A Royal Wager: Persuading the Playboy King / Unmasking the Maverick Prince / Daring the Dynamic Sheikh

“Oh,” Kate said. “What hours does he work?” If luck prevailed, she could avoid him—if she decided to stay.

“Since the clinic is only open during the day, you would be working together,” Martine said.

No luck there, Kate thought.

“If he becomes unmanageable, inform me,” Marc added. “I will take care of him.”

“I’m sure I can take care of myself,” Kate insisted, mildly insulted that men tended to see women as the weaker sex. She might be small, but she knew where to thrust a knee on a strategic part of the male anatomy.

A rap came at the door and Nurse Lustful entered. She exchanged a few words with Dr. Martine, who then turned to Marc. “You have a call from the palace, Your Majesty. Line one.”

After he uncovered the debris from the desk phone, Marc picked up the receiver. He again spoke words Kate couldn’t begin to understand, but his distress was very apparent in his expression. Once he hung up, he turned to her and said, “We must return to the palace immediately. There’s been an incident.”

A serious incident, Kate presumed. “Should I stay here? Dr. Martine could show me around.”

“I could possibly need your medical expertise.”

Kate’s concern increased. “Has someone been hurt?”

“Not exactly. But it does involve a child.”

With Kate trailing behind him, Marc strode into the palace’s formal parlor to find his mother seated on the settee, holding what appeared to be the reason for his urgent summons.

She nodded at the sleeping infant in her arms and said, “I do hope you can explain this to me, Marcel.”

Explain? “It appears to be a child, Mother.”

She rose with typical grace and laid the baby in Marc’s arms, much to his dismay. “It appears to be your daughter, my son.”

He heard the sound of Kate’s sharp, indrawn breath from behind him. Unfortunately, Marc’s respiration had halted altogether.

Once he’d recovered his voice, he said, “This is not my child.”

The baby chose that moment to lift her head, turn an alarming shade of red and wail at the top of her lungs. Marc had no idea such a small creature could create such a furor. He also had no idea what to do when she began to writhe, except to hold on tightly lest he drop her. The tighter he held her, the more she wrestled and squirmed, arching her back against her confinement.

“Here, let me.” Kate took the baby from him and positioned the child on her shoulder, patting her back. The infant immediately quieted, her sobs turning to sniffs.

Kate had rescued him once again, at least for now. He met his mother’s disapproving expression. “Mother, I have no idea why you would believe this is my child.”

She turned to her attendant, who stood in the corner looking as if she would greatly like to flee. “Beatrice, bring me the note.”

The young woman hurried over and handed her a plain piece of white paper. In turn, his mother handed it to him. “The baby was left at the gate in a pram with a bag full of clothing and bottles. We found this note inside.”

Marc read it silently. The words were English, brief, but to the point.

“Her name is Cecile. She is a DeLoria.”

Shoving the paper into his pocket, he said, “This does not prove a thing. It’s obviously a ruse.”

“Look at her, Marcel.”

Marc turned to the baby now propped on Kate’s hip, occupying herself with the button on Kate’s jacket. True, she had his hair color and blue eyes, but that did not mean she was his. He had been careful to the extreme. He had not been involved with anyone since Elsa Sidleberg—an international supermodel who still graced renowned runways—and that had ended over a year ago. This made no sense whatsoever.

“Again, her appearance proves nothing,” he insisted.

“Nor does it disprove anything,” his mother replied.

Kate stepped forward. “Maybe I can help.”

Marc realized that his mother and Kate had yet to be formally introduced. He supposed his lack of manners was understandable considering the circumstance. “Kate, I present to you the Queen Mother, Mary Elizabeth Darcy DeLoria. Mother, Dr. Kate Milner.”

Kate smiled and held out her free hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m sorry, but how do I address you?”

She took Kate’s hand for a brief shake. “I would prefer you call me Mary.” She sent a sardonic glance at Marc. “Obviously, you now know the family secrets, so I believe first names are appropriate.”

Marc clung to his last thin thread of control. “I have no secrets, Mother. And this is not my child.”

Mary smoothed a hand over the baby’s hair. “Then why would anyone claim this precious girl is a DeLoria? What other possibilities are there?”

Marc knew of one, and he was taking great risk by mentioning it. But he felt he must. “Perhaps she is Philippe’s child.”

His mother sent him a startled look, as if he’d proclaimed that a deity had committed a mortal sin. “That would be impossible. Philippe has been gone for almost a year.”

Marc turned to Kate. “How old do you think she is?”

Kate regarded the baby for a moment. “At least six months old, maybe a bit older if she’s small for her age.”

“It really doesn’t matter,” Marc said. “She could have been born before or shortly after Philippe’s death. Definitely conceived while he was still alive.”

“Philippe was engaged to marry Countess Jacqueline Trudeau for two years.”

“Perhaps she is the mother, then.”

“Nonsense. She married another man not long after Philippe’s death.”

Ah, true love, Marc thought cynically. “Then perhaps Philippe fathered a child with another woman.”

“Philippe never would have denied his child,” Mary said.

Anger welled inside Marc. “And I would?”

“As his mother, I would have known if he had been hiding something. He was never good at telling untruths. He lacked the cunning you have.”

The woman who had always been Marc’s champion had called him a practiced deceiver in front of Kate, a woman whose respect he greatly desired. “Are you saying I am prone to telling falsehoods?”

“I am saying you’ve always been more clever and not as easy to read.”

“Of course. And Philippe was destined for sainthood.” Marc could not keep the sarcasm and bitterness from his tone even though he, too, had admired his brother. But he had also lived in his shadow. He was still living in it.