The King's Bride

The King's Bride
Lucy Gordon

Part of the Mills & Boon 100th Birthday CollectionA forbidding, regal date… A life of duty and protocol has made King Daniel of Voltavia seem aloof. So when Lizzie Boothe is assigned the task of trying to secure an interview with him, she is anxious about the forthcoming encounter.But after one kiss she can sense that underneath his cool exterior lies a passionate man. A man who is falling in love with Lizzie despite his best intentions…

Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Sir Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness, and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

You can visit her website at www. lucy-gordon. com and look out for The Italian’s Passionate Revenge which will be available in May!

The King’s Bride

by

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

A SILENCE fell over the packed room. Lizzie looked up quickly, eager to see the man she’d come to find.

His Majesty King Daniel, hereditary ruler of Voltavia, twenty-fifth of his line, thirty-five years old, monarch of his country for the last six months.

Since he’d arrived for his state visit London had been full of official pictures, so she’d thought she knew what he looked like. But while photographs had shown the proud carriage of his head and the stern authority of his lean face, there was no way they could convey the vividness of his features. Lizzie noticed his eyes in particular. They were dark, but with a brilliance that she’d seen only once before, in a picture of his grandfather.

He was tall but carried himself stiffly, and she guessed that a press conference, such as this, came hard to him. In Voltavia he was a monarch, with a good deal of power. He wouldn’t take kindly to answering questions from journalists, and Lizzie knew he’d been persuaded to give this conference only for the sake of ‘good international relations’.

Before his entrance they had all been warned—no personal questions, no reference to his late wife. No questions about his three children, none of whom had accompanied him to London.

Now he was here and every line of his body showed how ill at ease he felt. He took his seat behind a table on a platform, facing the crowd with a practised air of polite interest.

The questions flowed. They were largely routine and his answers were the same, giving nothing away—the friendship of their two countries—mutual interests, etc, etc. Somebody mentioned his grandfather, the late King Alphonse, whose death, six months earlier, had brought Daniel to the throne. Daniel made a short, restrained speech in praise of his grandfather, whose lasting legacy etc, etc.

In fact, as everyone knew, for the last ten years of his life Alphonse had lived in a twilight world, struck down by a massive stroke. At twenty-five Daniel had become regent, and king in all but name. But Alphonse was still associated with the great days of monarchy. His long reign had begun when kings had had real power, and his personal prestige had ensured that some of it clung to the throne, even as he lay dying.

As Daniel mouthed polite nothings Lizzie mentally compared his features with those of Alphonse, whose personally signed photograph hung on her wall at home. There was a close family resemblance, not only in the dominant nose and firm chin, but in the expression of the face: proud, closed, unyielding.

They’d said of Alphonse that he was the handsomest man of his generation, and had still been saying it when he was in his eighties. But they’d said, too, that he was the most puritanical. He could have had any number of liaisons, but he’d been a faithful husband for twenty years. After his wife had died, if he’d indulged himself he’d been so discreet that the world had never been quite sure.

Only one woman had aroused him to a public display of admiration, and that was the great musical comedy star, Lizzie Boothe. She’d visited Voltavia with her own company, and the King had attended her performances. Perhaps she’d also given performances in private. Nobody knew for certain, and the King’s reputation for rigid respectability remained untouched.

Daniel was the image of his splendid grandfather in looks, and also in the pattern of his life. Married young to a suitable princess, he had been a devoted husband and father, and had led a discreet life since his wife’s death, three years earlier.

At last the questions were over and everybody stood in line so that the King could meet them individually. Down the line he came, stopping for a few moments with each person, shaking hands, asking banal questions about things he couldn’t possibly care about, and receiving banal answers with the appearance of polite interest. He must be bored out of his skull, Lizzie thought, but he kept going resolutely.

At last he reached her and stood, professional smile in place, while his aide announced, ‘Miss Elizabeth Boothe.’

His pause was only a fraction of a second, his smile never wavered. But she was close enough to see his eyes and the slight shock in them. So the name was still remembered in Voltavia. That pleased her.

As he shook her hand the King glanced at the identity tag on her shoulder, bearing only her name. ‘The others list also their publications,’ he observed. ‘I think you are not a journalist.’

‘That’s true, Your Majesty,’ Lizzie said, smiling.

He did not release her hand. ‘You are, perhaps, an actress?’

Any man, looking at her flamboyant beauty and glorious mane of red hair might be forgiven for thinking so.

