The Prince And The Nanny

“Dear—” She blushed, realizing dear was not the proper form of address for a prince. “I just don’t think Prudence would be a good match for your household.”

“Prudence?” he said, and then smiled as if everything he had thought had been confirmed. “So, that’s what the P stands for. A virtuous, old-fashioned name,” he said, pleased, ignoring the fact completely that she had just told him Prudence would not do for his household.

Mrs. Smith was not sure she had ever met anyone as dramatically mismatched to her name as Prudence was! The girl had once told her she had been named after a maiden aunt in hopes of gaining her favor and fortune!

“Your Royal Highness,” she said delicately, “Do you recall a movie called The Sound of Music?” He looked baffled, and she realized the movie was not of his generation, nor were Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes the kind of music that his kingdom, a tiny island in the southern most portion of the Irish Sea, was famous for.

The Isle of Momhilegra was known for music: classical schools, retreats for passionate music buffs, the trees that produced the most astoundingly beautiful musical instruments. At odds with its cultured reputation was its notoriety for hosting a world famous Soap Box Derby every year.

“Maria,” she said helpfully, just in case, sometime, somewhere he had caught a snippet of that lovely movie. “She’s more like a Maria than a Prudence.”

The prince looked puzzled.

“Maria times ten,” she said, a little desperately. She wanted to add, but didn’t, Maria with pizzaz. Jazz. Sex appeal.

He’d had enough and it showed in a subtle change of his posture, the faintest hardening around the line of his mouth. He leaned forward, and pinned her with those amazing eyes.

“I would like to meet her.”

The politeness of his tone did not mask the fact he had just issued poor Mrs. Smith with a royal dictate.

She told herself he had absolutely no authority anywhere in the world but his own small island nation. She told herself that, and did not for one second believe it. He was a man who carried his authority deep within him, separate from the title he enjoyed. She lowered her eyes from the devastating command of his.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Mrs. Smith said.

CHAPTER ONE

PRUDENCE WINSLOW was late. And for once it wasn’t her fault. Well, maybe a little her fault, but not entirely her fault.

She cast a quick look at her reflection in the doors that led her into the exquisite lobby of the Waldorf Towers, one of the grandest of the Manhattan hotels, though her father had always preferred to put up business guests in the St. Regis Club in Essex House right on the park.

She sighed at her own reflection. Disheveled. It was raining slightly, and humidity had a tendency to play havoc with hair that didn’t like taming at the best of times. Coils of copper had sprung free from the bun Mrs. Smith insisted on. Mrs. Smith had also insisted on a skirt, hem below the knee dear, and the skirt had not stood up well to her travels, apparently disliking humidity as much as her hair.

Young Brian, clingy since the accident, and unhappy with the replacement nanny—without giving her a chance, naturally—had managed to spill butterscotch pudding on Prue’s navy trench coat just as she was getting away. Despite her best—and time consuming—effort the smear had refused to be totally eradicated.

Still, she crossed the lobby with the haughtiness of a queen, and eyed the desk clerk.

Cute, she thought. Blonde. A poor girl’s Brad Pitt. Then she reminded herself she was a reformed woman. Still, she had to fight the smallest urge to smile at him. Six months without so much as a date!

And six months to go, she warned herself sternly. Being as businesslike as one could be with a smear of butterscotch pudding on her lapel, and while fighting the temptation to just offer one little smile and see what happened, she announced, “I’m here to see, um, Kaelan Prince.”

On the phone earlier, Mrs. Smith had been uncharacteristically chatty, and evasive at the same time. Prudence had gotten that a man wanted to meet her. Because of the newspaper story. Be on time, be presentable.

“A skirt,” Mrs. Smith had specified sternly. “And, dear, do something with your hair!”

Well, she was in a skirt, not anything like the flirty little numbers she once would have worn. Mary Poppins approved. But she was not on time and not particularly presentable, either. Prue didn’t want to meet a man because of all the silly attention of that newspaper story. So far, after the financial scandals surrounding her father’s death, Prudence had managed to stay out of the relentless radar of the press. No connection had been made between Winslow, the-heroic-nanny, and Winslow-the-crumbled-empire.

She wanted it to stay that way, so she had tried to refuse this meeting, but Mrs. Smith had been adamant.

“For the good of the Academy, dear,” she’d said.

Prue had not needed to be reminded how much she owed Mrs. Smith, who had been there for her when so few others had been.

“Kaelan Prince,” she repeated to the clerk, who was looking baffled.

Suddenly a light came on for him. “Kaelan Prince? I think you must mean Prince Ryan Kaelan.”

“Whatever,” she said, thinking right, everyone’s a rock star, and glancing at her watch. Ten minutes late. Shoot.

“Ah,” he said, a trifle uncomfortably, “the young women over there are trying to catch a glimpse of him, as well.”

Prue followed his gaze and frowned. A gaggle of young girls and women were clustered together by the elevators, giggling.

“I’m expected,” she said, and saw that her change of tone affected him as much as the words. Oh, she could still be her father’s daughter when she wanted to be.

“Your name, madam?” he said, picking up the phone.

She gave it to him, and he made a call. He looked at her with an entirely different kind of interest when he set down the phone. “Someone will be down to escort you immediately, Miss Winslow.”

“Thank you.”

Down to escort her? What was going on? Was the man really a rock star? It would be totally unlike Mrs. Smith to be influenced by celebrity.

The doors to the elevator slid open, and the small crowd by it pushed forward hopefully, and then started calling out questions. “Will he be down today? How is Gavin?” One girl, lovely, stood out from the rest. She looked all of twelve, and was wildly waving a sign that said Someday My Prince Will Come.

The child reminded Prudence of herself at twelve, hoping, craving, living in a fantasy because real life was too lonely.

Girl, she thought, we need to talk.

But her focus changed to an older, very dignified looking man in a dark green uniform with gold epithets on the shoulders coming toward her. There was some sort of crest on his breast: it looked like a dragon coiled around an instrument she thought might have been a lute.

He ignored the gathering, came to her and inclined his head ever so slightly. “Miss Winslow? If you’ll come with me. Ignore them,” he suggested out of the side of his mouth as they passed through the throng.

“Ronald,” he introduced himself as the elevator doors whispered closed, and she found herself alone with him in the elevator. She regarded him thoughtfully.

Older, but very handsome. One little smile. She sighed at how very hard it was to become a new person.

“Have you been briefed in protocol?”

“Excuse me?”

“Aside from punctuality, certain forms are expected of visitors.”

He managed to say that in a way that took the sting out of the fact that he was mildly reprimanding her for being late.

“A curtsy is no longer necessary, though of course, if you desire—”

“You’re kidding me, right? A curtsy?” She laughed, and then registered the faintly offended dignity on Ronald’s face. She recalled, the desk clerk correcting her on the name. Not a rock star after all!