Читать книгу If The Ring Fits... - Melissa McClone, Melissa Mcclone - Страница 10

“Did you know she set fire to the White House, Your Highness?” Didier Alois whispered.

His Serene Highness Prince Richard de Thierry of San Montico stared at the unlikely pyromaniac—a young woman with a heart-shaped face and striking emerald eyes that matched her gown. The fitted bodice accentuated her cleavage and small waist. Her curly auburn hair flowed like silk past her shoulders and glimmered beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. Making her way along the Great Hall and the slow-moving receiving line, she curtsied and flashed a dazzling smile at dignitaries and royalty.

“Who is she?”

“Christina Armstrong, Your Highness,” Didier answered, loud enough to be heard above the din of the guests, but soft enough to be heard only by Richard.

Trust Didi to know everything about the guests attending the royal birthday ball. Then again, as royal advisor that was his job.

Richard wondered what else his best friend knew about Christina Armstrong. He was certain they had never met, but something about her seemed familiar. He noticed the older gentleman escorting her. And then it hit Richard. “Armstrong? As in Alan Armstrong, billionaire CEO and patriarch of America’s second most famous family?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Richard knew the type—he had been engaged to one—a rich man’s daughter who still used her daddy’s titanium card. Wealthy, spoiled, a title-seeking princess wanna-be.

He clenched his gloved hands. “I told my mother not to invite any Americans. You know how they are about…royalty.”

“I doubt your mother had a choice but to invite them, considering the substantial donation Armstrong International made to her charity fund.” Didier hesitated. “Not all American women are like—”

“This has nothing to do with her.” Nothing at all. But the way Richard’s chest tightened told him it did. Regaining control, he lowered his voice. “This is my birthday. I should have been consulted about the guest list.”

“Judging from the quality of the women who have arrived, I believe Princess Marguerite did quite well without your input, Your Highness.” Didier smiled. “I must say, Christina Armstrong even looks like a princess. She’s quite lovely. And with her upbringing and connections—”

“She is nothing more than an American heiress.”

“The legend cares nothing about—”

“The legend, Didi?” Simply saying the word “legend” put a bitter taste in Richard’s mouth. “Do you truly believe the royal engagement ring is going to fit one of these women, that we will find true love and everlasting happiness, that the island will prosper with our marriage?”

“I do, Your Highness.”

Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. Even logical Didier believed in the Legend of the Ring, in magic. But Richard knew better. The pursuit of true love—any kind of love—brought only heartache. Magic did not exist. Yet duty to his family and his country bound him to the legend. If only he had married…

Strains of Vivaldi, played by the seventy-piece orchestra, drifted in from the ballroom. They might as well play a requiem for all the fun Richard would have tonight. He knew what to expect, and he dreaded it.

Women, dressed in designer gowns, dreamed of trying on the ring and having it fit. Men, wearing tuxedos, waited to console those it did not fit. The air kissing, the meaningless toasts, the inconsequential conversations. His so-called guests had less substance than the effervescent bubbles rising in the overpriced champagne his mother had ordered.

He should never have agreed to this farce of a party. Never. He should be sailing, relaxing on his yacht and drinking his favorite beer. If it were not for the legend…

The Legend.

Richard wanted no part of it. He didn’t believe in the legend any more than he believed in the tooth fairy or love at first sight. Perhaps a hundred years ago, legends made some sort of sense, but not today.

He was following his father’s wish and bringing San Montico into the present, but it was a monumentally slow task. Each step toward progress was a battle against the majority who resisted change. The harder Richard pushed for progress, the harder the people fought against it. The citizens of the island clung to old-fashioned traditions and myths like drowning rats on lifelines during a raging storm at sea.

It had not taken Richard long to realize the antiquated customs, such as the Legend of the Ring, that people held so dear to their hearts prevented San Montico from moving forward. Only by doing away with the old ways could real progress take place. Once Richard proved the legend was nothing more than a fairy tale, San Montico could take a giant leap toward modernization. It was the best thing for his country, the best thing for himself.

“The legend is pure fantasy, Didi, and I will prove it. As soon as the clock strikes midnight, this will be over.”

“Perhaps it will be only the beginning. The legend has proved itself true in the past, Your Highness.”

