Carol Grace - A Princess In Waiting

“Eight months,” Lise said. “Eight months that I am doing my best to forget. So if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to work.” She pivoted on her heel and turned back to her frame. If only she’d been wearing a gown and a tiara, she might have pulled off this obvious dismissal and he would have left. She used the imperial tone. She had the movements down pat. Those years of training came in useful at times. But not today. He didn’t leave. He did just the opposite. He stepped forward. He was right behind her, leaning over her left shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a deep voice, so much like his brother’s she shivered involuntarily. And yet, the tone was altogether different. Wilhelm gave orders. Charles had asked a question as if he was interested. Wilhelm never asked about her work. Never wondered if she missed it or how she would fill the empty hours in Rhineland while he was working.

She sighed. “I’m doing some restoration work on an eighteenth-century frame for the palace archives,” she said. She couldn’t help it. She should have said it was none of his business, but she had so few people to share her enthusiasm for her work. Not that he cared. Of course he didn’t. He was just making conversation.

“I would guess it held a portrait at one time,” he said coming even closer, so close he brushed her shoulder with his arm. She felt a wave of heat sweep through her body.

“A portrait,” she repeated. “Yes, it did.” She wished he would move away. His warm breath fanned the back of her neck and made her knees weak. It was difficult to concentrate on the subject of the painting. “It was one of my royal ancestors. Frederic the Second.”

“Frederic the Bold, I believe they called him, for his acquisition of the lowlands,” Charles said.

Lise nodded slowly. She was impressed by his knowledge of history. It wasn’t even his history. She’d thought she was the only one who could keep the ancestors straight. How did he know?

“And for his wooing of my royal ancestor, Princess Gabrielle,” Charles added. Though she couldn’t see his face, she thought his voice held the hint of a smile.

“Which resulted in a royal scandal, because she was affianced to someone else. How do you know all this?” she asked, turning to face him. He was so close she could see that though his eyes were the same color as his brother’s, they were a softer brown, almost velvety. Wilhelm had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen, as cold as the stones from the river. She couldn’t drag her gaze away. She couldn’t stop comparing the two brothers. They looked so much alike, but acted so differently. Or was this just an act? He really hadn’t explained why he was here.

He shrugged. “My grandfather used to tell me stories. My parents were too busy with their own lives to pay much attention to me or my brother. Wilhelm had other interests, but I was fascinated by the history of my country. And Grandfather was a great storyteller. He’d walk me through the portrait gallery at the palace and tell me about the people in the paintings. Before he died, he wrote a history of Rhineland, which includes quite a bit about St. Michel. One can’t study one without getting involved with the other, as you know. We can’t ignore each other, whether we want to or not. We’re too close, have too much in common, too many ties going back over the centuries.”

The way he said it, the way he looked at her, with such warmth in his gaze, she felt the heat. Lise wondered if he was talking about their countries or themselves. She didn’t dare ask. Why was he here? If he wondered if she’d been devastated by the divorce, he could see she hadn’t been.

When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “History is your field, isn’t it?”

She was surprised he knew. Wilhelm had thought it a useless hobby, but it was her passion, along with art. “History and art restoration. I’ve been criticized more than once for living in the past.”

Get your nose out of that book, her mother had said.

You’ll never find a man in a museum, her father had cautioned.

What are you doing in the library all day? her husband Wilhelm had demanded.

“That’s ridiculous. Who was it who said if we don’t study history, we’re doomed to repeat it?”

She smiled. “It’s true, but you didn’t come here to discuss history,” she said. If he did, she could go on all day, having no one else to talk to about it, and neither of them wanted that. As much as she enjoyed sharing her love of the past with someone, even him, his presence disturbed her more than it should have. He looked like his brother, but didn’t act like him. He was tall and handsome and well-bred, but lacked the pretension of other members of his family.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Or why he was there in the first place. She didn’t know how to get rid of him. Or if she really wanted to. There were questions she wanted answers to: How many minds had his brother poisoned against her? How did his parents feel about her? What stories was his brother spreading about her? And yes, she had to admit she wanted to know, how did he, Charles, feel about her?

“No, I didn’t come here to discuss history. Although it’s an interesting topic and since Grandfather died I’ve had no one…” He paused as if he was unwilling to admit he’d had no one to talk to. “No, not history,” he continued.

Charles leaned back against a stone countertop and studied her for a long moment. He was trying to collect his thoughts, but just looking at the lovely princess caused his mind to wander and his heart to pound erratically. The last time he’d seen Lise de Bergeron had been on her wedding day.

He’d thought at the time that in her white satin gown and diamond tiara she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He’d been filled with an unbecoming rush of envy for his older twin. As usual, Wilhelm had succeeded in snatching the prize before Charles had had a chance to compete. He couldn’t help but wonder, even then, if his brother would be as careless with this prize as he’d been with all the others he’d won. The silver cup for polo, the gold medal for fencing—all tossed aside as soon as he’d gotten them. The contest forgotten, except for the bragging and the gloating that continued long afterward.

Marriage to Lise was a prize Wilhelm hadn’t even competed for. It had been handed to him by an official arrangement. Her father wanted to strengthen the ties between their countries; Wilhelm wanted the marriage because it would advance his claim to some of the Micheline royal lands, should the country revert to Rhineland control. Wilhelm was the elder brother by thirty minutes. In this case, those thirty minutes made all the difference between Charles’s loss and his brother’s success.

When his brother had found out Lise was illegitimate and would inherit neither her title nor royal land, he immediately divorced her. When Charles had heard that, straight from his brother’s mouth, he’d been stunned. His brother was not known for his kindness or compassion, he’d always had a ruthless streak, pushing aside anyone and anything that got in his way, but this time he’d gone too far. Charles was not only stunned, but he was ashamed on behalf of the family honor. Charles felt as if his brother had put a sword through his chest. He’d left the U.S. on the next plane and here he was, determined to do something to make things right.

Seeing the princess today, attired in the garb of a peasant with a smudge of paint on her cheek, her silky blond hair twisted in a knot at the nape of her neck, he found her even more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her in her wedding finery. He felt a rush of emotion he hadn’t expected. He’d thought he’d feel pity. But that wasn’t what he was feeling at that moment. Lise de Bergeron did not inspire pity. She was too confident and self-assured. What he felt for her was a much stronger emotion he dared not name.