Capturing the Crown: The Heart of a Ruler

There was warmth in the monarch’s eyes, but there was something more there, she realized. There was just a hint of discomfort.

The king was embarrassed that Reginald wasn’t here, Amelia thought. He was embarrassed for her and for the realm. She took heart in that.

In his mid-sixties, King Weston appeared to be in the prime of his life. Distinguished, he looked like a man at least ten years his junior. Six feet one inch tall, with a strong build, he had a full head of silver-gray hair and kind blue-gray eyes. Amelia had always liked him. She fervently wished she could have felt the same way about his son.

Stepping to the side, he gestured, presenting her to his people. “Welcome to your new home.”

After a push from her mother, a little girl of no more than six approached with a huge bouquet of flowers. The little girl held it up as high as she could, offering the bouquet to her. There were carnations, perfect specimens of pink and white, mixed with several other delicate flowers that Amelia knew were native to Silvershire.

When Amelia accepted the bouquet, the little girl curtsied, then stepped back and buried her face in her mother’s skirt, suddenly shy.

Amelia bent down to her level and said, “Thank you.”

The little girl half turned her head toward her again and offered a small, hesitant smile.

Rising to her feet, Amelia looked at the throng that had gathered to see her. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, raising her voice in order to be heard. “I’m very happy to be here.”

In response, the crowd cheered and clapped. All except for a cluster of people over on the side. There was almost a militant appearance about them, even though they were all wearing civilian clothes. There was a dark-haired young man dressed in black, standing in the center. He seemed to be the rallying point around whom the others gathered. Behind him was a banner that loudly proclaimed Down With the Monarchy. Seeing it was a shock.

So, she thought, this is not quite the paradise the king wants me to believe it is.

It took her a moment to realize that Madeline was at her elbow. “Didn’t realize you were an actress,” her friend whispered to her, barely moving her lips.

“Every princess is,” Amelia responded in the same low whisper. The smile she’d summoned remained on her lips as she looked out on the crowd. Turning toward the king, she nodded toward the small cluster of dissenters. “Who are they?”

“No one you need concern yourself about,” Weston replied dismissively.

“That’s the Union for Democracy,” Russell told her. “Nikolas Donovan is their leader. He would be the one you see in front.”

All she could see was Russell. But she was a princess and knew she had to conduct herself as one—as if nothing was crossing her mind but the information he was telling her, as if her pulse was not accelerating, even now. “Are they dangerous?” she wanted to know.

“Peaceful,” he countered.

She nodded. “I hope they stay that way.”

“I won’t have them ruining this occasion,” the king told her firmly. He extended his arm to her. “If you’ll permit me, Princess?”

Amelia slipped her arm through his. “Of course.” As he led her to the long, sleek, black limousine that was to take them back to the palace, she inclined her head toward his and asked the question she could no longer keep back. “Where is the prince?”

She felt the king stiffen, saw the smile on his lips grow just a little brittle around the edges. Clearly this was a sore point. And then she understood that by not being here, Reginald was not only insulting her, but the king, as well. He paused as they came to the limousine. “No one knows.”

The driver hurriedly opened the door for them, then stood back.

“I see,” she murmured, slipping into the limousine first.

The king followed, taking his seat beside her. By rights, Russell should have come next, but he stepped back, gesturing for Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. Madeline gave him a wide, appreciative grin before ducking her head and taking the seat opposite Amelia.

Manners before protocol, Amelia thought. In her heart, she knew that it would have never occurred to Reginald to surrender his position and allow Madeline to get into the vehicle before him. She could hear his young voice taunting her.

When we’re grown, you’ll have to mind me and do everything I say. You won’t have a choice.

He’d been a dictator even then. Was he one now? Was she going to find life with him unbearable? She strove not to let depression absorb her thoughts, strove not to think beyond the moment. She should be relieved, not insulted, by Reginald’s absence, she told herself.

The king’s bodyguard closed the door and the vehicle began its journey to the palace, less than five miles away.

