If The Ring Fits...

If The Ring Fits... Melissa McClone Practical Rachel Palmer's aversion to risk-taking led to a marriage that just didn't fit. Now single again, she's embracing her newfound independence–and the first step is taking her jewelry business worldwide! For that she needs expert help from Italian Antonio Salerno…His business help soon turns personal. And being in close-enough-to-kiss proximity to a sexy playboy makes Rachel feel she's taking a flying leap into deliciously risky territory. It's everything she's been craving…but this is a man famous for loving and leaving. Surely falling for him would be a step too far? The Legend of the Ring Once upon a time, there lived a prince who could not find a bride. Fearing the family line would end, the prince’s mother gave him an enchanted ring that would fit only his one true love. Maidens traveled from near and far to try on the ring, but to no avail. Then, one day, the daughter of a visiting merchant slipped the ring onto her finger—a perfect fit. Upon the royal wedding, the prince fell in love with his princess bride, and his marriage thrived. Untold prosperity, happiness and peace befell the citizens of his country. And all lived happily ever after. As the years passed, the legend of the royal engagement ring evolved and became tradition. To this day, if the ruling or crown prince has not wed by his thirtieth year, unwed females of marriageable age are encouraged to try on the ring. If the ring fits, within seven days the prince must marry the woman wearing it, or abdicate the throne. And our story begins… Dear Reader, Not only is February the month for lovers, it is the second month for readers to enjoy exciting celebratory titles across all Silhouette series. Throughout 2000, Silhouette Books will be commemorating twenty years of publishing the best in contemporary category romance fiction. This month’s Silhouette Romance lineup continues our winning tradition. Carla Cassidy offers an emotional VIRGIN BRIDES title, in which a baby on the doorstep sparks a second chance for a couple who’d once been Waiting for the Wedding—their own!—and might be again.…Susan Meier’s charming miniseries BREWSTER BABY BOOM continues with Bringing Up Babies as black sheep brother Chas Brewster finds himself falling for the young nanny hired to tend his triplet half siblings. A beautiful horse trainer’s quest for her roots leads her to two men in Moyra Tarling’s The Family Diamond. Simon Says…Marry Me! is the premiere of Myrna Mackenzie’s THE WEDDING AUCTION. Don’t miss a single story in this engaging three-book miniseries. A pregnant bride-for-hire dreams of making The Double Heart Ranch a real home, but first she must convince her husband in this heart-tugger by Leanna Wilson. And If the Ring Fits… some lucky woman gets to marry a prince! In this sparkling debut Romance from Melissa McClone, an accident-prone American heiress finds herself a royal bride-to-be! In coming months, look for Diana Palmer, a Joan Hohl-Kasey Michaels duet and much more. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration! Happy Reading! Mary-Theresa Hussey Senior Editor If The Ring Fits… Melissa McClone www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To Mary-Theresa Hussey, for planting the seed and letting it grow. Books by Melissa McClone Silhouette Romance If the Ring Fits… #1431 Silhouette Yours Truly Fianc? for the Night MELISSA MCCLONE With a degree in mechanical engineering from Stanford University, the last thing Melissa McClone ever thought she would be doing is writing romance novels, but analyzing engines for a major U.S. airline just couldn’t compete with her “happily-ever-afters.” When she isn’t writing, caring for her toddler or doing laundry, Melissa loves to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, her cats and a good book. She is also a big fan of The X-Files and enjoys watching home decorating shows to get ideas for her house—a 1939 cottage that is slowly being renovated. Melissa lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon, with her own real-life hero husband, daughter, two lovable, but oh-so-spoiled indoor cats and a no-longer-stray outdoor kitty who decided to call the garage home. Melissa loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at P.O. Box 63, Lake Oswego, OR 97034. Contents Chapter One (#u466aeca6-119b-5a07-ba67-51c390cc24c9) Chapter Two (#u36568d2f-bd5b-565e-be10-3b866a765f3b) Chapter Three (#ueb4067dc-4ee3-57c6-9741-15ae95552360) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One “Did you know she set fire to the White House, Your Highness?” Didier Alois whispered. His Serene Highness Prince Richard de Thierry of San Montico stared at the unlikely pyromaniac—a young woman with a heart-shaped face and striking emerald eyes that matched her gown. The fitted bodice accentuated her cleavage and small waist. Her curly auburn hair flowed like silk past her shoulders and glimmered beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. Making her way along the Great Hall and the slow-moving receiving line, she curtsied and flashed a dazzling smile at dignitaries and royalty. “Who is she?” “Christina Armstrong, Your Highness,” Didier answered, loud enough to be heard above the din of the guests, but soft enough to be heard only by Richard. Trust Didi to know everything about the guests attending the royal birthday ball. Then again, as royal advisor that was his job. Richard wondered what else his best friend knew about Christina Armstrong. He was certain they had never met, but something about her seemed familiar. He noticed the older gentleman escorting her. And then it hit Richard. “Armstrong? As in Alan Armstrong, billionaire CEO and patriarch of America’s second most famous family?” “Yes, Your Highness.” Richard knew the type—he had been engaged to one—a rich man’s daughter who still used her daddy’s titanium card. Wealthy, spoiled, a title-seeking princess wanna-be. He clenched his gloved hands. “I told my mother not to invite any Americans. You know how they are about…royalty.” “I doubt your mother had a choice but to invite them, considering the substantial donation Armstrong International made to her charity fund.” Didier hesitated. “Not all American women are like—” “This has nothing to do with her.” Nothing at all. But the way Richard’s chest tightened told him it did. Regaining control, he lowered his voice. “This is my birthday. I should have been consulted about the guest list.” “Judging from the quality of the women who have arrived, I believe Princess Marguerite did quite well without your input, Your Highness.” Didier smiled. “I must say, Christina Armstrong even looks like a princess. She’s quite lovely. And with her upbringing and connections—” “She is nothing more than an American heiress.” “The legend cares nothing about—” “The legend, Didi?” Simply saying the word “legend” put a bitter taste in Richard’s mouth. “Do you truly believe the royal engagement ring is going to fit one of these women, that we will find true love and everlasting happiness, that the island will prosper with our marriage?” “I do, Your Highness.” Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. Even logical Didier believed in the Legend of the Ring, in magic. But Richard knew better. The pursuit of true love—any kind of love—brought only heartache. Magic did not exist. Yet duty to his family and his country bound him to the legend. If only he had married… Strains of Vivaldi, played by the seventy-piece orchestra, drifted in from the ballroom. They might as well play a requiem for all the fun Richard would have tonight. He knew what to expect, and he dreaded it. Women, dressed in designer gowns, dreamed of trying on the ring and having it fit. Men, wearing tuxedos, waited to console those it did not fit. The air kissing, the meaningless toasts, the inconsequential conversations. His so-called guests had less substance than the effervescent bubbles rising in the overpriced champagne his mother had ordered. He should never have agreed to this farce of a party. Never. He should be sailing, relaxing on his yacht and drinking his favorite beer. If it were not for the legend… The Legend. Richard wanted no part of it. He didn’t believe in the legend any more than he believed in the tooth fairy or love at first sight. Perhaps a hundred years ago, legends made some sort of sense, but not today. He was following his father’s wish and bringing San Montico into the present, but it was a monumentally slow task. Each step toward progress was a battle against the majority who resisted change. The harder Richard pushed for progress, the harder the people fought against it. The citizens of the island clung to old-fashioned traditions and myths like drowning rats on lifelines during a raging storm at sea. It had not taken Richard long to realize the antiquated customs, such as the Legend of the Ring, that people held so dear to their hearts prevented San Montico from moving forward. Only by doing away with the old ways could real progress take place. Once Richard proved the legend was nothing more than a fairy tale, San Montico could take a giant leap toward modernization. It was the best thing for his country, the best thing for himself. “The legend is pure fantasy, Didi, and I will prove it. As soon as the clock strikes midnight, this will be over.” “Perhaps it will be only the beginning. The legend has proved itself true in the past, Your Highness.” Richard would not believe it. “It is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy. The legend came true because my ancestors, including my own parents, chose to make it come true. I choose not to. Why don’t you get married and take the pressure off me?” Didier sighed. “If you recall, Your Highness, tradition dictates I not marry until you do.” Another stupid custom. Richard’s marital status should have nothing to do with his royal advisor’s. If only Didier wasn’t so entrenched in following the “old” ways. “I should have known there was another reason for you to want me to marry.” “My only reason has to do with our country. You need to find a wife, Your Highness.” “I have tried to find a wife, Didi.” Richard had done everything possible not to fall prey to the legend. He had dated more than his share of women. Up until six months ago, he thought he had found the one, only to be hugely mistaken. Since then, it had been a race to find another. But he could not open up his heart to just anyone. “I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. Surely that must count.” “But none of your efforts has…succeeded, Your Highness. You are still unmarried, and San Montico needs an heir.” Richard was tired of hearing what San Montico expected of him. He knew. It had been drummed into him from the day he was born. He straightened his gloves. “I can provide an heir without marrying.” Didier cringed. “Your Highness.” Perhaps Richard had overstepped the boundary with that one, but he couldn’t help himself. No one was on his side. The entire island, including his mother and uncle, expected him to fall in love and marry one of the women attending his birthday ball. “Look at the problems other royal families have had, especially the Windsors. An arranged marriage simply to provide an heir makes no sense and adds nothing but more stress to an outdated institution.” “Are you talking about matrimony or monarchies, Your Highness?” Leave it to Didier to make Richard laugh. “We will have to finish this discussion later,” Didier whispered. “Here comes Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, Your Highness.” Richard nodded. The dignified, tuxedo-clad Alan Armstrong bowed in front of him. “Your Highness, may I present my daughter, Christina.” Attractive, yes. Princess material, no. Her rosy blush and wide eyes told Richard she was impressed by him, probably even in awe of him. What more could he expect from an American? When he married, he would select a woman who saw him as a man, not a prince. In the meantime, he forced a smile. “It is my pleasure to meet your lovely daughter.” She curtsied. “Happy birthday, Your Gorgeous, I mean, Your Highness.” Richard refrained from rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Armstrong.” He raised her trembling hand to his mouth and kissed it. Her skin felt soft and warm beneath his lips. He caught the faint scent of cocoa butter on her honeyed-tan skin. Had she sunbathed topless at the beach today? “I am delighted you could come.” As he released her hand, she dropped her beaded clutch bag. Bending over, he reached for it. So did Christina and thwacked her head against his forehead. Jerking away, she stumbled, but her father’s quick action saved her from falling onto the marble floor. “I’m so sorry.” She touched Richard’s arm—a breach in royal protocol—and he stiffened. “Are you okay, Your Highness?” The sooner he got rid of her, the better. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Richard handed her the bag. “I am fine.” Before Christina could say or do anything else, her father pushed her toward the end of the receiving line. “Your Highness, my wife sends her regrets for missing your birthday ball, but she had a prior engagement.” As Richard nodded, he caught a glimpse of Christina walking toward the ballroom and watched the sway of her gown. Her image blurred slightly as if she were an angel surrounded by clouds. An angel, she wasn’t. He must have hit his head harder than he realized. Richard rubbed his forehead, and she glanced back at him. Their gazes locked for an instant. At the same time, she reached forward to shake the extended hand of… No. Fighting the urge to cry out, Richard gritted his teeth. Christina shook the hand, not of a man, but a suit of armor. One of the chain mail gloves came off, leaving the priceless antiquity handless. Damn. Not even the bloodiest of battles fought preserving San Montico from French and Spanish invaders had destroyed the armor, but this woman, this American…His muscles tightened; his blood pressure soared. Add another headache to his already aching forehead. Christina stared at the glove in horror, then tried to hide it behind her small purse. Alan Armstrong muttered what sounded like a well-rehearsed apology. Richard accepted the apology with an obligatory smile. Now was not the time to show emotion. Not with the palace full of guests. He would remain calm, impassive. It was only a glove, a glove that had belonged to his family for ages. He stared at Christina. “Do you need assistance, Miss Armstrong?” She raised the glove and grinned. “I seem to have found an extra hand already.” At least she had a sense of humor. And she had not set the palace on fire. Yet. Richard breathed a sigh of relief. “One can never have too many hands.” Her eyes sparkled. “What should I do with, uh, this?” “Didier,” Richard said, “please assist Miss Armstrong.” “Yes, Your Highness.” Didier stepped away from him and took the glove from her. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience.” “I’m sorry for breaking it,” Christina said. “You didn’t break it,” Didier said before Richard could answer. “It’s…old.” Just like all the other irreplaceable works of art in the palace. Richard had been warned about her setting fire to the White House. He would not allow the same nonsense to happen here—the legend was nonsense enough. He would make sure someone kept Christina Armstrong away from any open flames. It was going to be a long enough night without any unexpected pyrotechnics. Armstrongs are never impressed. Armstrongs are never impressed. The mantra of her snobbish family echoed in her mind. Christina had always had a difficult time remembering not to be impressed, but tonight it was impossible. It was all she could do not to stare, openmouthed. Her family was obscenely wealthy—and often flaunted the fact—but this…She had never seen such a tasteful display of riches. Exquisite antiques, famous paintings by the masters, breathtaking chandeliers and tantalizing buffets of gourmet cuisine filled each of the public rooms at the fairy-tale-worthy San Montico palace. But none of those wonderful treasures came close to the beauty of the prince himself. Simply a glimpse of him made her pulse quicken. Bells chimed and the sound hung in the festive air, but Christina realized it was only the clinking of crystal champagne flutes. Exuding an aura of charm that drew people in like a tractor beam, Prince Richard spoke with a small group of women who hung on his every word. Christina stood a polite distance away. She wanted to memorize everything about him so she could sketch a drawing when she returned to her hotel room. He was Prince Charming in the flesh. Nothing, including the elaborate tapestry that hung on the wall behind him or the sparkling jewels the women wore, could compare to Prince Richard in his white uniform with shiny gold trim and royal-blue sash. The romantic melody played by a harpist in the corner echoed her sentiments. Prince Richard smiled, and Christina drew in a sharp breath. No man deserved to be that good-looking. Sinfully sexy. That was the only way to describe him. Over six feet tall, he carried himself with a regal air. His aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and chiseled features were softened by his full lips, to-die-for lush lashes and a boyish dimple on his left cheek that appeared every so often when he smiled. The contrast—devastating. With eyes the color of the water surrounding the island of Santorini and thick, sun-bleached wavy hair, the prince had been dubbed the catch of the decade. Catch of the century was a better title. Too bad he was a prince whose every move was followed by the rabid press, the inquisitive public and his adoring fans. Not that she cared tonight. It was too magical an evening to let the thought of publicity ruin anything. Not even the paparazzi dared make an appearance here. She could be Cinderella at the prince’s ball and not worry about appearing in the tabloids for one night. She could forget about life’s harsh realities until tomorrow. Christina glanced up at the well-preserved frescoes painted on the ceiling. She could almost smell the layers of lime plaster and pigment, the sweat of the painter who created it years, maybe centuries, ago. A delightful cherub smiled down at her, and Christina didn’t feel so all alone. “Are you having a good time, Miss Armstrong?” The voice came from behind her. Turning, she saw the prince’s assistant standing behind a table. His smile betrayed nothing, but he must have seen her staring at the prince like a lovesick puppy dog. The fact she wasn’t the only one doing so saved her from total embarrassment. She straightened her posture. “Yes, I am.” “I am Didier Alois, royal advisor to the prince. We met earlier.” Remembering the incident with the armor, she chuckled. It wasn’t quite the impression she wanted to make. “Yes, we did.” He motioned to his right. “Have you tried on the ring?” “No, I haven’t.” The ring sat on a small pedestal covered with black velvet. If she hadn’t been so busy making goo-goo eyes at the prince, she would have noticed it immediately. “What is it?” “It’s the royal engagement ring.” Didier removed the ring from the platform. Multicolored light was reflected off the different facets cut on the center stone, a diamond. “All the de Thierry brides have worn it.” As beautiful as any of the crown jewels on display at the Tower of London, the large diamond glimmered under the overhead lights. The ring was almost medieval-looking with a wide filigree gold band inlaid with rubies, emeralds and sapphires. “It’s breathtaking.” “Please, try it on.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “But you must,” Didier said. “All the women at the ball are required to try on the ring. Prince Richard will be upset if you don’t.” Christina didn’t want to upset the prince, but she didn’t want to cause another incident, either. Apart from the chain mail glove, she’d managed to stay out of trouble. No sense pushing her luck. She took a step backward. “Please, Miss Armstrong,” Didier coaxed. “We must see if it fits.” “If the ring fits, do I win a prize or something?” Didier grinned. “Or something.” Christina glanced back at the prince. It would be nice to try on the ring, his ring. A chance of a lifetime. A chance to really be Cinderella at the ball. And how could she get in trouble if the prince’s own advisor had told her to try it on? Not even her father could get upset about it. The ring was way too small anyway. No way would it fit. After a moment of hesitation, she extended her left hand. “Okay.” Didier brought the ring to her finger. Funny, but it almost felt like heat was emanating from the gold band. Must be Didier. Men were always hot. When the ring touched her skin, a buzz of electricity shot up her arm. She gasped, but Didier continued sliding the ring onto her finger. When he let go of her hand, Christina couldn’t believe it. The ring fit. She stared at it. Beautiful. Someday, she would have an engagement ring of her own. Not this spectacular. A simple gold band would do. All she wanted was to find a man who would love her for who she was, a man who wanted what she did—children, pets, a porch with a swing. A normal life, a normal family. No more limelight. No more photographs or headlines or snide remarks in gossip columns. No more twelve-inch-thick prenuptial agreements to protect an inheritance she didn’t want. Didier furrowed his brow. “Are you all right, miss?” “Yes,” Christina said, feeling warm and a little