, undoubtedly. The King and Queen had their lists, as well. Guests they wanted to include for whatever reason. Not every face would be recognizable under those circumstances.”

“And you’re one of them. Well—” she lifted a slender, long-fingered hand “—you’re not unfamiliar, but you’re certainly not a face we often see at the palace.”

“It’s an important event.”

“The other events in which we are involved are not?”

“We?”

She gestured gracefully. “We. The family. You do tend to avoid us, you know. Why is that, I wonder?”

He was, first and foremost, a military man. Yet he’d walked blindly into that mine field. Diversion, he thought. “Dance with me.”

Her lips parted softly. “I believe we covered that.”

“Not exactly.” He left his glass on the wide ledge next to hers and took her hand. It was undoubtedly only surprise that let her step so easily away from the stone wall and into his arms. The music was softer out here. Still audible. But it was barely a background to the sound of the breeze through the leaves of the trees surrounding the estate, the distant lap of the sea against Castle Cove. And the music was fairly inaudible when his senses were suddenly, achingly aware of the cadence of Meredith’s breath, the soft scrape of shoe against stone and brick as they swayed.

“You’re trembling.”

“It’s chilly out here with the breeze.”

She lied, he thought. It was a balmy, breezy night. And he was burning up, holding her. Though there was more space between them than decorum demanded. His fingers barely grazed the fabric covering the small of her back, and her fingertips barely touched his shoulder. Where their other hands linked, however, a flame burned between their palms. Hot. Enticing.

Impossible.

“You ought to go inside,” he said. “If you’re chilly.”

“Yes.”

Yet she made no move to do so. In fact, as one song melded into the next, the distance between them lessened. Until Pierce eventually realized that his arms were definitely full of warm, sweet-smelling woman. That they’d shuffled and swayed themselves into the rear corner of the terrace. Where light barely reached, where the salty scent of sea was nearly a tang on their lips.

Her hair smelled of orange blossoms, he thought, and he felt like a drowning man. His palm flattened against her spine, and he felt her long, slow intake of breath that pressed her breasts against his chest. Her hand glided, measuring, over his shoulder to his collar. Her fingertips grazed his neck below his ear. His nape. Her forehead found the perfect resting place below his jaw. Heart to heart. Curve to angle.

She was royal by birth. She was the daughter of his King.

He had no business holding her the way he was. No business wanting to imprint his body on hers and hers on his. Not with the secrets he was keeping from her.

“Mer—Your Royal Highness.” His jaw was aching again. Hell. Every part of him ached.

“Would you mind?” She leaned back, swaying a little. Making him wonder, all of a sudden, just how much champagne she’d consumed. “My shoes. They’re so tight.”

A moment later, she was several inches shorter. Obviously, she’d stepped out of her high heels. And she’d kicked them with her foot until they tumbled against each other, stopped only by the wall.

It wasn’t his shoes that were tight, he thought with grim humor as she linked her hands behind his neck and nestled against him. “That’s better,” she sighed, sounding tired. “You dance well, Colonel.”

He was doing little other than holding her against him. “You should go to bed.”

Her lashes lifted, and she looked at him. He wished there were more illumination so he could tell if her eyes were glazed with champagne or drowsy with desire. Either was inappropriate to take advantage of, and he knew it.

“I don’t think I’m the spoiled brat I was at ten. Or seventeen,” she said, lucidly enough, “who needs to be sent to bed.”

At seventeen, she’d been a burgeoning young woman, just beginning to grasp the feminine power she could wield over others. A power that was now in full bloom.

Apparently, though he was nearly at a standstill, she, without her too-tight shoes, felt rather more like dancing. Swaying hypnotically. He clamped his hands on her waist. Her hips. She was tormenting him, and she probably didn’t even know it. Despite his torment, he knew there were guests inside the ballroom who were dancing far more closely, far more uninhibitedly.

“You weren’t a brat,” he said.

“But I was spoiled.”

“You’re the beloved first child of our ruler.”

“Spoken very properly.” She tossed back her head and watched him from beneath her lashes. “Do you ever lose your composure, Colonel Prescott?”