Richard would not believe it. “It is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. The legend came true because my ancestors, including my own parents, chose to make it come true. I choose not to. Why don’t you get married and take the pressure off me?”

Didier sighed. “If you recall, Your Highness, tradition dictates I not marry until you do.”

Another stupid custom. Richard’s marital status should have nothing to do with his royal advisor’s. If only Didier wasn’t so entrenched in following the “old” ways. “I should have known there was another reason for you to want me to marry.”

“My only reason has to do with our country. You need to find a wife, Your Highness.”

“I have tried to find a wife, Didi.” Richard had done everything possible not to fall prey to the legend. He had dated more than his share of women. Up until six months ago, he thought he had found the one, only to be hugely mistaken. Since then, it had been a race to find another. But he could not open up his heart to just anyone. “I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. Surely that must count.”

“But none of your efforts has…succeeded, Your Highness. You are still unmarried, and San Montico needs an heir.”

Richard was tired of hearing what San Montico expected of him. He knew. It had been drummed into him from the day he was born. He straightened his gloves. “I can provide an heir without marrying.”

Didier cringed. “Your Highness.”

Perhaps Richard had overstepped the boundary with that one, but he couldn’t help himself. No one was on his side. The entire island, including his mother and uncle, expected him to fall in love and marry one of the women attending his birthday ball. “Look at the problems other royal families have had, especially the Windsors. An arranged marriage simply to provide an heir makes no sense and adds nothing but more stress to an outdated institution.”

“Are you talking about matrimony or monarchies, Your Highness?”

Leave it to Didier to make Richard laugh.

“We will have to finish this discussion later,” Didier whispered. “Here comes Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, Your Highness.”

Richard nodded.

The dignified, tuxedo-clad Alan Armstrong bowed in front of him. “Your Highness, may I present my daughter, Christina.”

Attractive, yes. Princess material, no. Her rosy blush and wide eyes told Richard she was impressed by him, probably even in awe of him. What more could he expect from an American? When he married, he would select a woman who saw him as a man, not a prince. In the meantime, he forced a smile. “It is my pleasure to meet your lovely daughter.”

She curtsied. “Happy birthday, Your Gorgeous, I mean, Your Highness.”

Richard refrained from rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Armstrong.” He raised her trembling hand to his mouth and kissed it. Her skin felt soft and warm beneath his lips. He caught the faint scent of cocoa butter on her honeyed-tan skin. Had she sunbathed topless at the beach today? “I am delighted you could come.”

As he released her hand, she dropped her beaded clutch bag. Bending over, he reached for it. So did Christina and thwacked her head against his forehead. Jerking away, she stumbled, but her father’s quick action saved her from falling onto the marble floor.

“I’m so sorry.” She touched Richard’s arm—a breach in royal protocol—and he stiffened. “Are you okay, Your Highness?”

The sooner he got rid of her, the better. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Richard handed her the bag. “I am fine.”

Before Christina could say or do anything else, her father pushed her toward the end of the receiving line. “Your Highness, my wife sends her regrets for missing your birthday ball, but she had a prior engagement.”

As Richard nodded, he caught a glimpse of Christina walking toward the ballroom and watched the sway of her gown. Her image blurred slightly as if she were an angel surrounded by clouds. An angel, she wasn’t. He must have hit his head harder than he realized. Richard rubbed his forehead, and she glanced back at him. Their gazes locked for an instant. At the same time, she reached forward to shake the extended hand of…

No.

Fighting the urge to cry out, Richard gritted his teeth. Christina shook the hand, not of a man, but a suit of armor. One of the chain mail gloves came off, leaving the priceless antiquity handless.

Damn. Not even the bloodiest of battles fought preserving San Montico from French and Spanish invaders had destroyed the armor, but this woman, this American…His muscles tightened; his blood pressure soared. Add another headache to his already aching forehead. Christina stared at the glove in horror, then tried to hide it behind her small purse. Alan Armstrong muttered what sounded like a well-rehearsed apology.

Richard accepted the apology with an obligatory smile. Now was not the time to show emotion. Not with the palace full of guests. He would remain calm, impassive. It was only a glove, a glove that had belonged to his family for ages. He stared at Christina. “Do you need assistance, Miss Armstrong?”

She raised the glove and grinned. “I seem to have found an extra hand already.”

