Marie Ferrarella - Capturing the Crown - The Heart of a Ruler

Capturing the Crown

The Heart of a Ruler

Marie Ferrarella

The Princess’s Secret Scandal

Karen Whiddon

The Sheikh and I

Linda Winstead Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Heart of a Ruler

Marie Ferrarella

USA TODAY bestselling and RITA ®Award-winning author Marie Ferrarellahas written over one hundred and fifty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide.

To

Nickolas J. Gardner

One of the best Test Leads ever.

And to one of the most Incredible teams ever,

Brooks Rowlett, Craig Scheile,

Jarded Hickman & Paul Adriano.

You guys are the greatest!

“What’s the big deal?” Reginald, the crown prince of Silvershire, asked with a laugh that only partially echoed with humor.

The other viable emotion that was present, and more than a little evident in his retort, was irritation. It was common knowledge that Reginald had never liked being challenged or questioned by anyone. His was the right to do or say whatever pleased him. Explanations did not please him. The only other person in the kingdom who dared question him—on rare occasions—was his father. For the most part, King Weston doted on him as Reginald was the single living testimony of his late wife’s love.

Obviously struggling with a temper that rarely resided in check, Reginald paced about his bedroom. He shot the companion of his childhood an impatient look.

Reginald frowned, his handsome features taking on a malevolent appearance. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to marry her in my place. Just go and fetch the damn woman and bring her back.”

“Fetch her.” Lord Russell Southgate, the present duke of Carrington, repeated the phrase the prince had thrown out so cavalierly. Because he knew her, or had known her when they were children, he took offense for the woman who wasn’t there to do it for herself. “Amelia is not a dog, Reginald, she’s a princess.”

Russell watched Reginald square his far-from-broad shoulders. Only in the privacy of Reginald’s chambers was he allowed to address him by anything other than his title. By the look on the prince’s face, Russell knew he was rethinking that. Rethinking everything. And changing. Because someday, very soon, he was going to be king. And Russell knew that once Reginald was king instead of his father, a great many things were going to change, including their relationship. Because too many people liked him, Russell thought, and the prince viewed that as a threat.

It was just a few days before the wedding, a wedding that would forever bind Silvershire with Gastonia, and it was obvious that Reginald did not want to spend the last days of his publicly recognized freedom playing the dutiful fiancé. Not when there were women to be enjoyed.

Abruptly turning on his heel, the prince looked at him. “You’re right, she’s not a dog. Dogs are fun. Dogs are obedient. Princess Amelia,” he emphasized her title with a sneer since he’d made it known that only his title mattered in this union, “is neither. And, there’re rumors that since we last met, she’s developed a nasty independent streak. Having you bring her back to Silvershire in my place will take the little tart down a peg or two.” A smile that was known to make the blood of those on the receiving end run cold spread across his full lips. “Besides,” Reginald continued loftily, “I’m going to be busy.”

Russell leaned against the overly ornate desk that Reginald felt befit him. The one the prince had yet to use for anything other than bedding a very starstruck young woman who had managed to sneak into the palace as one of the cleaning staff. Observing his future monarch, Russell wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps, in light of the century they were living in, the monarchy had outlived its usefulness and purpose. By any standard except that of birthright, Reginald hardly seemed suited to ruling over the small, independent kingdom.

Russell supposed it was up to him to somehow pull off a miracle and make the man suited. He owed it to his fellow countrymen. The question, as always, remained how.

“Busy?” Russ’s deep voice rumbled as he pressed, “Doing what?”

For a moment, Reginald looked incensed at being questioned, but then he let it pass. Instead, he smirked and replied, “Having my last fling of bachelorhood.”

Without another word, Reginald began to walk out of the room.

Russell straightened. Though his tone was deceptively easygoing, he wasn’t through trying to convince the prince not to ignore his obligations. For him not to go to the princess in person was an insult. What really galled him was that Reginald knew that.

“Forgive me, ‘Your Highness,’ but you’ve been ‘flinging’ ever since you discovered you had something to fling.” Moving swiftly, he got in front of the prince, aborting the latter’s getaway. He’d endured enough of Reginald’s evenings to know exactly what was on the prince’s mind. “Don’t you think going to Gastonia to bring back your future bride is a little more important than having some nameless, vacant-headed woman pour herself all over you?”

Reginald pretended to pause and actually reflect on the question. “Well, since you put it that way—” His eyes narrowed as his expression became cold. “No.” He sighed, irritated. “Look, Carrington, this marriage is for my father, for Amelia’s father who wants to keep that poor excuse of a little country of his safe.” His tone increased in its sarcasm. “It’s for the people of Silvershire so they can litter the streets, rubbing bodies against one another as they jockey for position, pathetically waving the flag and getting a small thrill into their dull, dull lives when the royal carriage passes them by. It’s for the news media, who just love ‘storybook weddings.’” His eyes narrowed into dark, almost malevolent slits. “It’s for every damn person in the universe except me.”

Russell struggled not to allow the contempt he felt show on his face. If this was a play for sympathy, it fell well short of its mark. All of his life, the crown prince of Silvershire had had everything he’d ever remotely asked for or wanted. King Weston had never learned how to say no to his only heir. Sadly, abundance and indulgence did not give birth to a wise, magnanimous leader. Reginald had been the Playboy Prince ever since he’d reached his sixteenth birthday.

But despite the fact that the prince was accustomed to women of dazzling beauty, the woman who was to officially share his martial bed was not someone who would fade into the woodwork. He’d seen recent photographs of Princess Amelia and thought that Reginald was getting far better than he deserved.

“Princess Amelia isn’t exactly Medusa,” he reminded Reginald.

The prince shook his head. He’d made it known more than once that he hated having no say in the matter, hated having any part of his life dictated to him. And this marriage pairing him with the twenty-six-year-old princess had been arranged years before he’d even known what the term meant.

“No,” Reginald agreed, “she isn’t. But she is undoubtedly a cold fish, because she is a princess, which means she’s pampered. And,” he recalled, “she had a willful streak as a young girl. I always had to remind her that when we grew up, she was going to have to mind me if she knew what was good for her.” He placed his hand on Russell’s shoulder. Rather than a show of affection between friends, it was a way for him to remind the duke of his powers over him. “This will be a good start. Come on, be a sport, Carrington.” The edges of his smile became slightly brittle as a sharp edge entered his voice. “Don’t make me command you.”