Carolyn Zane - Of Royal Blood

“May I cut in?”

Marie-Claire froze.

Eduardo, his teeth pointing at Marie-Claire from behind his eager smile, tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. His wild, rusty head of hair had been tamed with what looked like an entire bottle of styling gel and his tuxedo was inches too short in the sleeve and cuff. Fingers itching, he fairly pried Marie-Claire from Sebastian’s grasp.

She wanted to scream as Sebastian stepped aside and with obvious reluctance handed her over to the young Eduardo Van Groober’s arms. Darn! Just as things were getting interesting. Eduardo clutched her close and her back already ached from the pressure he exerted.

“Save another dance for me?” Sebastian called as Eduardo jerked her away, rattling her teeth in the process.

Marie-Claire nodded dumbly and watched with longing as Sebastian backed across the room and straight into the voluptuous—and morally emancipated—Baroness Veronike Schroeder of Germany.

Before Sebastian had time to react, Veronike cast out her web, snared him, and then dragged him out to the dance floor for the kill.

Eduardo made an awkward attempt at conversation and Marie-Claire listened with half an ear. And, when he wasn’t trying to impress her with his prowess on the high-school golf team, his nose was buried in her hair. Marie-Claire batted at him in a distracted fashion, straining to keep her sights on Sebastian.

And Veronike.

Euro-trash with pretensions to the Hapsburg dynasty, Veronike was a formidable personality and when she wanted something, she usually got it. And Veronike did enjoy the occasional dalliance with a handsome playboy.

Jealousy seared like a hot knife through Marie-Claire’s heart. Compared to Veronike, Marie-Claire felt quite the underdeveloped adolescent. Insecurity assailed her as she watched Veronike swivel seductively to the pounding beat. Veronike draped over Sebastian like a skimpy chiffon window dressing, all fluttering lashes and fat, blood-red lips.

The dress the German siren wore tonight seemed less a gown and more a figment of the imagination. Smashed against Sebastian’s firm chest, Veronike’s ample bosom strained to be set free of its wispy confines and her hips ground against Sebastian’s in a way that would have Marie-Claire’s molars reduced to dust before the end of the evening if she didn’t make a concerted effort to change her train of thought.

Ooo.

Wilhelm tapped Eduardo on the shoulder and cut in, no doubt feeling it was time to put in the appearance of caring, Marie-Claire thought churlishly. Eduardo obviously hated to let her go and there was an awkward scuffle as Wilhelm dismissed the hormone-ravaged boy. Where Eduardo was chatty, Wilhelm was stony, allowing Marie-Claire to drift.

She winced as she retraced the inane conversation she’d made just now with Sebastian, and wondered if she wasn’t better off eating her heart out over Veronike’s physical charms.

I’m joining a twelve-step program for stalkers.

Her sisters were right. She was certifiable. During her next dance with Sebastian, she hoped—if there was a next dance with Sebastian—she’d be able to control her idiotic tongue before she blurted out that she wanted to snatch Veronike bald.

Oh.

Marie-Claire’s eyes slid closed as she reflected on how unbelievably right it had felt to have Sebastian’s arms around her. She knew he’d felt it, too. She moaned, and an involuntary shiver wracked her body. Head back, she clutched Wilhelm a little tighter at the memory of Sebastian’s powerful body steering her around the dance floor. She immediately regretted the impulse as the rigid Wilhelm looked down at her with a curious frown.

“Stiff knee,” she fibbed.

After a frightfully dull turn on the dreary Wilhelm’s arm, her father at last rescued her, just before Eduardo could reach her again. The boy’s disappointment was plain.

“You are looking well tonight, daughter. This gown suits you.”

Coming from her father, this was high praise. Though King Philippe was not effusive in speech, Marie-Claire knew she was loved. Cherished. And, because she was the youngest of three daughters by his first—and now deceased—wife a tad favored.

“Thank you, sir. You’re looking rather dapper tonight, yourself.” She gave his satin cummerbund a playful tug.

“Oh, I know you’re simply trying to put a bit of a bounce in an old man’s step.”

“Fifty-one is hardly old.”

“I’m sure it must seem that way when you are just twenty-one. You know, I was Sebastian’s age or thereabouts when you were born.”

“Oh?”

His smile was gentle. “I see the way you look at him.”

“I don’t suppose my ladylike caterwauling on the golf course has anything to do with your assumption that I’m smitten.”

A chuckle rumbled from deep within Philippe’s robust chest, and Marie-Claire couldn’t help but notice how handsome her father still was. The little cleft in his chin and the twinkle in his eye put her in mind of another of her favorite American actors, although Michael Douglas was perhaps not quite as tall. But the physical resemblance was something folks had remarked upon before. That and the fact that they both preferred young, beautiful wives.

Marie-Claire spared a glance in Celeste’s direction, and noted the raucous laughter and phony social-climbing demeanor her stepmother had assumed with the prime minister. Her father was blind when it came to Celeste’s rather lengthy list of foibles.

“I suppose you could do worse than Sebastian.” Though Philippe’s remark was offhand, as he looked at his daughter, his gaze roved her suddenly burning cheeks.

“Papa!”

He ignored her weak protestations. “You are a beautiful woman, Marie-Claire. Unfortunately for me, the time has come to let go of you. To let you loose upon the world….” King Philippe pulled Marie-Claire close, the gesture at odds with his words.

“Heaven forbid!”

“You will do great things in this life, my dear. Always know that I love you, and am so very proud.”

Marie-Claire felt her throat tighten at his sweet words, and impulsively stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. This pleased the king and he blinked back the tears.

As the evening wore on, Marie-Claire and Sebastian were obliged to dance with other people. Thankfully, Veronike was a popular partner and had not been available for a second go at Sebastian. And, though they were not always in proximity, Marie-Claire could feel Sebastian’s proprietary gaze and her confidence soared. Unable to tear her eyes away from him for more than a moment, she found keeping up with the task at hand nearly impossible.

“So,” Charles Rodin, Wilhelm’s twin brother commented, “I understand you are a fan of old movies. Have you seen Adam’s Rib?”

“I have never eaten there, though I do enjoy American barbecue…”

“Oh?” Charles frowned.

Prince Etienne Kroninberg of Rhineland told her, “It is my understanding that your sister, Ariane, is planning to come to my country for a visit.”

“No, Ariane is around here somewhere, I think. I just saw her…”

Etienne opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better and shut it.

The prime minister said, “Your grandmother is looking well tonight. The king’s victory seems to have put roses in her cheeks.”

“Yes, she has ten green thumbs, at least.”

More than once, she trod upon her partner’s toe and had to beg pardon. And more than once, she caught Sebastian’s smile of amusement.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Sebastian finally made his way back to her and solicited her hand from a stodgy third cousin and whisked her off.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” Sebastian angled his head and cocked a playful brow.