At least she had a sense of humor. And she had not set the palace on fire. Yet. Richard breathed a sigh of relief. “One can never have too many hands.”

Her eyes sparkled. “What should I do with, uh, this?”

“Didier,” Richard said, “please assist Miss Armstrong.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Didier stepped away from him and took the glove from her. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

“I’m sorry for breaking it,” Christina said.

“You didn’t break it,” Didier said before Richard could answer. “It’s…old.”

Just like all the other irreplaceable works of art in the palace. Richard had been warned about her setting fire to the White House. He would not allow the same nonsense to happen here—the legend was nonsense enough. He would make sure someone kept Christina Armstrong away from any open flames. It was going to be a long enough night without any unexpected pyrotechnics.

Armstrongs are never impressed. Armstrongs are never impressed. The mantra of her snobbish family echoed in her mind. Christina had always had a difficult time remembering not to be impressed, but tonight it was impossible. It was all she could do not to stare, openmouthed. Her family was obscenely wealthy—and often flaunted the fact—but this…She had never seen such a tasteful display of riches. Exquisite antiques, famous paintings by the masters, breathtaking chandeliers and tantalizing buffets of gourmet cuisine filled each of the public rooms at the fairy-tale-worthy San Montico palace. But none of those wonderful treasures came close to the beauty of the prince himself.

Simply a glimpse of him made her pulse quicken. Bells chimed and the sound hung in the festive air, but Christina realized it was only the clinking of crystal champagne flutes.

Exuding an aura of charm that drew people in like a tractor beam, Prince Richard spoke with a small group of women who hung on his every word. Christina stood a polite distance away. She wanted to memorize everything about him so she could sketch a drawing when she returned to her hotel room.

He was Prince Charming in the flesh. Nothing, including the elaborate tapestry that hung on the wall behind him or the sparkling jewels the women wore, could compare to Prince Richard in his white uniform with shiny gold trim and royal-blue sash. The romantic melody played by a harpist in the corner echoed her sentiments.

Prince Richard smiled, and Christina drew in a sharp breath. No man deserved to be that good-looking. Sinfully sexy. That was the only way to describe him. Over six feet tall, he carried himself with a regal air. His aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and chiseled features were softened by his full lips, to-die-for lush lashes and a boyish dimple on his left cheek that appeared every so often when he smiled. The contrast—devastating. With eyes the color of the water surrounding the island of Santorini and thick, sun-bleached wavy hair, the prince had been dubbed the catch of the decade.

Catch of the century was a better title.

Too bad he was a prince whose every move was followed by the rabid press, the inquisitive public and his adoring fans. Not that she cared tonight. It was too magical an evening to let the thought of publicity ruin anything. Not even the paparazzi dared make an appearance here. She could be Cinderella at the prince’s ball and not worry about appearing in the tabloids for one night. She could forget about life’s harsh realities until tomorrow.

Christina glanced up at the well-preserved frescoes painted on the ceiling. She could almost smell the layers of lime plaster and pigment, the sweat of the painter who created it years, maybe centuries, ago. A delightful cherub smiled down at her, and Christina didn’t feel so all alone.

“Are you having a good time, Miss Armstrong?”

The voice came from behind her. Turning, she saw the prince’s assistant standing behind a table. His smile betrayed nothing, but he must have seen her staring at the prince like a lovesick puppy dog. The fact she wasn’t the only one doing so saved her from total embarrassment. She straightened her posture. “Yes, I am.”

“I am Didier Alois, royal advisor to the prince. We met earlier.”

Remembering the incident with the armor, she chuckled. It wasn’t quite the impression she wanted to make. “Yes, we did.”

He motioned to his right. “Have you tried on the ring?”

“No, I haven’t.” The ring sat on a small pedestal covered with black velvet. If she hadn’t been so busy making goo-goo eyes at the prince, she would have noticed it immediately. “What is it?”

“It’s the royal engagement ring.” Didier removed the ring from the platform. Multicolored light was reflected off the different facets cut on the center stone, a diamond. “All the de Thierry brides have worn it.”

As beautiful as any of the crown jewels on display at the Tower of London, the large diamond glimmered under the overhead lights. The ring was almost medieval-looking with a wide filigree gold band inlaid with rubies, emeralds and sapphires. “It’s breathtaking.”

