The Princess And The Duke

“Exactly,” Megan murmured. “The three sisters of Penwyck. Meredith the horny, Megan the boring and Ana the loudmouth.”

All three of them giggled, which they quickly curtailed when their mother sent them a long, telling look. They were supposed to be listening with dignified grace to their father while he gave his annual welcome to the Royal Spring Ball, not whispering and giggling. Even the boys, Owen and Dylan, despite being only twelve, were behaving more appropriately than the girls.

Meredith leaned over to Megan, who was a few inches shorter. “You’re not boring, idiot, and you know it.”

“But you do want to dance with Lieutenant Prescott,” Megan replied, her pretty green eyes laughing. “Is he the one who is going to give you your first kiss?”

Meredith felt her cheeks flush and looked guiltily toward the uniformed officer standing at attention near the open terrace doors.

He wore his formal army uniform, all gleaming black and gold buttons. The black beret with the gold trim set upon his head at a serious angle only added to his appeal, as far as Meredith was concerned. His chestnut-colored hair was cut militarily short, yet her fingertips still tingled from fantasizing about the feel of it. She easily imagined the steady weight of his gaze, even though she didn’t have a clue where exactly he was looking. The distance from where she stood with her family on the dais at the head of the grand ballroom to where he stood at attention near one of the sets of doors opening onto the starlit terrace was too great.

Silvery-green, she thought with a little sigh. Whether she could see them up close now or not, she knew exactly the shade of his silvery-green eyes. Almost exactly the shade of her gown. “He already did kiss me,” she murmured, and then laughed soundlessly at Megan’s gasp. “When I was ten, remember? The school did a summer project to rehabilitate that old mill up in the Aronleigh Mountains. His mother coordinated it through her school. I slammed my thumb with a hammer, and he kissed it better.” Of course, he’d done that with a great amount of sarcasm because she’d been very much on her royal high horse, but at this moment, she chose to ignore that.

“That’s right,” Megan whispered, leaning centimeters toward Meredith. “I’d forgotten that his mother was a teacher.”

“Both his parents died last year,” Meredith murmured, her gaze on the officer. Her heart had ached for his loss. She’d written a personal note to him when she’d learned of the auto accident that had claimed their lives, but hadn’t had the nerve to send it. The mere thought of the handsome young man reading words she’d penned had sent her heart into an absolute tailspin.

“Just admit it, Meredith,” Anastasia said, needling, “you want to kiss him.”

Meredith, smiling at the guests who had begun clapping at the conclusion of her father’s welcome, reached behind Megan and firmly pinched the back of Ana’s arm. Her youngest sister jumped, barely containing a yowl, and glared at Meredith, her vivid blue eyes flashing.

But all three girls went utterly silent when their mother, always strikingly beautiful but tonight looking even more so, glided silently to stand beside them. The massive chandeliers overhead caught the tiara carefully situated in Marissa’s upswept hair. A million little lights danced from the jewels among her dark tresses, and for a moment, Meredith found herself watching Lieutenant Prescott through a glittering rainbow.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart seemed to stop beating altogether for a long, interminable moment.

He was looking at her. She felt it right down to her toes.

Her heart came to life, racing, beating so hard that she felt sure it must be visible from the outside.

She had no intention of admitting it to Anastasia with her silly comments, or to Megan either, for that matter.

But she did intend to dance with Lieutenant Pierceson Prescott. And before the evening was out, she was going to get him to kiss her, too.

She would, or she wasn’t Her Royal Highness, Meredith Elizabeth, Princess of Penwyck.

Chapter One

Grand bells chimed from every steeple, ringing out a chorus the likes of which the country of Penwyck had not heard in decades. Citizens of the island country lined the streets of the capital city, Marlestone, shouting and clapping and singing and pushing eagerly against the barriers as the anticipated hour drew near.

Some had turned out at the crack of dawn to jostle for a position against those who’d slept on the streets all night long. Though slept was undoubtedly overstating it, Meredith thought as she rode along the street, her face stretched into a calm smile. Judging by the elaborate setup some in the crowd possessed, she was certain that more revelry had been going on during the night before her sister’s wedding than any sleeping.

Anastasia nudged her foot, her eyes laughing as they passed the last corner before turning up the road that would lead to Marlestone Cathedral. A particularly patriotic fellow with his face painted in red and gold waved madly at their open motorcar as they passed.

The closer they drew to the cathedral, the more closely spaced were the security guards, the less boisterous the crowd became, though spirits were most definitely high. Meredith wiggled her toes in her high-heeled pumps. It didn’t matter how well designed the satin shoes were, they still pinched her toes.

But at least she and Anastasia were carried in comfort. The men in the wedding party, including her brother Owen, had already walked under the late-afternoon August sunshine a good half mile on foot to the cathedral. They walked through spotless streets lined with people who were as interested in getting a close-up view of the young man most presumed would one day be king as they were in seeing the bridegroom, Jean-Paul Augustuve, Earl of Silvershire, who hailed from neighboring Drogheda.

Their car drew to a slow, measured stop at the base of the steps leading to the cathedral, and Anastasia stood first, the fabric of her long blue gown unfolding smoothly as she was helped from the vehicle to the pristine stone step. With wisps of hair drifting about her slender neck in the gentle breeze, she was a vision, and the crowds let her know it. They cheered when Anastasia ascended a few steps, then stopped to wait for Meredith.

