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The Princess And The Duke
Allison Leigh
Mills & Boon Silhouette
Princess Meredith Elizabeth Penwyck had filled her fantasies with Duke Pierceson Prescott's silvery-green gaze for as long as she could remember. But then they shared a steamy kiss at a royal wedding, and the pristine princess discovered that her feelings were much more than make-believe….Plagued by his perilous past, Duke Prescott had shielded his desire for Princess Meredith since he was a young cadet. But once her lips opened the floodgates of his passion and the truth behind his dark secrets came tumbling out, would he learn that the hole in his heart could only be healed by the princess's tender touch?



“I know when a man has kissed me,”
she said to Duke Prescott. But Princess Meredith Elizabeth Penwyck wasn’t sure. Not at all. For all she knew, she might have imagined that returned pressure of his lips. That sense that he was kissing her back, feeling some semblance of the madness that had stricken her. Imagination? Wishful thinking?
His head lowered an inch and she barely kept herself from taking an unthinkable step away from him. “When I do kiss you, Your Royal Highness, I assure you that you’ll know it.”
She locked her knees to keep them from wobbling. “When?”
“If.”
“It’s not like you to retreat, Colonel. Or misspeak.”
“Of course.” His expression was once again frustratingly inscrutable. “Good morning, then, Your Royal Highness.”
Meredith watched him leave.
When he kissed her?
If only.

The Princess and the Duke
Allison Leigh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ALLISON LEIGH
started her career early by writing a Halloween play that her grade-school class performed for her school. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.
She has been a finalist for the RITA
Award and the Holt Medallion. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.
Born in Southern California, she has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighborhood church, and currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at P.O. Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772.



Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue

Prologue
“I am going to dance with him.” Meredith’s voice was soft, but filled with certainty. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her ball gown. It was the first time she’d been allowed to wear a strapless gown, and the pale, shimmering green fabric clung to her seventeen-year-old curves.
Her sister Anastasia made a skeptical noise beside her. “Then go ask him,” she goaded with the tormenting disgust of a sister three years younger. “If you are so certain.”
“Be quiet, Ana,” hushed Megan, often the voice of reason between her focused, intelligent older sister and her passionately opinionated younger sister. “Meredith, you have every male in this place under thirty years of age practically desperate to dance with you. I’m sure that Lieutenant Prescott feels the same.”
“He’s old enough to be her father. And he is on duty,” Anastasia reminded them sarcastically. “Remember?”
“The guards are allowed breaks,” Megan countered soothingly.
“Frankly, I can’t imagine what the appeal is,” Anastasia muttered.
“Keep your voice down, Ana,” Meredith warned softly. “Or perhaps you’d like your comments to be printed in tomorrow’s papers.” And the Lieutenant is seven years older than I am, she added silently with a mental, So there.
“Exactly,” Megan murmured. “The three sisters of Penwyck. Meredith the horny, Megan the boring and Ana the loudmouth.”