“Please, try it on.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But you must,” Didier said. “All the women at the ball are required to try on the ring. Prince Richard will be upset if you don’t.”

Christina didn’t want to upset the prince, but she didn’t want to cause another incident, either. Apart from the chain mail glove, she’d managed to stay out of trouble. No sense pushing her luck. She took a step backward.

“Please, Miss Armstrong,” Didier coaxed. “We must see if it fits.”

“If the ring fits, do I win a prize or something?”

Didier grinned. “Or something.”

Christina glanced back at the prince. It would be nice to try on the ring, his ring. A chance of a lifetime. A chance to really be Cinderella at the ball. And how could she get in trouble if the prince’s own advisor had told her to try it on? Not even her father could get upset about it. The ring was way too small anyway. No way would it fit. After a moment of hesitation, she extended her left hand. “Okay.”

Didier brought the ring to her finger. Funny, but it almost felt like heat was emanating from the gold band. Must be Didier. Men were always hot. When the ring touched her skin, a buzz of electricity shot up her arm. She gasped, but Didier continued sliding the ring onto her finger. When he let go of her hand, Christina couldn’t believe it. The ring fit.

She stared at it. Beautiful. Someday, she would have an engagement ring of her own. Not this spectacular. A simple gold band would do. All she wanted was to find a man who would love her for who she was, a man who wanted what she did—children, pets, a porch with a swing. A normal life, a normal family.

No more limelight. No more photographs or headlines or snide remarks in gossip columns. No more twelve-inch-thick prenuptial agreements to protect an inheritance she didn’t want.

Didier furrowed his brow. “Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes,” Christina said, feeling warm and a little dizzy. Too much sun, too much champagne, too much lusting after Prince Richard. The proverbial clock had struck midnight. Time for this Cinderella to call it a night. “Thank you for letting me try it on. It’s exquisite.”

She pulled on the ring, but it wouldn’t budge.

Didier leaned toward her. “Is there a problem, Miss Armstrong?”

Christina pulled on it again, but her fingertips simply slid over the elaborately decorated band. The ring wouldn’t even twirl around her finger. “It seems to be stuck.”

“Let me try, miss.” Didier straightened his shoulders and tugged on the ring until Christina cried out in pain. “It doesn’t seem to be moving.”

She couldn’t understand why Didier smiled as if he’d just won the lottery. “I must get this ring off. If my father finds out, he’ll kill me. And the prince…” A glance told her Prince Richard was too engrossed in his conversation to realize what was happening. Christina wanted to keep it that way. “Would it be okay if I went to the ladies’ room and tried to remove it?”

For some reason, Didier seemed to be enjoying himself. His brown eyes twinkled; his smile grew wider. He looked almost giddy. “I don’t think it’s coming off.”

“Please.” Why had she allowed this to happen? She knew better. “I’d like to try.”

From his peripheral vision, Richard saw Didier approach. It was about time. If Richard heard one more boring piece of gossip about the United Kingdom’s royal family, he was going to reinstate flogging.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Your Highness?” Didier asked.

“Of course.” Richard bowed to the women surrounding him. “Excuse me, ladies.” As soon as the women were out of earshot, he sighed. “Thank you for coming to my aid, Didi. I never thought I would escape with all my clothes on. I felt like a rabbit surrounded by panting wolves. I was hoping you would leave the ring long enough to rescue me.” Richard glanced at its pedestal, the empty pedestal. No guard. No ring. His stomach knotted. “Where is the ring?”

Didier’s wide grin answered his question.

No. This could not be happening.

The legend wasn’t true; it wasn’t. The legend dictated he had to marry the woman whom the ring fit within a week or abdicate. He would do neither.

It was his duty to marry and produce an heir. He would, but not because he was turning thirty and a legend dictated it. He would marry whom he wanted, when he wanted.

Every decision in his life had been made for the sake of San Montico. He had sacrificed childhood dreams and adult desires for his family, his people, his country. But the choice of a wife was his, and his alone, to make. “Does anyone know? My mother?”

“No, we can make an announce—”

“Tell no one.” Richard needed time to think, time to come up with a plan. He would not let San Montico’s sentimental attachment to a legend take away the most important choice of his life and keep him from modernizing the country. “Where is…it?”

“In the ladies’ lounge,” Didier said. “With Miss Armstrong.”

