If The Ring Fits.... Melissa McClone
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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.”