Only with you. Her lips looked impossibly soft. Inviting. “Rarely,” he said. “Do you ever fail to get what you want?”

“Rarely. So, if I’m not the spoiled brat, then why do you feel compelled to send me off to bed as if I were?”

Holding Meredith against him while speaking about bed hadn’t been particularly wise of him. His imagination was running riot. “Simple concern for your welfare, Your Royal Highness. You’ve had a long day. And plenty of champagne, I think.”

She smiled beautifully, telling him more surely than ever that she had imbibed more than was usual. As far as Pierce knew, Meredith never drank to excess. She never did a single thing to cause her family worry.

“Haven’t you had a long day, as well? Weren’t you up before dawn for your run in the hills around the base? Or in your old age have you given up your three morning miles?”

Old age? There were times when thirty-five felt old. There were times, like now, with a beautiful woman against him that were something else entirely. “Five miles. At the park near my place in Sterling.”

“That’s right.” She nodded thoughtfully. “I’d heard you’d taken a flat there. A few years ago.” She shot him another one of those veiled looks. “What brought that about, anyway? No, wait. A woman, I’ll wager.”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows rose a little. “And that’s all you have to say about it, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Closemouthed as always, Colonel Prescott. Intelligence really is right up your alley.”

“I took the flat because I was driving my men and women crazy being on base twenty-four seven.” He’d be hanged if he’d admit to Meredith that she was the reason he’d chosen Sterling. It was a large city. Larger than Marlestone. And it was far enough away from Marlestone that he’d be unlikely to run into Meredith.

“Thinking only of others, as usual,” Meredith murmured, then quickly hid a yawn behind her hand. “Heavens. Please excuse me.”

“I’m surprised you even heard about my place in Sterling.” Or that she remembered his penchant for running in the morning—a hangover from the days he’d run track in school. “It’s hardly the stuff for the gossips.”

“You’re eligible, attractive and the Duke of Aronleigh. Surely you don’t expect to be immune from the paparazzi?”

“I’m a colonel in the Penwyck army,” he said flatly.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Did I hit a nerve?”

He consciously relaxed his grip on her slender waist. “You should get back inside.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ve been out here for some time now.”

“Afraid it’ll mar your reputation as the immovable, untouchable colonel?”

“I’m afraid George Valdosta will fall to the ground, prostrate in grief that you’re out of sight, and he’ll be trampled to death by dancers.”

“It always surprises me that you’ve a sense of humor lurking beneath your stony exterior, Colonel Prescott.”

She didn’t have a clue what lurked beneath his exterior. It was just as well. “Gossip aside, the papers tomorrow morning will be filled with accounts of the wedding.”

“This morning,” she corrected. “It’s past midnight.”

“And the princess really should be in bed.”

“I’m not eight, Colonel. I’m twenty-eight.” She was amused. Amused and drowsy and nearly boneless against him. “What is this preoccupation you have with my sleep habits?”

“Only your welfare.”

She shook her head slightly, then tilted it to look at him. “My father has always said you are a man of honor.”

That was debatable, Pierce thought. Where was honor when the only reason he was out on this terrace with Meredith was that he didn’t seem to have the fortitude to tear himself away?

“The speeches were lovely, don’t you think?”

“Speeches?”

“During the dinner. I thought my mother would nearly faint when the King toasted the memory of my uncle. They didn’t like one another much, you know.”

She was scrambling his brains. “His Majesty and Edwin?”

“Yes.”

His fingers flexed against her waist. Felt the seductive flare of her hips beneath the silk that wrapped her torso snugly, only to flare out in luxurious folds around her knees. “Edwin seems on your mind today.”

She lifted her shoulder, drawing his bedeviled gaze to the ivory skin left bare to the moonlight. “He seemed on the minds of many,” she said easily. “Isn’t that what families do when they gather together for weddings and christenings and funerals and such? Talk about the rest of the family? Those present and those lost?”

“Your family is a far cry from the typical.”

“Typical or not, I thought the toast was nice.”