dizzy. Too much sun, too much champagne, too much lusting after Prince Richard. The proverbial clock had struck midnight. Time for this Cinderella to call it a night. “Thank you for letting me try it on. It’s exquisite.” She pulled on the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Didier leaned toward her. “Is there a problem, Miss Armstrong?” Christina pulled on it again, but her fingertips simply slid over the elaborately decorated band. The ring wouldn’t even twirl around her finger. “It seems to be stuck.” “Let me try, miss.” Didier straightened his shoulders and tugged on the ring until Christina cried out in pain. “It doesn’t seem to be moving.” She couldn’t understand why Didier smiled as if he’d just won the lottery. “I must get this ring off. If my father finds out, he’ll kill me. And the prince…” A glance told her Prince Richard was too engrossed in his conversation to realize what was happening. Christina wanted to keep it that way. “Would it be okay if I went to the ladies’ room and tried to remove it?” For some reason, Didier seemed to be enjoying himself. His brown eyes twinkled; his smile grew wider. He looked almost giddy. “I don’t think it’s coming off.” “Please.” Why had she allowed this to happen? She knew better. “I’d like to try.” From his peripheral vision, Richard saw Didier approach. It was about time. If Richard heard one more boring piece of gossip about the United Kingdom’s royal family, he was going to reinstate flogging. “May I speak with you for a moment, Your Highness?” Didier asked. “Of course.” Richard bowed to the women surrounding him. “Excuse me, ladies.” As soon as the women were out of earshot, he sighed. “Thank you for coming to my aid, Didi. I never thought I would escape with all my clothes on. I felt like a rabbit surrounded by panting wolves. I was hoping you would leave the ring long enough to rescue me.” Richard glanced at its pedestal, the empty pedestal. No guard. No ring. His stomach knotted. “Where is the ring?” Didier’s wide grin answered his question. No. This could not be happening. The legend wasn’t true; it wasn’t. The legend dictated he had to marry the woman whom the ring fit within a week or abdicate. He would do neither. It was his duty to marry and produce an heir. He would, but not because he was turning thirty and a legend dictated it. He would marry whom he wanted, when he wanted. Every decision in his life had been made for the sake of San Montico. He had sacrificed childhood dreams and adult desires for his family, his people, his country. But the choice of a wife was his, and his alone, to make. “Does anyone know? My mother?” “No, we can make an announce—” “Tell no one.” Richard needed time to think, time to come up with a plan. He would not let San Montico’s sentimental attachment to a legend take away the most important choice of his life and keep him from modernizing the country. “Where is…it?” “In the ladies’ lounge,” Didier said. “With Miss Armstrong.” Not her. Please not her. “May I suggest a course of action, Your Highness?” Richard clenched his teeth. “No. You have done enough.” Please work. Please. Christina lathered her hands with soap. But the ring wouldn’t budge, not a fraction of an inch, not even a millimeter. She rinsed her hands, double-checking the drain plug on the gold-plated sink. Not that a ring this size could fit, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Staring at the ring on her red, swollen finger, Christina fought the urge to scream. She could have said no when her mother insisted she come to San Montico, but accepting the invitation had seemed like such a little thing to make her mother happy. Only now… Christina would disappoint her parents. Again. She should have known no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to please them. But no, she’d gone against her better judgment and said yes. And embarrassed herself. Her family. Her country. Wait until her mother found out. What if the ring didn’t come off? Christina flexed her hand. Surely they wouldn’t want to chop her finger off? She was an artist. She needed all her fingers. Time to give the soap another try. Perhaps she was overreacting a little, but this was a small island in the Mediterranean ruled by a prince, not the U.S. government. San Montico might never have heard of due process of law. They might even follow another law—an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. She lathered again. Maybe her father could do something—open a factory, build a resort, pay off the national debt. Maybe the prince would understand. Maybe her life was over. She added more soap, but the ring still wouldn’t budge. As her stomach curled up and turned one somersault after another, she leaned against the marble counter and groaned. “What am I going to do?” A man cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” In the mirror, Christina saw Prince Richard’s reflection. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. He looked more like a pirate than a prince. A mean pirate. So much for him understanding. “I knocked, but no one answered.” Turning, Christina didn’t know what to say. His wide shoulders and six-foot-plus height made the bathroom seem smaller. “Your Highness, I—” Didier walked into the bathroom, smiling. “The ring fits, Your Highness.” Prince Richard’s nostrils flared. His full lips nearly disappeared as his mouth tightened. Angry, oh boy, was he angry. How was she going to get out of this one? “I wouldn’t say it fits, Your Highness.” Christina hoped she wouldn’t cause another international incident. “It’s stuck. I’m probably retaining water. You know, PMS and all that stuff.” “No, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard cocked an eyebrow. “I would not know.” Why did she say that? He was a prince. She was an Armstrong. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Of course, you wouldn’t. I’m—” “Let me see your hand.” She showed him her soap-covered hand. “Maybe if I try some lotion or—” “Quiet.” The harsh tone of his voice silenced her. Christina swallowed hard. Prince Charming had disappeared. The classical lines of his face now seemed hard, not handsome. The set of his chin now seemed arrogant, not confident. If only she could turn back the clock and return to the ball… Prince Richard removed his gloves. He pulled on the ring until tears welled in her eyes. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. “It fits, Your Highness,” Didier said with a smile. “It does not fit.” The prince washed and dried his hands. “It is stuck, Didi. It is too small, that is all.” “The legend says—” “Wash your hands, Miss Armstrong,” he ordered before Didier could say another word. “What legend?” Christina asked. “Wash your hands,” the prince ordered. “I will not ask again.” “Yes, Your Highness,” Christina mumbled, feeling like a newly enlisted marine in boot camp. She scrubbed but couldn’t rinse all the soap out of the filigree band. “Find Mr. Armstrong,” Prince Richard commanded. “I need to speak with him immediately.” “Your Highness.” Didier stopped at the door. “Perhaps—” “Not now, Didi.” As soon as the door closed behind Didier, Prince Richard handed her his white gloves. “Put these on.” The left glove was at least two sizes too big. “It doesn’t fit, Your Highness.” “This is not a fashion show, Miss Armstrong. You will wear them. I do not need to have my mother see you wearing the ring. Or the press.” The press. Prince Richard had a good point. She put on the right glove. He walked toward the door. “Come with me.” Uncertain and a little frightened, Christina hesitated. “Now.” She tilted her chin, trying to gain a bit of courage. “Where are we going, Your Highness?” “Some place private, where we will not be disturbed.” The palace reminded her of a dream castle, but the evening was turning into a nightmare. Surely the palace didn’t have a dungeon with a torture chamber. She followed Prince Richard out of the bathroom to a narrow, dimly lit hallway. “Exactly where is that, Your Highness?” “My bedroom.” Chapter Two Christina stood outside the double white-paneled doors, her heart pounding in her throat. The prince, the engagement ring, his bedroom. Oh, man. His bedroom, the prince’s bedroom. No one would believe this was happening. Well, maybe her family would, but no one else. She pinched her arm to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Prince Richard stepped in front of her and opened one of the doors. “You will wait inside.” “Your Highness,” she said, then hesitated. His I’m-better-than-you stare made her feel unwelcome, emphasizing the fact she didn’t belong. “What is it, Miss Armstrong?” Christina might not be royalty, but she was an Armstrong. She forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for ruining your birthday.” “Go on.” With his hand at the small of her back, he led her inside. It was obvious he could care less about her apology. “Do not touch anything and stay away from the windows.” She almost asked if she should remove her shoes before stepping on the carpet but thought better of it. “Yes, Your Highness.” “I must return to the party. I believe my uncle is going to have a heart attack.” A what? Heart attack? She tried to speak, but no words would come. Prince Richard closed the door behind her, and she heard a click. Christina tried the handle, but it was locked. Locked in the prince’s bedroom. Alone. But a heart attack? Was Prince Richard joking or did he really mean…She glanced at her gloved hand. The ring. It had to be the ring. Oh, no. What had she done? A heart attack. This was her worst yet. People died from heart attacks. Christina clutched her hands to her chest. She’d really done it this time. The marquess—such a charming, entertaining man. Unlike his nephew, Prince Richard. A heart attack. Awful, dreadful, inexcusable. What would her family—make that the world—think? For once, she would deserve everything the press threw at her. She truly would not deserve to be an Armstrong. She plopped onto the king-size bed, a fit-for-a-prince bed made of elegantly carved mahogany with pomegranate-shaped finials on the canopy posts. Through an open window, a gentle breeze, carrying the smell of the sea, filled the room, but the fresh air did nothing to ease the suffocating guilt. Her fault. Lying on the hard mattress, Christina pulled the gloves up to keep them from falling off. Over the years, she’d broken things, valuable things. She’d started a war, actually a small insurrection, as her father preferred to call it. But she’d never hurt… Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. But breaking Tom’s thumb with the winch handle during a regatta could have happened to anyone. And Ron’s concussion was a total accident. Grabbing that cast-iron skillet was instinct, pure and simple. He could have been a burglar. If only she’d seen the box of Ho Hos first, but no one drops by at midnight unannounced. No one but Ron. At least she hadn’t had a gun. The gun, she couldn’t forget about Kent. But that was his fault, one hundred percent. Kent knew better than to take her skeet shooting. Thank goodness for the advances in medical technology. It was amazing what could be surgically reattached. Okay, so she might have accidentally hurt a few men, but she’d never killed anyone. A heart attack? Tears welled in her eyes. The stupid ring. She’d cut off her finger if it would save the marquess. She really would. She’d do anything to rid herself of the helpless feeling settling in the pit of her stomach like a week old glazed doughnut. After what seemed like a forever of silence, the lock on the door clicked. As Christina sat up, one of the double doors opened. Prince Richard stepped inside, followed by Didier and the marquess. The marquess. Thank goodness. He wasn’t dead. Christina ran and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re alive.” The marquess smiled. “Now more than ever.” She stared into his twinkling blue eyes, eyes that reminded her of the prince. Or had until she saw the real man beneath the princely facade. “I thought I’d killed you.” “My dear Christina. May I call you that?” Nodding, she couldn’t stop looking at the marquess. He was alive. Alive. A warm tear slipped down her cheek. “Are those tears for me?” The marquess wiped her cheek with a white linen handkerchief. “You make this old man wish he were thirty years younger. Richard, my lucky boy, you have found yourself a wonderful—” “Why would you think you killed my uncle?” Prince Richard asked. “You told me he was going to have a heart attack. I assumed it was because of the ring.” Her heartbeat accelerated. The ring. She’d forgotten for a moment. Christina faced the prince, wishing he’d shown the same compassion and sincerity as his uncle, but all she saw was a scowl of impatience. How could she have ever mistaken him for Prince Charming? The two had nothing in common except the word “prince.” The realization made her long for a familiar face. “Do you know where my father is?” The marquess gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He should be along shortly.” “Take off the gloves,” Prince Richard ordered. “Really, my dear nephew,” the marquess said. “Christina is not one of your subjects. She’s going to be your—” “Uncle Phillippe, please. If you feel the need to interfere, I will have to ask you to leave.” “I pretend to have a heart attack so you can clear the palace and this is what I get,” the marquess said, sounding affronted. “You pretended to have a heart attack?” Christina asked. “Yes, my dear.” The marquess winked. “And a valiant performance, worthy of an Oscar if I might say so myself.” “Why?” Prince Richard cleared his throat. The marquess sighed. “Why don’t you ask His Serene Highness?” Prince Richard said nothing. Who the hell did he think he was, standing there with an arrogant expression on his face as if she was a low-life serf? She’d cried thinking she’d been the cause of the marquess’s heart attack. Cried. She deserved an answer. Christina planted her hands on her hips. “So, are you going to tell me, Your Serene Highness?” Both the marquess and Didier chuckled, earning them a glare from Prince Richard. He glanced toward the ceiling and let loose a tirade in French. Pompous ass. As if I wanted to be part of this. She could match his colorful French vocabulary word for word, but she chose to take a calming breath instead. “Your Highness, I did not glue the ring to my finger, nor did I do any of this on purpose. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face in English.” Prince Richard studied her. “You speak French?” “Fluently,” she said, enjoying the surprise that registered in his eyes. The man had way too much pride. “When I was in college, I studied in Paris.” “Any other languages?” “Italian.” Christina realized she had the upper hand. And she liked it, liked it a lot. “I also spent two semesters in Florence.” “Your Highness,” Didier said, rather bravely, Christina thought, “I believe Miss Armstrong is waiting for her answer about the marquess’s heart attack.” “It looks as if you have two champions, Miss Armstrong.” Prince Richard regained his princely composure, but a vein in his neck still throbbed. Not so cool and collected as he wanted people to believe. “You want to know, I shall tell you. Since you so inexcu—” Didier coughed. “Excuse me, Your Highness.” Good thing looks couldn’t kill or one of her champions would be a goner. Christina could have sworn she saw the prince sending daggers, machetes and a wood block full of Wusthof knives toward Didier. Prince Richard continued. “Since you had the misfortune of getting the ring stuck on your finger, I felt it was in our mutual best interest to clear the palace before any gossip could occur. I needed a way to end the party, so I enlisted the aid of my thespian uncle.” “I’ve done Shakespeare,” the marquess said, giving a bow. A man after her own heart. Christina chuckled. “Thanks to his brilliant performance, I can see to…his recovery.” See to her was what Prince Richard meant. His ruse. It had worked. Not a bad plan, she had to admit. And she was in favor of doing anything to stop gossip and keep the press at bay. His Serene Highness might not be a knight in shining armor, but he was quick on his feet. Maybe he could figure a way out of this mess. “Now that I have answered your question, Miss Armstrong, would you kindly remove the gloves?” A knock at the door stopped her. Silence. No one moved. Everyone stared at the door. Another knock. Prince Richard nodded at Didier, who moved to the doors and opened one of them slightly before stepping back. “It’s Mr. Armstrong.” Her father entered the room with a smile on his face. Oh, no. Christina estimated that in less than sixty seconds his smile would turn upside down. She hid her hands behind her back. “Sweetheart.” Her father’s hug took her by surprise. He not only preferred showing his affection with gifts rather than touch, but she expected him to be angry at her, not happy. “Sorry for the delay, Your Highness, but I had to telephone my wife.” Mother knew. Christina wrung her hands. “How did she take…I mean…Is she okay?” “She’s fine.” Fine? Her mother? That wasn’t possible. The only reason her mother hadn’t come to San Montico was because of the discovery of a new wrinkle that warranted an emergency appointment, complete with chartered jet and flight crew, to her plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. Overreaction was Claire Armstrong’s middle name. “May I see the ring, Your Highness?” Alan asked. Prince Richard nodded. “If Miss Armstrong removes the glove.” “Do as the prince says,” her father whispered. “Whatever he says.” “Yes, sir.” She removed the glove and held out her left hand. “Interesting.” Alan tugged and twisted it. She waited for him to yell at her, to express his disappointment with her yet again. Instead, his smile widened. “It’s not coming off, is it?” “No, it’s not, Mr. Armstrong,” Didier said. The marquess echoed him. “It will come off.” Prince Richard grimaced. “The ring does not fit.” The three other men exchanged a glance making Christina feel like the only one not privy to a secret handshake. “I would like Christina to remain at the palace,” Prince Richard said. Say no, Daddy. Say no. “That’s understandable considering the circumstances,” Alan replied. “I’ll have her luggage packed and sent over. Discreetly, of course.” Prince Richard nodded his approval. “You are more than welcome to stay yourself.” Please stay, Daddy. Please stay. “Thank you, Your Highness, but that isn’t necessary.” Alan glanced at the ring on her finger and chuckled. “I have so much to take care of I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight.” Finally, he was going to do something. The overwhelming sense of relief made Christina sigh. “Don’t worry.” Her father patted her arm. “I’ll take care of everything.” Thank goodness. She wasn’t in this alone. But her father was acting so calmly, so unlike his normal disapproving self. “You aren’t mad?” “A bit surprised,” he admitted. “But not mad.” Now she really felt like the only one excluded from the club. Something was definitely going on. “My uncle will see you out,” Prince Richard said. Christina wanted her father to stay. She wanted to tell him how much she appreciated his help. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. She said good-night instead. “Sleep well.” Alan kissed the top of her head. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Christina stared, dumbfounded. She’d waited for years to hear her father say those words. All she ever wanted was to be a good girl and make her parents proud, but things had never worked out that way. She got into trouble without even trying. Getting the ring stuck on her finger was a perfect example. Except for keeping it a secret from the press, how was this any different from the times before? Richard would not give up. So much was at stake, but nothing had worked. Not the soap, not the lotion, not the Vaseline. The ring was still stuck. He was running out of ideas. And time. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He had kept his mother and the entire palace in the dark about Christina and the ring. He could not keep it hidden forever. Come morning, the dawn would bring the truth about the ring and who wore it to light. If the citizens thought the “magic” of the ring had selected Christina to be his bride and Richard married her, they would cling to their silly customs and traditions even more. The legend would not only seal his fate, but that of San Montico. With archaic ideas such as legends and fairy tales part of everyday life, San Montico would never have true modernization. His father’s wish would go unfulfilled. Richard could not let that happen. He reached into the back of a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of oil. “We shall try this, Miss Armstrong.” Lifting her hand from the sink full of ice, Christina leaned against the bathroom counter. “Go ahead, Your Highness, but since it looks like this ring isn’t coming off in the near future, you might as well start calling me Christina. And you, too, Didier.” Standing next to Richard, Didier smiled. “Christina is such a lovely name. A name fit for a princess.” Princess Christina? Richard grimaced. Didier was up to his old tricks. His matchmaking would not work. Christina would not become Richard’s wife; she would not become Her Serene Highness of San Montico. The ring on her finger meant nothing, as did the legend. Only he could decide who became the next princess. It was