The Princess And The Duke

She was watching the ceremony, crying tears over it, yet she’d been as unprepared for the hymn as he’d been. Because of it, he knew she’d been as lost in her thoughts—whatever they might be—as he’d been in his.

He also realized that the ceremony was nearly finished. For the couple had already retreated and returned from the vestry, along with the bishop and the King and Queen, where they had signed the register. He, master of intelligence, keeper of lies, committer of sins, had managed to miss the entire thing. All because of a woman whose waist he could span with his hands.

The congregation was singing the final hymn. The words came automatically to Pierce, without thought. And thank God—no pun intended—for it.

Considering he’d spent his entire childhood from eight to eighteen with his hind planted in one of the pews of his father’s church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday evening, he ought to know the hymns. He ought to know every in and out of every religious service in which the church could possibly participate.

It really was a measure of the powerful distraction standing beside him that he didn’t even think about what all was involved with a Penwyckian wedding.

Or what sitting beside her meant in relation to those details.

Not until the bishop had pronounced Megan and Jean-Paul husband and wife did it begin to dawn on him. Not until Jean-Paul had kissed his new bride, restrained and befitting the public setting but nonetheless a testament to the feelings that ran deep inside him for the woman carrying his child, did it fully hit Pierce.

But by then, it was already too late.

For the bishop, all smiles despite the pomp and circumstance of the event, looked at the congregation. “And now,” he intoned, “as has been our custom for centuries, we invite you to greet your neighbors in this house of God with all good grace, and peace, that we may go out into the world, sharing the blessings of this day with all those we meet.”

In some countries, Pierce knew sharing the blessing might involve little more than a handshake and a muttered, “Blessin’s to yer.”

In Penwyck, however, it meant the worst of all possible things as far as Pierce was concerned.

It meant a kiss.

Chapter Two

He’d been the son of a clergyman. Had even, briefly, considered following in his father’s stead. How could he have forgotten? How could he have overlooked this one small, fateful detail?

Why hadn’t it occurred to him what sitting next to Meredith at the wedding ceremony would entail?

Nerves strung tighter than piano wire, Pierce turned to the elderly woman on his left. She was a countess from somewhere in Belgium, but he’d be blasted if he could remember just where. Until Meredith and Anastasia had entered the church, she’d been busy reminiscing in her slightly shrill voice about the wedding of the King and Queen, thirty-five years earlier.

She’d rattled on and on until Pierce had wanted to put a muzzle on her. Particularly when she’d gone on to the tragedy of “poor, dear Edwin’s senseless killing.” But he could hardly be rude to the woman and tell her he wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about that particular event.

Smiling tightly at the elderly woman, he bussed her on first one heavily powdered cheek, then the other. She smiled beneficently at him and patted his cheek as if he were five instead of thirty-five.

And then Pierce turned to face Meredith. Her tears had dried, and her expression was cool as she stared at him. Then she regally lifted her chin just a hair.

It was rare for Pierceson Prescott to be rattled. But he was now. And that cool movement of Meredith’s, that regal little tilt started a slow burn deep down inside him.

All around them, people were greeting each other, laughing and delighting over the lovely quaint custom, but Pierce was aware of none of it. For the world had shrunk to an impossibly small bubble. Containing only him and the woman beside him.

A woman who, he would swear his army commission on, was watching him with challenge lighting her green eyes.

What Pierce wanted to do was sink his fingers into the rich brown waves of her hair, tumbling it from the roll into which it was pinned at her nape, and explore every inch of her mouth with his.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She was a member of the royal family, which was his duty and honor to protect and serve. Nor could he ignore the custom, not when it was entirely likely that it would be noticed. There were television cameras posted in the rafters of the cathedral watching every move of the royals and those nearby, for God’s sake!

Jaw aching, he lowered his head those few inches and touched Meredith’s cheek with his lips, barely grazing the satiny skin. And in return, he felt her lips, feather-light and soft as a dream, against his tight jaw.

Trembling like a leaf, Meredith nearly sighed aloud when Pierce’s lips touched her cheek. The brief moment seemed to stretch into an eternity as they parted. Anyone else would have simply kissed the other cheek and been done with it.