‘I’m not an actress,’ she said, ‘but my great-aunt was. She was called Lizzie Boothe, and had many admirers in your country.’

Again the slight shock in his eyes: surprise, she thought, that she’d dared to mention such a delicate subject.

‘Indeed,’ he said in a neutral voice, and prepared to pass on, but Lizzie spoke hurriedly. ‘I’m a historian, Your Majesty. I’m writing a book about King Alphonse, and I hoped you would grant me an interview.’

She’d tightened her hand on his, detaining him against his will, an outrageous breach of protocol as his astonished look told her. Instead of backing off she held him a little longer, meeting his eyes. It was a risk, but she’d never been afraid of that. At his side his aide tensed, ready to force her to release him at a signal from him. But it didn’t come, and gradually the amazement in his eyes gave way to something else. Interest? Curiosity? Lizzie’s heart beat with excitement. She was almost there…

Then blankness came down over his eyes like a curtain, and he pulled his hand out of hers. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I do not give private interviews.’

A curt nod of his head, and he passed on.

It was over. They were all being shepherded out, politely but firmly. Annoyed with herself, Lizzie returned to the neat little London house she’d inherited five years ago from her actress great-aunt, Dame Elizabeth Boothe, as she’d been at the end of her life. The Dame, as everyone had called her, had lived surrounded by mementoes of her great days: gifts from admirers, theatre programmes, some of them fifty years old, and pictures of herself in glory.

Lizzie had loved the Dame. Now she kept the house much as it had been when she’d inherited it.

On one wall was a huge coloured photograph of the actress at the height of her beauty and fame. Next to it was a picture of her most notable admirer, King Alphonse, taken when he was nearly seventy, imposing, autocratic, but still astonishingly good-looking. Near the bottom was written, in the King’s own hand, In friendship and gratitude, Alphonse.

Lizzie tossed her bag onto a chair and confronted Dame Elizabeth.

‘I made a mess of it,’ she told her. ‘Nothing happened the way I meant it to, and I just antagonised him. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? I am supposed to be a professional.’

The Dame’s eyes were laughing, her head thrown back in an ecstasy of song, but Lizzie could read her thoughts.

‘I know, I know! Dress the part. That’s what you used to say. And I didn’t. If I’d worn tweeds and horn-rimmed spectacles I suppose he’d have taken me seriously. But why shouldn’t I dress as I like?’

Good question! If a historian was a modern young woman, five feet ten with ravishing red hair and a model figure, why shouldn’t she wear skirts short enough to show off her silken legs, and suicidally high heels? Why shouldn’t she make up to emphasise her large green eyes and wide mouth that seemed made for the pleasures of life, of which laughter was only one?

If there was an answer, it was because she was as serious about her work as her appearance, which was very serious indeed. And today she’d blown it.

‘There was one moment when I thought I was winning,’ she told the picture. ‘He looked at me in such way that I thought—I was almost sure—but he just got away from me at the last minute. You wouldn’t have let him get away, would you?’ She sighed. ‘And I won’t get a second chance, either.’

But, against the odds, the second chance presented itself next morning in the shape of a gilt-edged card announcing that King Daniel was pleased to invite her to a ball at the Voltavian embassy that very evening. After a whoop of triumph she got down to the deadly earnest business of making an impact.

The evening dress she chose was black velvet and swept the floor, but there all semblance of decorum ended. It was cut to show off her shoulders and bosom. The neckline was within the bounds of propriety, but only just. The bodice clung, and fitted tightly all the way down to her small waist, before outlining the flare of her hips, the length of her thighs and then down to her ankles. It would have been impossible to walk in such a dress but for the slit at the rear, through which the vision of her stunning legs came and went.

It was a dress for a woman who wanted to be noticed and could afford to be noticed: not always the same thing, as the Dame had frequently observed in her most caustic voice.

Lizzie had booked the cab with time to spare. No matter what the function, the rule was that royalty arrived last. To be late was to be shut out.

To her relief she reached the embassy in good time, and was shown into the great ballroom that looked as though time had passed it by. Glittering chandeliers hung overhead, the mirrors were framed by gilt, and its glamour was the glamour of another age. At the far end was a dais with a throne. Over it hung the coat of arms of Voltavia, dominated by a snarling bear. For a thousand years the bear had been the country’s symbol.

When every guest was in place, fanning themselves and desperate for a drink, the great doors at one end of the room swung open, and the King began the long walk to the throne at the far end.