not going to be Christina Armstrong. And having Didier around displaying his not-so-subtle approval of her only complicated matters further. Richard scowled. “Leave us, Didi.” “But the ring, Your Highness?” “I will see to it.” Richard opened the bottle of oil. “You need to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.” Didier nodded. “I will have a room prepared for Christina, Your Highness.” “She is staying here.” “Here?” Christina stiffened. “I can’t sleep here.” “I cannot sleep here, Your Highness,” Richard corrected her lapse. “May I ask why?” Her eyes widened at his question. “Because, Your Highness, this is your room. Where would you sleep?” “Why here, of course.” Richard laughed at the indignant look on her face, the surprised tone of her voice. She did have a sort of innocent charm. An act, he was certain. Americans would do anything to gain a royal title. His ex-fianc?e had taught him a painful yet valuable lesson. “Christina, the ring has been in my family for generations, centuries, actually. I prefer to remain near it.” “You can lock me in a room, in the tower even, place a guard outside my door. I’m not going anywhere, Your Highness. I promise.” Her promises meant nothing to him. Besides, he could not risk having his mother see a guard standing watch over one of the guest rooms. She would know something was wrong. And if she found out about the ring…The wedding invitations would be in the mail by tomorrow afternoon. “You are staying here. With me.” She started to speak, then stopped. Didier frowned. “Your Highness—” “Good night, Didi.” “Didier,” Christina said, “thanks for your help.” “The pleasure was mine. Happy birthday, Your Highness.” Didier bowed, then left the bathroom. Some birthday. A trip to the salt mines of Siberia would be better than this. Anything would be. But Richard was here with Christina, who wore the royal engagement ring. If the news got out, he would be married to her by this time next week. Married to a stranger. An American, no less. Under the guise of the legend and true love. No way. He had to get the ring off her finger. Now. Richard grabbed Christina’s hand. “Ow.” He released her hand. He shouldn’t have been so rough. “I’m…I only wanted to try the oil.” She studied him, her arched brows drawn together. Two small lines formed above the bridge of her nose. “Look, I want to get this ring off as badly as you do.” With a slight hesitation, she offered her hand. “Oil me up, Your Highness.” Disrespectful, but kind of cute. Perhaps another time, another place. Absurd. Unknowingly or not, she had been drawn into the legend. After he removed the ring, Richard never wanted to see Christina Armstrong again. Tilting the bottle, he poured oil on her finger, set the bottle on the counter and reached for the ring. His large hand engulfed her small, delicate one. As he rubbed the oil around the gold band, she jerked away. Her cheeks rosy, she stared at him. “I can do it myself, Your Highness.” “No. I will.” Defiance flickered in her eyes, but she held out her hand anyway. At least she knew how to obey. Slowly, he rubbed on the oil, making sure he didn’t miss a spot. He had not noticed before, but her fingernails were painted a pale pink with white tips. Just like his mother used to wear before his father died. But a French manicure did not make a princess. “What is this?” Christina asked. Once again, she forgot to address him as “Your Highness.” “Oil.” With her right hand, she picked up the bottle. Her eyes widened. “It’s…massage oil?” She needed a lesson in royal protocol. “Yes.” “Figures.” She set the bottle on the counter. “Do you usually keep a large supply of massage oil on hand, Your Highness? Or did we just luck out tonight?” She was the most aggravating woman he had ever met. He continued rubbing. “It was a gift.” “I’m sure it was.” Ignoring her suggestive tone, Richard reminded himself she was an American and did not know better. He tried moving the ring, but it still would not budge. Unwilling to give up, he added more oil. His fingers glided over hers, the friction of their skin warmed the oil oozing between their hands. Soft. Even the coldness of her iced hand could not hide how satiny her skin felt beneath his fingertips. The smell of vanilla drifted up. No wonder Didier had wanted to stay and help. This was quite enjoyable. Richard stared at her reflection in the mirror until she blinked and looked away. So did he. He should not be enjoying this. This was not a game or foreplay. Christina’s skin was not soft. Any woman’s hand would feel soft with a bottle of massage oil rubbed on it. He tried the ring again. Nothing. He needed to think of something—a new tactic. Maybe he needed to work on her swollen knuckle. Yes, he would try that. Letting the oil act as a lubricant, Richard massaged her knuckle. This would certainly do the trick. Christina did have long, elegant fingers. Moving to another knuckle, he wondered if she ever painted her nails red. His gaze locked with hers. “Uh, Your Highness,” she said, her cheeks flushed, “that’s the wrong finger.” Richard let go of her hand as if it were a stick of dynamite ready to blow. He couldn’t explain his lapse nor why he felt as if he were ten years old and his mother had caught him playing with his great-great-grandfather’s jewel-encrusted sword. “I’ll try it.” Christina pulled on the ring. “It’s still stuck, Your Highness.” And so was he. As long as the ring was on Christina’s finger, he was stuck with her. She washed her hands. “My finger’s really swollen. I don’t think it’s coming off tonight, Your Highness.” They had been at it so long. Too long. Richard noticed the dark circles under Christina’s eyes. “We will wait until morning to try again. You must be tired.” The edges of her mouth turned up slightly. “I am, Your Highness, but if you wish to continue, I understand. I know you want your ring back.” The genuine tone of her voice surprised him, as did her willingness to continue even though she was exhausted. He was used to people wanting things from him. Few ever offered to give anything in return. “No, we shall wait.” He noticed her gown, now wrinkled and showing signs of the long evening. She could not sleep in it. “I will find you something to wear.