All three of them giggled, which they quickly curtailed when their mother sent them a long, telling look. They were supposed to be listening with dignified grace to their father while he gave his annual welcome to the Royal Spring Ball, not whispering and giggling. Even the boys, Owen and Dylan, despite being only twelve, were behaving more appropriately than the girls.
Meredith leaned over to Megan, who was a few inches shorter. “You’re not boring, idiot, and you know it.”
“But you do want to dance with Lieutenant Prescott,” Megan replied, her pretty green eyes laughing. “Is he the one who is going to give you your first kiss?”
Meredith felt her cheeks flush and looked guiltily toward the uniformed officer standing at attention near the open terrace doors.
He wore his formal army uniform, all gleaming black and gold buttons. The black beret with the gold trim set upon his head at a serious angle only added to his appeal, as far as Meredith was concerned. His chestnut-colored hair was cut militarily short, yet her fingertips still tingled from fantasizing about the feel of it. She easily imagined the steady weight of his gaze, even though she didn’t have a clue where exactly he was looking. The distance from where she stood with her family on the dais at the head of the grand ballroom to where he stood at attention near one of the sets of doors opening onto the starlit terrace was too great.
Silvery-green, she thought with a little sigh. Whether she could see them up close now or not, she knew exactly the shade of his silvery-green eyes. Almost exactly the shade of her gown. “He already did kiss me,” she murmured, and then laughed soundlessly at Megan’s gasp. “When I was ten, remember? The school did a summer project to rehabilitate that old mill up in the Aronleigh Mountains. His mother coordinated it through her school. I slammed my thumb with a hammer, and he kissed it better.” Of course, he’d done that with a great amount of sarcasm because she’d been very much on her royal high horse, but at this moment, she chose to ignore that.
“That’s right,” Megan whispered, leaning centimeters toward Meredith. “I’d forgotten that his mother was a teacher.”
“Both his parents died last year,” Meredith murmured, her gaze on the officer. Her heart had ached for his loss. She’d written a personal note to him when she’d learned of the auto accident that had claimed their lives, but hadn’t had the nerve to send it. The mere thought of the handsome young man reading words she’d penned had sent her heart into an absolute tailspin.
“Just admit it, Meredith,” Anastasia said, needling, “you want to kiss him.”
Meredith, smiling at the guests who had begun clapping at the conclusion of her father’s welcome, reached behind Megan and firmly pinched the back of Ana’s arm. Her youngest sister jumped, barely containing a yowl, and glared at Meredith, her vivid blue eyes flashing.
But all three girls went utterly silent when their mother, always strikingly beautiful but tonight looking even more so, glided silently to stand beside them. The massive chandeliers overhead caught the tiara carefully situated in Marissa’s upswept hair. A million little lights danced from the jewels among her dark tresses, and for a moment, Meredith found herself watching Lieutenant Prescott through a glittering rainbow.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart seemed to stop beating altogether for a long, interminable moment.
He was looking at her. She felt it right down to her toes.
Her heart came to life, racing, beating so hard that she felt sure it must be visible from the outside.
She had no intention of admitting it to Anastasia with her silly comments, or to Megan either, for that matter.
But she did intend to dance with Lieutenant Pierceson Prescott. And before the evening was out, she was going to get him to kiss her, too.
She would, or she wasn’t Her Royal Highness, Meredith Elizabeth, Princess of Penwyck.