Progress was slow. People lined both sides of the streets, waving frantically even before the limousine passed them. Some held tiny Silvershire flags. A few clutched both the flags of Silvershire and Gastonia, symbolizing the merger of the two kingdoms. The mood was festive.

Everywhere but within the interior of the limousine.

Amelia sat closest to the window, waving to the faces of her new people. Though she tried not to focus on it, the significance of the prince’s continued and very glaring absence from the scene weighed down on her.

This didn’t bode well for the marriage, she thought, her smile never faltering. But then, she had already sensed that. Otherwise, she would have never invited Russell to her bed, no matter how drawn to him she felt.

Hers was not destined to be a fairy-tale marriage, Amelia reflected sadly, struggling to accept what she knew was her fate. Still, she continued waving and smiling at the people who wished her well and who were already, from all appearances, taking her to their hearts.

All except for the small band of dissenters.

Chapter 7

Discreet questions as to the prince’s whereabouts were asked once the limousine arrived at the palace. But no one seemed to know where Reginald was. The king’s anxiety continued to mount even as he prepared to attend the gala being held at the palace in honor of Princess Amelia’s arrival and the young royals’ upcoming wedding.

The hours slipped by. The prince was nowhere to be found.

Russell frowned to himself, returning his cell phone to his pocket. Reginald wasn’t answering his personal phone. Voice mail picked up immediately, which meant that the prince had shut off his phone, something he was prone to doing whenever he was busy gratifying his sexual appetites. Dutifully, Russell informed the king that his son couldn’t be reached.

On the advice of his chief counselor, King Weston changed the theme of the celebration at the last moment to center exclusively around the princess who had come to join together the two kingdoms.

Outwardly, the mood at the party was festive, but beneath the thin layer of gaiety was an underlying knot of tension. Because they cared for their king and had taken to the princess, everyone at the affair pretended that there was nothing wrong.

As he stood back and observed the guests, Russell was convinced that the prince’s glaring absence was the talk of every small gathering he saw at the celebration.

At least Amelia was a hit, Russell thought fondly. But then, how could she not be? Coddling the scotch and soda he had been nursing for the last half hour, Russell smiled to himself. The change in Princess Amelia had been incredible. It was hard to believe that this was the same young girl who’d been the target of his practical jokes whenever he’d visited Gastonia.

Taking a sip from his glass, he felt the liquid spread a deep, burning sensation through his chest, warming everything in its path. It was the same sort of sensation he experienced each time he now looked in Amelia’s direction.

All evening, Amelia continued to be the center of attention. At the moment Russell watched her engage several of Silvershire’s leading businessmen in conversation. The perfunctory smiles on the men’s faces quickly changed to looks of interest. Russell knew for a fact that the princess, in addition to being fluent in five different languages, had a business degree to her name. The five languages put her four and a half up on Reginald, he thought with a touch of cynicism.

It seemed that there was nothing, Russell thought with more than a little pride, she couldn’t accomplish if she set her mind to it.

She was charming the pants off everyone, Russell noted. God knew that she had certainly done that with him. Even before they had spent the night together.

He felt a pang stirring within him, born not of guilt but of need. It was followed by a wave of anger. The prince should be horsewhipped for standing her up this way. Reginald had known about this gala, known that it was to have celebrated their upcoming marriage. How could he do this to Amelia?

The very thought of the marriage, of Amelia being intimate with Reginald, made something in the pit of his stomach rise up in his throat. Russell took another sip to wash the taste of bile from his mouth.

He had no business feeling like this, no business feeling anything beyond a mild pity for whoever officially graced the prince’s bed. But he couldn’t help himself. This was personal. It would always be personal no matter how much he wanted to divorce himself from the situation. He realized that his hand was tightening around his glass and he forced himself to relax his grip.

Were this another time, one of intrigue and secret pacts, when daggers rather than words were used to settle matters of discord, he might have been sorely tempted …