Capturing the Crown Bundle. Nina Bruhns
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honestly, she was surprised that this was the first paternity claim to be made, and that there was only one. Reginald had gone around scattering his seed with abandon since he’d been in his teens. That this was the first so-called bastard that had surfaced was rather incredible.
Amelia paused for a moment, looking at Russell. He spoke to her as if she were his equal in this, instead of some hanger-on to be kept in the dark. She liked that.
She hadn’t been wrong about him, she thought. Her heart had picked the right man to love.
“And if it is true,” Russell continued, “if she does give birth and the child turns out to be a boy—” He paused, studying her face as he waited for the significance of what he was saying to set in.
It didn’t take much to know where Russell was going with this, Amelia thought. “You’re thinking he could be next in line, rather than you.”
“Yes.”
When she was a young girl, everything about her life seemed to be cast in stone. Things were fixed according to her father’s word or to the traditions that seemed to rule so much of her life. Now, with this news, it felt as if everything was in flux and what she thought was stone was merely plaster of Paris, easily cracked. Easily shattered.
The crown was not yet on Russell’s head and, if certain things came to pass, it might never be. She looked at Russell, trying to gauge what he was thinking. The man could play poker with the best of them, she decided. Had her kingdom’s only income still been garnered from the casinos, he would have made a perfect symbol of the successful gambler.
“How does that make you feel?” she finally asked.
He answered her honestly. “Relieved—except…” Unable to finish, he looked at her.
“Except?” she prompted.
He was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but when it came to her, he found that he couldn’t quite help himself. “Except for the fact that if this does come to light, your father might call for an annulment of our marriage.”
“An annulment?” For the first time since Russell had entered the suite, she found herself laughing. Laughing so hard that her next few words were shaky as she uttered them. “Annulments are granted if the marriage isn’t consummated. I think it’s a little too late to call off the marriage using that as the excuse on record,” she quipped. “We’ve ‘consummated’ this marriage a great many times as I recall.” She put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. “I’m afraid an annulment is out of the question, Russell.”
He took her hand, about to brush it off. He found himself holding it instead. Wondering if he’d been a fool, thinking that he would be allowed to face eternity with her at his side.
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Amelia. You know what I mean.”
Amelia took a breath, doing her best to steady herself. But her cheeks refused to pull themselves into a serious expression no matter how much she told herself they should.
“Yes, I know what you mean and I beg to differ, Carrington. The day we cease to laugh is the day we begin to die. This most certainly is a laughing matter because, in case you hadn’t noticed, I got the last laugh, so to speak.” When he looked at her quizzically, she explained. “I didn’t have to marry that horrible hedonist.”
And then she stopped abruptly. Russell was looking at her as if he was trying to assess something. As if he was seeing her for the first time. Because she was so incredibly attuned to him, she suddenly realized what he had to be thinking. It hit her squarely in the pit of her stomach.
She might have been affronted, Amelia thought, if the thought wasn’t so completely absurd, so foreign from anything she might have entertained.
Because she always tried to put the best possible face on everything, even an insult, she decided to take Russell’s unwarranted suspicion, however fleeting, as a compliment to her ability to take care of herself.
“No, Russell, I didn’t have Reginald killed, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would have had to take a number and I have never liked having to stand in line. My father once said that if I had to stand in line to get into heaven, I’d probably decide to go to hell instead.” She cocked her head, studying his face. This wasn’t all. “What else is bothering you?”
The thought that she might have had a hand in Reginald’s demise had been a fleeting one at best. Though she didn’t strike him as being a pushover, he knew she wasn’t capable of coldly ordering someone’s death.
He might as well get through all of it, he thought. “Our union only took place because your father believed I was the man Weston was selecting for the crown. If that crown goes to someone else, what then?”
She didn’t see what the problem was, at least, not for them. Her father wouldn’t be happy that the marriage did not back up their countries’ alliance, but things did not always work themselves out perfectly no matter how much effort went into arrangements.
“Then you pledge your allegiance to the baby or whoever King Weston chooses and we return home to Gastonia to live happily ever after.”
That didn’t satisfy him. Hers was not the last word on the matter. “Won’t your father want you to marry whoever is king here?”
Her laugh was soft, indulgent. She touched his face affectionately. “Not even my father would marry me to someone after I’d just been married before God and the good citizens of Silvershire, not to mention Madeline,” she added with a broad smile. “That would be ludicrous.”
“But the marriage was to reinforce the treaty,” he insisted.
He was worried about that, she suddenly realized. Her heart grew warm. He was afraid she would have to walk out on him. As if that could ever be possible.
“My father’s not that small a man,” she assured him softly. “Having his daughter married to the Duke of Carrington, the king’s right-hand political adviser, carries weight to it,” she assured him, then added, “Especially when he sees how happy his daughter is—in direct contrast to how very unhappy he knew she would have been if Reginald had lived and he had become her husband.”
A small wave of relief finally came. Russell allowed himself a small, affectionate smile. “You’re referring to yourself in the third person.”
Amelia pretended to toss her head. “All us royal types do that.” And then she laughed and winked.
He put his hands on her waist, holding her for a moment, thinking how quickly he had gotten used to having her in his arms.
Again, his expression became somber as concern nibbled away at him. “But if it came to that, if your father decided that Gastonia’s needs were immediate and urgent and since the heir to Silvershire’s throne was an infant, perhaps a more suitable match for the matter of security could be made with the prince of another kingdom—” There were still a few kingdoms that could come into play when it came to making treaties, kingdoms that knew safety lay in alliances.
She didn’t want to play this game. It was tiring and pointless. What he was suggesting wasn’t going to happen. Amelia placed her finger to his lips, stilling them. “Don’t borrow trouble, Your Highness. I’m your wife and I’m going to remain that way.”
She’d called him “Your Highness,” as if he were a prince. It was in jest, but he couldn’t divorce himself from the thought that that was what she wanted from the man she was wed to. The promise of a crown.
His eyes searched her face as he asked, “Would it bother you if I wasn’t king?”
“It wasn’t your crown that drew me to you in the first place,” she reminded him, lacing her arms around his neck. She sighed as her body came in contact with his. “It won’t be your crown that will make me want to remain.”
“Oh?” The weightier matters of Reginald’s death