Chapter One
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.

Chapter Two
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.

Chapter Three
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.

Chapter Four
As he circled the grand ballroom, Pierce’s attention kept straying to Meredith. She was being passed from one gentleman to the next, barely managing two minutes of dance between the lot of them.
His hands curled. It was nearing two in the morning. She was tipsy on champagne and nerves. It was none of his business with whom she danced away the hours.
She’d always been out of his reach. Never more so than now.
Even the King’s family didn’t know about the health crisis that had necessitated bringing in Broderick to act as king.
And it was that secret, right now, that ate most at Pierce’s conscience. He wanted to go onto that dance floor and rescue Meredith with her aching feet and her tired body from the demands of her position in the royal family.
But she was out of his reach. She always had been. She always would be. Instead of heading toward the exit, Pierce headed toward the King. He was aware of the cold expression in Broderick’s eyes as he joined the small group of men cloistered around him. But he didn’t let Broderick’s expression stop him.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted respectfully. “Could we have a word?”
Broderick’s lips thinned. He waved off his crowd and, though nobody saw the reluctance but Pierce, walked with him to the terrace, then into the rose garden, passing the guard who quietly assured Pierce that the area was secure. “Spending a lot of time out of doors, Prescott,” Broderick said smoothly. “Is the moon full?”
“If you’re implying I’m a wolf under this tux, you’d be right.” Pierce didn’t like Broderick. He liked lying about this business even less. It wasn’t the first lie he’d kept secret from the rest of the royal family, but this one sat more heavily on his conscience than the other.
Probably because he was worried about the true King.
Morgan should have come out of his coma by now, yet he hadn’t. And the doctors who were privy to the truth were noticeably concerned. They were even now covertly consulting the Centers for Disease Control in the United States. Megan’s bout with encephalitis had resolved extremely rapidly. The King’s case, however, seemed another kettle of fish entirely.
Lies, Pierce thought as he watched Broderick pluck a fat bloom from a laden rosebush. He hated lies.
The last situation had been unavoidable, and even ten years later, Pierce knew he’d undoubtedly take the same actions. Now, however, this game of make-believe could make or break the delicate negotiations involved in the alliances that King Morgan had been so determined to see to fruition.
“Did you add to the guest list?” he finally asked.
Broderick barely spared him a look. “My dear Prescott, is that not the right of any father of the bride?”
“Don’t mess with me, sir.”
Broderick turned on Pierce, smiling coldly. And in that coldness, his startling resemblance to his twin brother was lost. “And don’t mess with me, old boy. I didn’t have to agree to this charade of yours, after all. The high and mighty RET. My brother’s pet team. I could have told you all to go to hell.”
The Royal Elite Team was far more than the King’s pet, and Broderick knew it. They were a group of four men, personally selected by King Morgan, to protect and serve every interest of Penwyck. If there were a modern-day musketeer, Pierce figured his associates of the RET and he would be it. Though their efforts these days rarely involved wielding the sword themselves.
He didn’t rise to Broderick’s taunt. “You could have refused. You didn’t.”
“It’s to Penwyck’s advantage that I was able to step into my sainted brother’s shoes,” Broderick said. His fingers slowly plucked the petals from the rose.
“We didn’t expect the charade to have to continue beyond a few days. A week.” Nobody had expected the King to be indisposed for so long a time. It had them all worried.
Broderick nodded slowly, for once exhibiting a small portion of concern. “Yet my brother hasn’t rallied as expected. A terrible thing. Lying there in a coma. The man didn’t even have an opportunity to name his successor. To choose between his twin sons the way my parents had to choose between Morgan and me.”
And you hated your parents for the choice they made, didn’t you, old boy? Pierce kept the thought to himself. Broderick had been living in relative seclusion on Majorco, thoroughly estranged from his brother, for so many years that few people even remembered his existence, but he had to admit that, so far, Broderick had been doing an admirable job of taking his brother’s place.
None of which mitigated Pierce’s concern for the King, who lay in that damnably prolonged coma, secreted from all but the most necessary and trusted of staff.
And whether or not Pierce liked it, Broderick was a member of the royal family. “Your Royal Highness—”
“Majesty,” Broderick snapped. “You will address me as you address the King, or you will not address me at all. Is that clear?”
Pierce stepped close to the King, keeping his voice low. “And you will not overstep yourself so much as an inch, or we will deal appropriately with you. Is that clear?”
Broderick suddenly smiled and stepped back, breaking the tension between them. “Relax, Prescott. I swear, neither you nor Monteque have any idea how to have fun. The good admiral dogged my footsteps for most of the night before he was—hallelujah—called away.”
Admiral Harrison Monteque was the unofficial leader of the four-man Royal Elite Team. And Pierce knew Harrison was about as trusting of Broderick as he was. “Adding guests that were never run by my team is hardly what I’d describe as having fun. Yet that’s what you did, isn’t it?”
Broderick shrugged. “So, I was having a bit of fun at the family’s expense. Everyone loves a party, Prescott. What’s a few dozen people more or less?”
“It’s a few dozen people who haven’t been run through security,” Pierce said flatly. “There is no excuse for putting any member of the Penwycks at risk, yet you did just that.”
Broderick sighed heavily. “All right. All right. Relax. Everyone is safe and my…friends have nearly all departed.”
There was little Pierce could do about it without tipping his hand, and Broderick knew that. “How are things going in the private quarters? Anyone suspicious?” If Meredith had noticed anything amiss, he probably would have known by now. She was nothing if not excruciatingly honest.
He wished he were the kind of man who could be just as candid. Who could be worthy of a woman like her. But he wasn’t.
He hadn’t been for ten long years.
“Not even the Queen herself when I slipped into her bed last night has shown suspicion.”
Pierce’s stomach twisted, and his hands curled into fists. “You gave your word you would not—”

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