But not with Pierce. Never with Pierce.

Her gaze was caught in his, and her stomach tumbled a mile at the dark flame that seemed to burn in his. Her lungs felt starved for air, her heart starved for blood. And then, without conscious thought, she tilted her head and touched his lips with hers. Briefly, so very briefly.

Yet she felt him go stock-still. Felt the harsh inhalation of his breath after that first moment of shock passed. Felt the press of his lips against hers in that fraction of a second, demanding and hot.

Her lips softened, parted. Clung as the kiss threatened to go deeper. Shocked to the core at her own daring, she hastily stepped away, looking everywhere but at him, struggling to catch her breath.

The bride and groom had moved around in the chancel, all smiles. Megan swept into a low, utterly graceful curtsy to her father, the King, and Jean-Paul bowed. Then the triumphant strains of the recessional rang through the church, and they began their walk down the aisle, this time as husband and wife.

The bishop followed, along with the King and Queen. Then Jean-Paul’s supporters. Anastasia surreptitiously jostled Meredith’s arm, giving her an odd look, and realizing that she was hanging back, Meredith quickly ordered her shaking legs to move and stepped out of the pew to take her place in line as the family left the cathedral.

She didn’t look at the colonel.

She didn’t dare.

The light breeze had deepened to a cool wind, and when she stepped through the entrance onto the steps outside the cathedral, she had to catch her skirts from being blown around her knees. If the crowd had been boisterous before the ceremony, now they were positively wild as the bridal couple descended the stairs and entered the first horse-drawn coach, which would transport them through the central streets of Marlestone before making its way to the palace where the reception was being held in the grand ballroom.

The King and Queen were in the next coach, this one glass-enclosed, unlike the open-air one the bridal couple occupied. Then came their own carriage, Owen joining them for the return trip. The young bridesmaids and page boys went last, and Meredith, who was facing the rear, watched with a faint smile as little Sarah Julia flounced into her seat and waved at the crowds as if she were the Queen herself. There was a fleet of waiting motorcars to carry Jean-Paul’s parents, Prince Bernier and the other visiting royals to the palace.

There would be no good-natured scrambling for rides at this wedding. It was too well orchestrated.

Meredith’s gaze drifted up the steps to the guests who were beginning to stream from the cathedral doors, and like a homing pigeon, her attention went straight to Colonel Prescott, who stood on the topmost step, a bit aside from the throng. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was watching her ride away.

Anastasia nudged Owen and laughed softly. “Me-thinks our fair Meredith has a crush. Still.”

Owen raised one eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. A gaggle of teenagers lining the street nearby screamed as if he were the latest pinup, but he gave no notice. He looked at Meredith. “Who, Prescott? He’s a good man.”

“I’m twenty-eight years old,” Meredith said flatly. “Far too old for crushes.”

Anastasia smiled impishly. “What about—” she waited a beat “—love?”

Meredith deliberately ignored her sister.

“You should have seen the kiss she planted on the man,” Anastasia pseudo whispered to Owen. “Everyone in the cathedral could feel the heat, and it had nothing to do with the sunlight coming through the stained-glass windows or the way Jean-Paul devours Megan with his eyes.”

Meredith’s cheeks burned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said more sharply than she intended.

Anastasia’s grin gentled. She could be a holy terror, but she was utterly softhearted. “Meredith, I’m only teasing you. I know how you feel about the colonel. Honestly, where is your sense of humor today?”

“I don’t feel anything about the colonel,” Meredith said flatly. “And I really do wish you’d drop it.”

Anastasia did, but Meredith could feel her sister’s pensive gaze on her for the remainder of the ride through the city. By the time the carriage passed through the massive gates leading to the palace, Meredith felt well and truly shrewish. She waited until they’d alighted from the carriage and caught Ana’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her sister smiled faintly, but there was little time to go into it, for the wedding guests were converging on the palace at an alarming rate. Meredith, who was used to playing the role of hostess at any number of royal functions, gathered her skirts and, putting Pierceson Prescott out of her mind—as far as he would go, at any rate—swept up the palace stairs and through the grand hall, greeting guests while subtly maneuvering them toward the ballroom and away from the doors to alleviate the bottleneck that occasionally formed there.