Linda Jones - Capturing the Crown

The tension broke and Amelia began to laugh, really laugh. She laughed so hard that she found herself holding on to her sides. “Oh God, that felt good. What would I ever do without you, Madeline?”

Born without a single bone of conceit in her body, Madeline assured her, “You’d muddle through. It would just take you a little longer, that’s all.” Familiar chords began to resonate over the intercom in the vestibule. It was time. Madeline gave Amelia an encouraging smile. “I think they’re playing your song, Princess.”

The butterflies in her stomach made a quantum leap, butting wings against one another. Amelia’s hand flew to her stomach and she pressed against it, feeling as if she was going to throw up. “Oh, God.”

“Just smile and look gorgeous,” Madeline advised. “And remember to say ‘I do’ in the right place.” Bending, she shifted Amelia’s train so that she could walk out of the small room. “Just remember, this could have been Reginald and thank your lucky stars that you wound up dodging that bullet.”

Amelia opened the door. The other bridesmaids, a mixture of women she’d known since childhood and daughters from prominent families, all began talking at once.

The sound formed a wall of noise around her. Amelia forced a smile to her lips and froze it there as she exited the small room.

It was time to meet her destiny.

He looked so stern, Amelia thought as she approached Russell and the altar in rhythmic, measured steps, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm. Shouldn’t he be smiling?

Russell stood by the minister who was officiating at the ceremony. Close beside him was the king, taking his place as the best man. She knew that the monarch had insisted on it because it made him feel closer to Reginald. Right next to Weston were the groomsmen.

All she could really see was Russell.

His face looked rigid, as if he were waiting for a battle cry instead of his bride-to-be.

Fear ran in on spiked cleats. Was this a mistake? Should she have insisted on having the ceremony canceled, or at the very least, postponed, until matters between them had been ironed out?

Until the matter of whether or not the prince had been murdered was resolved?

Any way she looked at it, this just didn’t seem like the ideal time to get married. The whole country, not to mention the relationship between the two of them, was in a state of chaos. Yet here she was, approaching the altar, about to say the words that would officially join their two countries, their two destinies.

Something inside Amelia wanted her to raise her skirts, turn on her heel and run as fast as she could to the nearest exit. But she didn’t do any of that, she continued approaching the altar. Approaching Russell.

Despite everything, she thought, as King Roman placed her hand in Russell’s, she loved him. That much she was certain of. No matter what he might be guilty of, she loved Russell.

For better or worse.

The words had added significance to her as she heard them being said by the minister. She repeated them, cadence for cadence, glancing up only briefly at the man she said them to.

Russell’s expression remained unreadable. She could feel the frost forming around her heart.

Lucia Cordez, dressed in a stunning, blue street-length dress that lovingly adhered to every supple curve her finely trimmed, martial-arts-trained body had to offer, dabbed subtly at her light blue eyes as she pretended to be moved by the ceremony she and so many others were attending.

No one had questioned her presence. With a Latin father and a mother who was half African American, half Caucasian, and blessed with model-perfect good looks, Lucia had the kind of face and bearing that easily allowed her to fit in anywhere people of quality gathered.

She’d arrived in Silvershire a little more than an hour ago, just in time to catch Carrington before he left for the church. She’d put a few pertinent questions to the duke, the most important of which was whether he knew the whereabouts of the late prince’s laptop. He’d had the presence of mind to place it under lock and key within his own room.

Lucia had commended him for his action and taken possession of the key. The moment the reception got underway, she intended to make herself scarce and get started hacking into the prince’s computer files. Because Reginald had been Silvershire’s future king, his files had been highly secured with intricate pass codes that only he had known. She had come prepared. Cracking them could take her a matter of hours, or it could take as long as several months. Optimistically, she hoped for somewhere in between.

There was no time like the present to get started. But, for the moment, Lucia allowed herself to enjoy the wedding. It was the last word in opulence. Silvershire was not without its resources. And she had always had a fondness for pomp and ceremony. It was leagues away from her own background.

It was what she aspired to.

It felt as if the reception would never end.

Part of Amelia had nursed the hope that it wouldn’t, because part of her was afraid of this moment, when the reception was on its way to becoming just a memory and she was alone in the royal bedroom with her new husband. Not afraid the way she would have been just a few short days ago, but afraid because of the issue that had sprung up between her and Russell. The issue that still remained unresolved, at least for Russell. And maybe, just in the tiniest bit, for her.

She released the breath she was holding. This was absurd. They were married now. They were a united couple before God and the world. It was time to begin acting like one.

Amelia turned around to say something to Russell, who had remained almost eerily quiet since they’d left the ballroom and entered the bedroom. She was still acutely aware that he had refrained from carrying her over the threshold.

To her surprise, she saw that her brand-new husband was crossing back to the doorway. His hand was on the doorknob and he looked as if he intended to leave. A strange chill passed over her.

“Where are you going?”

He glanced in her direction. Wished she didn’t look as beautiful as she did. Wished she didn’t move him the way she did. She was still in her wedding dress, looking as pure as she should have been had he not given in to his earthier instincts. “To my quarters.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “Aren’t these your quarters?”

He didn’t think of them in that way. He’d always felt himself a visitor in the palace, no matter how many nights he’d spent here. “They’re the quarters reserved for the wedding night.”

Because he hadn’t moved away from the door, Amelia crossed to him, taking off her headpiece and veil as she approached. She tossed them onto a wing chair as she passed it.

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” Amelia began to take the pins out of her hair. “But doesn’t the wedding night follow the wedding?”

He watched, unable to draw his eyes away, as her hair came cascading down like sunbeams. “Yes.”

Amelia ran her fingers through her hair, loosening the last of the trapped strands. “And weren’t we the bride and groom involved in the wedding?”

His mouth felt dry. She was distracting him. He had to remember why he had been so determined to walk away. It wasn’t easy. “Yes.”

“Then these should be our quarters,” she concluded, stopping less than a hairbreadth away from him. “Jointly.”

He squared his shoulders. She was making this hard. “Princess—”

“Amelia,” she corrected, trying to bank down the sudden spike of frustration that shot through her. “My name is Amelia.” Despite her efforts, exasperation entered her voice. “Why won’t you call me that? Do I have to give you a flash card?”