And why wouldn’t they cheer for Anastasia? She was wildly popular. And today she looked very much the princess she was with delicate diamond pins glistening among the curls pinned up in an artfully tousled style.

Aware that she was moving just a little too slowly, Meredith gathered her skirts and stepped from the car. The timing of the processional was all carefully orchestrated, right down to the last minute. Just that morning, she had listened with the rest of the family as they’d been run through the drill as if it were a military maneuvering of the highest order.

Despite the fact that Penwyck was on the cusp of signing groundbreaking alliances with a neighboring island country, Majorco, and an even more important alliance with the United States, every branch of the Penwyckian military had given support to the first royal wedding Penwyck had seen since that of the King. There had been a run-through the previous day, without any family members present, of course, to ensure that the timing of everything—from the speed of the motorcars during the procession to the trumpet fanfare when the King arrived with Megan to the gait of the horses that would pull the carriages used during the recession—was spot on.

Meredith sighed a little as she joined Anastasia on the steps to the ornate west entrance to the cathedral. It was hard not to be moved by the bells ringing out so joyfully. And she was very happy for Megan. Of course she was. Megan was in love, and Jean-Paul returned it. What more could a woman ask? Even a princess, blessed with untold privilege, deserved love.

Yet there was a little part deep inside Meredith that was, well, a bit envious. She’d never had a man look at her with his heart in his eyes the way Jean-Paul looked at Megan. She’d never been swept away by passion the way Megan and Jean-Paul had been, evidenced by the fact that the heirloom wedding gown Megan was wearing had had to be carefully altered to hide her slightly thickening midriff.

At the thought of a coming niece or nephew, Meredith forgot her envy, as she always did. Megan would be a wonderful mother.

“I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall flat on my face with these shoes. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into wearing such high heels,” Anastasia murmured under her breath as they left the brilliant sunshine and entered the wide entrance of the cathedral.

“You can’t wear riding clothes all the time,” Meredith countered easily through her smile. “And keep your voice down. There are television cameras watching all this, remember?” She didn’t know the name of the young army officer who extended his arm to escort her along the nave past rows and rows of guests, then beneath the soaring arch into the more intimate choir, and even farther up three shallow marble steps to the seats where, for generations, the royal family had sat near the chancel.

It was a long walk. And for a moment, Meredith wondered how Megan would fare, as her sister was still touched by a bit of morning sickness now and again. Not to mention her recent, frightening brush with encephalitis.

But Megan would be supported by their father. And King Morgan was more than able to escort petite Meggie.

Her escort’s job finished, Meredith automatically held her heavy silk skirt with one hand and turned toward her seat.

But the unexpected sight of the man sitting in the row beside that seat brought her up short. Her feet, inside her slightly pinching priceless pumps took root right there on the polished floor. “You.”

The uniformed man rose, politely offering his hand to help her up the step to her seat. Feeling foolish, as Anastasia had gracefully stepped around her and was already slipping into the wooden bench that gleamed from years of loving attention, Meredith swallowed and rested her fingers lightly on his hard, warm hand, quickly moving up the step.

Just as quickly, she removed her hand from his as she seated herself. “Thank you, Colonel Prescott,” she said politely. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“Your Royal Highness.” He inclined his head as he greeted her. Barely an inch. Just enough to show his respect of her status. Just enough to let her know he was a man who really bowed to no one except perhaps the King.

And why would he? He was the Duke of Aronleigh, after all. An award of great merit bestowed on him by her father a decade earlier.

“I didn’t expect to be seated up here, either.” His big hand casually brushed aside a fold of her pale gold skirt as he sat beside her. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

Meredith’s smile felt strained. “Thank you. Your troops are looking very smart today.” He made a soft sound. Almost of impatience, she thought. “You didn’t bring a date?”

At that, she did feel his silvery-green gaze turn her way. “I’m hardly here in a social capacity.”

Her eyebrow rose. “Are you armed to the teeth then, Colonel, beneath that dress uniform of yours? Prepared to do battle against any interlopers set on disrupting the nuptials?”

His bland expression changed not a whit. Perhaps that was what made him such an exceptional colonel. He was head of Royal and Army Intelligence, after all, and a member of the Royal Elite Team—a small group of men personally selected by the King as his closest advisers. He was no longer a mere lieutenant standing post at a spring ball. He was a powerful man in his own right.

A man who made her nerves feel as if they were being tormented by a horde of buzzing bees.

“If you are unhappy with the seating arrangement, I’d be happy to sit elsewhere,” he assured her evenly.

Meredith stifled the impulse to kick his shin. He knew she was uncomfortable sitting beside him. Since her seventeenth year, in fact, she’d gone out of her way to avoid him. And he her. Unfortunately, over the years there’d been many occasions not in the least bit social when they’d had to deal with one another.

“Not at all,” she assured him blithely. “Goodness knows how many meetings it took for the seating arrangement to be finalized.” She opened her ivory program and stared blindly at the golden script. Jean-Paul’s parents had just been seated across the wide aisle, and Meredith smiled and nodded their way. Prince Bernier, the ruler of Drogheda, was seated near them. He was Jean-Paul’s uncle, and rumor had it that Jean-Paul might become his uncle’s heir, as Bernier only had one daughter. A flighty nut who Meredith had little use for. As far as she was concerned, Bernier could do no better than Jean-Paul. He’d make a fine ruler one day.