A Princess In Waiting. Carol Grace
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was just recovering from the worst mistake of her life and was not about to make another. If only she could erase the memory of the look on his face and the kiss on her cheek that lingered no matter how long she sat there.
Her instincts told her she could trust him. But her brain told her not to take a chance. She would be just fine on her own. Marriage was risky. Marriage to another Rodin brother was the riskiest of all.
For the next two weeks she tried to put Charles and his surprising offer of marriage out of her mind. She might have succeeded, if a whole crew of workmen hadn’t arrived one clear, sunny day to fix her roof. When she tried to pay them, the chief said it had been taken care of by Monsieur Rodin.
Charles. Charles was as good as his word. But she didn’t want to accept charity from him. She was too leery of taking favors from anyone in his family. She’d been fooled once and she refused to be fooled again. But she didn’t know quite how to get in touch with Charles to repay him for his repairmen’s work, and she didn’t really want to see him again. She might have forgotten the favor he’d done her, if it weren’t for Nanny.
“Wasn’t that kind of Monsieur Rodin?” she exclaimed at least once a day, gazing upward at the repaired roof.
“Yes, Nanny, he is undoubtedly a kind and wonderful man,” Lise answered, trying to hide the cynicism in her voice.
“Nothing like his brother,” she said.
“No, not at all,” Lise agreed.
“It’s not everyone who can be counted on these days,” the old woman said sagely.
“I know, I know,” Lise agreed. There was no point in disagreeing with Nanny. Gertrude had a habit of being right about these matters, and who could deny the man was as good as his word. Lise ended the discussion by going back to work on the picture frame so she didn’t have to continue talking about Charles. It was obvious that Nanny was quite taken with the man. Lise had been careful to keep his offer of marriage to herself, but Nanny had a look in her eye that made Lise wonder how much she’d overheard that day. Fortunately her beloved nanny was much too tactful to ever bring up the subject of marriage or the future.
When Lise had finished painting the frame, it was time for the frosting on the cake of her restoration project. With the light coming through the windows onto her work bench, she installed the portrait of Frederic the Bold back where it belonged. It had been stashed in the archives at the palace for many years. Lise felt the thrill of accomplishment.
In the natural light from the bright spring sunshine, Lise studied the portrait. No doubt about it, Frederic was a handsome man. But there was something about his eyes, a certain sadness that caught her attention. Was this painted after he lost his Princess Gabrielle? Or did he really lose her at all? Now that the portrait was framed, she wished she had someone to show it to. Sharing it with the queen was out of the question. She was consumed with hopes of producing an heir, the dowager queen was involved in the search for the missing heir. There was Nanny, of course, who never failed to support her work, but it was obvious the only other person who’d care, who would appreciate the work she’d done, was Charles.
It was too bad. They might have been friends. If he wasn’t the brother of her ex-husband. If he hadn’t asked her to marry him. If he hadn’t had such a disturbing effect on her.
Ah, well. If her work didn’t give her pleasure and satisfaction on its own, she wouldn’t be doing it. She refused to worry about the future. She was just happy to be home in St. Michel again, with her divorce final and the memories of her brief, disastrous marriage behind her. Next weekend was the dowager queen’s official seventy-fifth birthday party. Though her real birthday was in October, it was always celebrated in May when the weather was usually nice enough for a garden party.
Lise hoped everyone would be too busy scrutinizing the dowager queen at the party, wondering if she’d had yet another face-lift, and debating whether the reigning pregnant queen would even put in an appearance, or gossiping about the missing heir to the throne, to pay any attention to her. She wanted to stay out of the limelight, avoiding questions about her marriage, her pregnancy, her illegitimacy and more condolences on the death of her father. She was looking forward to a reunion with her two sisters: Marie-Claire, who’d been traveling abroad with her new husband, Sebastian, and Ariane, who was living in Rhineland with her husband, Prince Etienne. But after she’d had a chance to see them, she planned to slip away, back to the solace of her cottage.
The problem was she had nothing to wear to the party. Ideally, no one would notice her at all. But if they did, she didn’t want them to feel sorry for her. She wanted to look her best in a quiet, subdued, unobtrusive way, though without her wardrobe left behind in Rhineland, she didn’t know how she was going to pull that off.
“Maybe I won’t go to the party,” she said to Nanny very casually over dinner one evening. Though Nanny insisted on serving Lise, Lise insisted they eat together. How ridiculous to have the old woman eating alone in the kitchen. Besides, Lise was grateful for her company.
Gertrude laid her fork down. “What? Not attend the queen’s birthday party?”
“Well, you know, I don’t think I’d be missed.”
“You would most certainly be missed. You’ve forgotten how many friends you have here at home.”
Home. Yes, this was her home. Home, the place where no matter what you’ve done, whether they want to or not, they have to take you back again. They’d taken her back, however reluctantly, and she’d better make the best of it.
“All right. But what will I wear? I scarcely have any dresses and the ones I have are getting a little tight.”
Nanny suggested altering one of Lise’s few dresses or making her a new one, but Lise didn’t want the old woman to take on yet another task, so she assured her she’d make do somehow and put it out of her mind.
But the morning of the party, she stood in her small bedroom staring at herself critically in the full-length mirror. Yes, her pants were getting a little snug in the hips. Though she was still not quite ready for maternity clothes, it wouldn’t be long before her regular clothes didn’t fit at all. She opened her armoire and frowned at the meager selection of dresses in her closet. There was absolutely nothing appropriate for a garden party. She sat on the edge of her bed and sighed. How ridiculous she was, worrying about a dress when she had so many other things to worry about. Her future. Her baby. Her country’s future if the heir wasn’t found.
When she heard the sound of a vehicle arriving in front of the cottage, she jumped up and peered down through the second-floor window and saw a large pickup truck piled high with trunks she recognized. Her things. Her personal belongings had arrived. At last. Just in the nick of time. Surely there’d be something she could wear to this party.
Not only did the men bring the trunks into the house, they carried them upstairs to the extra bedroom. When she offered them a generous tip, they waved her efforts aside, saying they’d already been paid. She didn’t ask, but the words buzzed in her brain. By whom? Who had paid the delivery men? Who had arranged the transfer of the trunks when all her efforts to recover her things had gone unanswered? She knew the answer. It was Charles.
The only things I want from your family are my belongings.
Consider it done.
He was as good as his word. But how to thank him? She was not about to start asking questions about him, such as where she could find him, thus raising suspicions of why she needed to know. This was no time to dwell on the hows and whys and wheres regarding her personal belongings. She unlocked the trunks and began her search through the piles of silk, satin, wool and leather. Her trousseau clothes. All reminders of a life that was gone. The life of a princess. A legitimate princess with a bright future as the wife of a prominent Rhinelander embarking on a life of ease and luxury.
The memories came flooding back as she sifted through the clothes—parties, balls, dinners. The memories of Wilhelm, who viewed her, not as a person with feelings or needs or desires, but as a trophy to be shown off in her matching shoes, her hand-painted