Not her. Please not her.

“May I suggest a course of action, Your Highness?”

Richard clenched his teeth. “No. You have done enough.”

Please work. Please. Christina lathered her hands with soap. But the ring wouldn’t budge, not a fraction of an inch, not even a millimeter. She rinsed her hands, double-checking the drain plug on the gold-plated sink. Not that a ring this size could fit, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

Staring at the ring on her red, swollen finger, Christina fought the urge to scream. She could have said no when her mother insisted she come to San Montico, but accepting the invitation had seemed like such a little thing to make her mother happy. Only now…

Christina would disappoint her parents. Again. She should have known no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to please them. But no, she’d gone against her better judgment and said yes. And embarrassed herself. Her family. Her country. Wait until her mother found out.

What if the ring didn’t come off? Christina flexed her hand. Surely they wouldn’t want to chop her finger off? She was an artist. She needed all her fingers. Time to give the soap another try.

Perhaps she was overreacting a little, but this was a small island in the Mediterranean ruled by a prince, not the U.S. government. San Montico might never have heard of due process of law. They might even follow another law—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. She lathered again.

Maybe her father could do something—open a factory, build a resort, pay off the national debt. Maybe the prince would understand. Maybe her life was over.

She added more soap, but the ring still wouldn’t budge.

As her stomach curled up and turned one somersault after another, she leaned against the marble counter and groaned. “What am I going to do?”

A man cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

In the mirror, Christina saw Prince Richard’s reflection. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. He looked more like a pirate than a prince. A mean pirate. So much for him understanding.

“I knocked, but no one answered.”

Turning, Christina didn’t know what to say. His wide shoulders and six-foot-plus height made the bathroom seem smaller. “Your Highness, I—”

Didier walked into the bathroom, smiling. “The ring fits, Your Highness.”

Prince Richard’s nostrils flared. His full lips nearly disappeared as his mouth tightened. Angry, oh boy, was he angry. How was she going to get out of this one?

“I wouldn’t say it fits, Your Highness.” Christina hoped she wouldn’t cause another international incident. “It’s stuck. I’m probably retaining water. You know, PMS and all that stuff.”

“No, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard cocked an eyebrow. “I would not know.”

Why did she say that? He was a prince. She was an Armstrong. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Of course, you wouldn’t. I’m—”

“Let me see your hand.”

She showed him her soap-covered hand. “Maybe if I try some lotion or—”

“Quiet.”

The harsh tone of his voice silenced her. Christina swallowed hard. Prince Charming had disappeared. The classical lines of his face now seemed hard, not handsome. The set of his chin now seemed arrogant, not confident. If only she could turn back the clock and return to the ball…

Prince Richard removed his gloves. He pulled on the ring until tears welled in her eyes. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

“It fits, Your Highness,” Didier said with a smile.

“It does not fit.” The prince washed and dried his hands. “It is stuck, Didi. It is too small, that is all.”

“The legend says—”

“Wash your hands, Miss Armstrong,” he ordered before Didier could say another word.

“What legend?” Christina asked.

“Wash your hands,” the prince ordered. “I will not ask again.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Christina mumbled, feeling like a newly enlisted marine in boot camp. She scrubbed but couldn’t rinse all the soap out of the filigree band.

“Find Mr. Armstrong,” Prince Richard commanded. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Your Highness.” Didier stopped at the door. “Perhaps—”

“Not now, Didi.” As soon as the door closed behind Didier, Prince Richard handed her his white gloves. “Put these on.”

The left glove was at least two sizes too big. “It doesn’t fit, Your Highness.”

“This is not a fashion show, Miss Armstrong. You will wear them. I do not need to have my mother see you wearing the ring. Or the press.”

The press. Prince Richard had a good point. She put on the right glove.

He walked toward the door. “Come with me.”

Uncertain and a little frightened, Christina hesitated.

“Now.”

She tilted her chin, trying to gain a bit of courage. “Where are we going, Your Highness?”

“Some place private, where we will not be disturbed.”

The palace reminded her of a dream castle, but the evening was turning into a nightmare. Surely the palace didn’t have a dungeon with a torture chamber. She followed Prince Richard out of the bathroom to a narrow, dimly lit hallway. “Exactly where is that, Your Highness?”

“My bedroom.”