“For the Queen’s sake,” Pierce agreed.

Her head tilted again, this time brushing against the arm he’d slid behind her shoulders. Was it his imagination that she was looking at his mouth? “Did you know,” she said softly, “that you get this hard look around your mouth whenever you say my uncle’s name?”

“No.”

“At least you don’t deny it,” she said.

“As I have no mirror on hand to test your theory, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“’Tis more than a theory, Colonel.” Her fingers flitted over his jaw. His cheek. “Right there,” she whispered. “You get this fierce-looking crease in your cheek. Why is that?”

He caught her fingers in his, pulling them from his face. He didn’t want Meredith pressing her lovely, aristocratic nose into his feelings, or lack of them, regarding Edwin.

Her fingers flexed against his, and he settled her hand safely on his shoulder once more. “So proper,” she murmured.

If she only knew. “I’ll take you inside.”

She sighed faintly. “Of course.” She turned away, and only through sheer will did he let go of her as if nothing untoward had been running through his mind. “Oh. My shoes.” She looked at the ground where it was black as pitch.

Pierce knelt and felt around for the shoes until he found them. “Give me your foot.”

“What every woman dreams of hearing,” she murmured. But he heard the rustle of silk and tormented himself with images of her lifting it.

Then her foot butted his thigh. “Sorry,” she said on a soft laugh.

“Admit it. You’ve wanted to kick me since you were ten.”

She giggled.

Definitely too much champagne, he thought as he reached for her foot. Slowly slid the shoe into place. Her ankle felt delicate. Narrow.

“Are you certain that isn’t a glass slipper there?”

He took his hand away from her ankle, aware that his hold was too lingering, and rapidly slid the other shoe on for her. “You’ve no need for fairy godmothers or glass slippers. You’re already a princess.”

“One without a prince,” she said. Then laughed lightly, as if her voice hadn’t sounded utterly melancholy. “Thank you for playing shoe man, Colonel. I’ll just have to give away this pair, I think. Beautiful as they are, they’ve been torturing my toes the entire day.”

“Your Royal Highness.”

She turned on her heel so abruptly she swayed, and he put a steadying hand on her back. Was she as startled by the appearance of Lady Gwendolyn behind her as he’d been?

“Yes?”

“Your father is asking for you.”

Meredith nodded. “Of course. Thank you.” She looked over her shoulder at Pierce. “Colonel. The dance was…delightful. If I don’t see you before you leave, I hope you’ll have a safe trip home.”

“Thank you.”

With a sweep of her skirt, Meredith glided toward the terrace doors. As she neared, the light haloed around her, glinting off her hair, her dress, her ivory skin.

Pierce was glad for the relative darkness in which he stood. Lady Gwendolyn studied him silently for a moment. It had been a lot of years since he’d gone to Gwendolyn Corbin on the occasion of her husband’s funeral to express his condolences at her loss, only to end up having to lie to the young woman when—tears flooding her lovely blue eyes—she’d asked him the most natural of questions. What her husband’s last words had been.

Pierce still felt awkward in her presence.

The woman, with no smile whatsoever on her classically beautiful face, nodded briefly. “Good night, Your Grace.” Then she turned and glided away.

Pierce turned around and stared over the wall into the night, his hands tight on the stone ledge. He hated the noble title.

There was nothing noble about him. Nothing at all.

He stood there, drawing in the increasingly crisp, sea-scented air, until his tension abated. Until he could be sure he wouldn’t betray himself when he went into the ballroom. Only then did he turn and follow the women’s path inside.

He immediately noticed Meredith in conversation with her father. She was smiling as she greeted the people in the group surrounding the King, but Pierce could see how tired she was.

If King Morgan were any kind of father, he’d have seen it, too. But the man standing beside Meredith wasn’t any type of father. Not to Meredith. Nor to anyone else.

Because the man standing beside Meredith, foisting her off into dancing with one of the men, was not her father, King Morgan of Penwyck.

It was Morgan’s twin brother, Broderick.

And Pierce was one of a very small handful of people in the country who knew it.