The Princess And The Duke. Allison Leigh
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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