Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett
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“Did you ever guess that you’re the first gentleman I’ve kissed?”
He hadn’t, not at all, but that guileless confession kept him painfully hard. And might all the lords of the admiralty forgive him, he was kissing her again. She parted her lips freely for him, exploring him as much as he was her. He slid his hands along the narrowing curve of her waist, inside her dressing gown so there was nothing but the gossamer-weight linen between him and the quivering fullness of her breasts and this had to stop.
He released her and forced himself to step away from temptation. Her hair was mussed and tousled, her cheeks flushed, her nightclothes askew and, damnation, he’d never wanted any woman more than he wanted this one, whom he’d no right to have.
“Oh, my,” she murmured. “That was not pretending, was it?”
“No.” The blood was still thumping through his body, demanding to be obeyed. “That was as damned real as it gets.”
Praise for bestselling author Miranda Jarrett
“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign as the queen of historical romance.”
—Romantic Times
“A marvelous author…each word is a treasure, each book a lasting memory.”
—The Literary Times
The Golden Lord
“Sexual tension runs high. There are…secrets to be kept, mysteries to be solved and a traditional ending in which sharing truth wins true love.”
—Romantic Times
The Silver Lord
“The characters and plotting are very good and deftly presented.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Princess of Fortune
Miranda Jarrett
MILLS & BOON
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For Mary Jo,
A most excellent friend, and a writer who always
inspires, with affection and admiration.
And who else can remain so cheerful
when the fire siren wails at 6:00 a.m.?
Contents
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 One
Kingdom of Monteverde, 1796
W ho would have dreamed that London—wicked, wealthy, barbarous London—would become her only sanctuary?
London. Oh, dearest saints in heaven, whatever were her parents thinking?
Isabella forced herself to take another deep breath as she stared out the window of her bedchamber, striving to master the panic and fear knotting in her chest. She still could not quite believe she was leaving this view, this room, this house, and this life, with no guarantee that she’d ever return. Usually so full of activity, the palace now seemed forlornly silent, her father and brother already gone and most of the servants fled to the hills.
Next—last—to go would be Isabella. Earlier her trunks had been taken away, and as her lady’s maid fastened the rows of buttons along the sleeves of her jacket, she felt these last minutes here in her home slipping away more relentlessly than the grains of sand in an hourglass. Inside her kidskin gloves her palms were already moist with anxiety, and her heart raced with dread for what lay before her.
But she was the only daughter of the King of Monteverde, and a Fortunaro princess must be strong as a lioness, full of courage and pride like the fierce, noble beasts that graced the family’s arms. Yes, yes, a lioness of gold: that was what she was, and with fresh determination Isabella drew in her breath and raised her head to what she hoped was a more regal angle.
“Isabella, hold still,” scolded her mother with her usual impatience. No one would ever guess that Mama, too, would be fleeing tonight—which was, of course, the point. Mama was as exquisitely dressed and coiffed as she was every evening, her favorite rubies around her throat and her still-beautiful face with the heavy-lidded eyes so artfully painted that, by candlelight, she could pass for Isabella’s sister instead of her mother.
“If you continue to fidget, daughter,” she continued, looking down her famous nose at Isabella, “and do not let Anna dress you properly, I shall turn you over to the French and that vile little Corsican instead of to the English.”
At once Isabella went still, letting the maid finish dressing her in her traveling clothes. Mama was right: she was eighteen, far too old for such childish restlessness. If it weren’t for General Buonaparte and his ridiculous war turning all the royal houses upside down, a suitable marriage would have been arranged for her long ago.
“That it should come to this, Your Highness,” said the Marchese di Romano grimly, the last of her father’s advisers left in the palace, and one of her mother’s closest friends. He was an older man whose eyes now seemed to wander in opposite directions and who relied weightily upon his gold-headed walking stick, but no one at court had ever doubted that his mind remained as sharp and clever as any fox’s. “That a Fortunaro princess should be forced to scurry away like a low skulking thief, to snivel and beg for mercy from those heathen English—”
“Oh, hush, Romano,” said Mama mildly. “She is going to England because it is the only country that Buonaparte cannot capture. There is no other place where she will be as safe.”
Idly the marchese tapped his stick on the polished floor. “The English will adore our dear princess, you know,” he said, studying Isabella with a connoisseur’s eye. “They are all penny-gallants for a pretty face in distress.”
“She is more than simply a pretty face, Romano,” said her mother sternly. “She is my daughter, and a great beauty.”
“Of course, of course,” said Romano softly, soothing. “She will have no equal among those milk-fed English ladies.”
Though Isabella kept her head proudly raised, as if already confronting those English ladies, her unhappiness was