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “My dress is fine, Your Highness.” The tight-fitting bodice pushed her breasts up and tapered to a V that accentuated her hourglass curves. “Actually, it is lovely, but I am sure the designer did not intend it to be worn to bed. Come with me.” Richard opened the mahogany armoire in his bedroom. He searched through the clothes and pulled a button-down hunter-green pajama top from the hanger. “Wear this.” She ran her fingertips over the fabric. “It’s silk, Your Highness.” “Yes. Is there a problem?” “No, it’s beautiful,” she said. “I just don’t want to ruin it. Couldn’t I borrow a T-shirt?” “You will not ruin it.” “That’s what they all say,” she mumbled before walking into the bathroom and closing the door. Realizing he could not sleep as he normally did, he quickly changed into the matching pajama bottoms. Richard had not worn pajamas in years, just as he had never allowed a woman to spend the entire night with him in this suite. Well, he had never turned thirty before or had his engagement ring stuck on an American’s finger, either. A night of firsts. He wished it were over. The bathroom door opened. Christina stepped out, carrying her gown and matching pumps. The only thing he could see were her bare feet with her toenails painted a shocking pink. She laid the gown on a nearby chair, bent down and set her shoes on the floor. As she stood by his bed, Richard sucked in a breath, unable to stop himself from staring at her. Christina’s auburn hair fell past her shoulders, gently framing her face. Her beautiful face. The silky fabric brushed against the curves underneath. Her womanly curves. The pajama top fell midthigh on a pair of perfectly shaped legs. Her long legs. “You…you can have it now, Your Highness.” He wanted it all right. He wanted… Her. He could not explain the rush of desire, the overwhelming sense of needing her, but he did not care. She was here; he was here. Why not make the best of a bad situation? After all, it was his birthday. He smiled at Christina. Princess material, no. Lover material, yes. Chapter Three Prince Richard hadn’t said a word, but Christina could see it, feel it. While she’d been in the bathroom, he’d become the dashing prince she’d met in the grand hallway, the sexy prince who had set her heart aflutter. His smile made her feel like the only piece of chocolate decadence at a Weight Watchers meeting. Chocolate that was starting to melt under his intense stare full of longing, desire, need. His gaze lingered, practically caressed, making her feel like a desirable woman. And she resented it. Resented how she felt her own resolve weakening. But she couldn’t help herself. This man could steal any woman’s heart if he set his mind to it. But not her heart, she reminded herself. To be honest, she preferred his majestic scowl to the come-hither curve gracing his lips. Lips made for nibbling, tasting, kissing. Wait. They were only lips. Princely lips she didn’t want to have anything to do with. So what if his less-than-appealing personality didn’t diminish his sex appeal? She wasn’t interested. Period. And if she told herself that enough, she might eventually believe it. Not that it mattered, of course. She was simply overreacting, letting her imagination and hormones run wild. The prince hadn’t propositioned her; he hadn’t said one word. Teasing—that’s what he was doing—teasing her to get a reaction. Those bedroom eyes meant nothing. Nothing at all. Besides, Prince Richard didn’t like her; he was angry at her. She wore his ring. Maybe not actually wore, but the ring was on her finger. Didn’t he remember? His smile widened, deepening the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Apparently, he’d forgotten about the ring. Temporary insanity. Or… No, it couldn’t be. But he was staring and smiling at her. A seductive smile designed to make any woman swoon. Maybe he did want to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Or maybe she had something on her face. She touched her cheek. “Is anything wrong, Your Highness?” “No.” He took a step closer. Christina gulped, feeling way out of her league. Especially with him wearing those pajama bottoms. His green silk pants left just enough to her imagination to make her want to see if what was under the fabric was as perfect as his defined abs, his wide shoulders and his not-overmuscled, but not-an-ounce-of-flab chest. Typical vain man. Prancing around his bedroom like a Chippendale dancer. Okay standing, not prancing. “Can’t you put your top on?” “You are wearing it,” he said. The intimacy of wearing a matched set, something she imagined happening when she married someday, made her swallow hard. “I…” “Are you offering me yours?” “No.” She paused long enough to see his smile widen further. Uh-oh. His adorable dimple was back. “Don’t you have another pair?” “Normally, I do not sleep in pajamas.” Just what she needed to hear to send her imagination into overdrive. And into overdrive it went. What would it feel like to run her hands over the golden hair covering his Michelangelo-sculpted chest? To have his strong arms pick her up and carry her to the giant bed, a bed made for lovers? Stop. Right now. She shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not here, locked in a room—make that bedroom—with a half-naked, gorgeous prince. Christina wrapped her arms around her waist and inched away from the bed. His bed. Show him the ring. That will erase the smile from his face, the desire—make that lust—in his eyes. But she couldn’t do anything except stare back entranced, hypnotized by the prince’s piercing gaze, by his incredible physique. She wanted to touch him, to see if he was real. He took another step toward her. “Silk suits you, Christina.” A compliment? Her pulse raced, speeding faster than the winning car at Indy. She stepped back and bumped into the wall. Trapped. Nowhere to go. She should be more worried than she was. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Her words sounded husky. Nothing like her normal voice. What was wrong with her? Nerves? She wet her Sahara-dry lips. “When we are alone, you may call me Richard.” Richard? She wouldn’t; she couldn’t. He closed the distance between them. Her pulse broke the land-speed record. She glanced at the bed, then back at him. “Where, er, where should I…?” Words failed her. The nearness of him left her tongue-tied. “Where should you sleep?” He finished the question for her. She nodded, not trusting her own voice. Not trusting herself. His eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Where would you like to sleep?” Talk about a loaded question. Her answer could get her into more trouble. Christina merely shrugged, fighting the urge to tremble as he moved even closer. “The bed is big enough for two.” No, it wasn’t. All she needed to make her trip to San Montico a complete disaster was to wake up and find herself tangled in the sheets, legs entwined, her head against his bare chest. Her father had told her to obey Prince Richard, but she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Christina pressed her sweaty palms against the wall. “I’m used to sleeping alone.” He raised an eyebrow. “Not really alone,” she admitted. “I mean, I sleep with Francis.” “Frances?” “My cat, and it’s Francis with an i.” “You have a male cat.” “No.” Christina couldn’t think straight, not with Prince Richard so close. Don’t think about him. Think about Francis. “She’s female, but I promised my grandfather I would name my first pet after Frank Sinatra. I myself felt compelled to name her after a character in Shakespeare, which gave me quite a dilemma.” “So you came up with Francis.” “Yes, but it wasn’t easy.” Neither was this. Richard’s spicy scent filled her nostrils. So earthy, so sensual, so male. Forget about him. “It was dumb luck I found a minor character named Francis in King Henry IV, Part 1. Did you know he’s the only character in the entire Shakespearean canon named Francis?” “I did not.” Prince Richard reached for her collar, straightening it. His warm fingers brushed her skin, sending a shiver of sensation down her spine. “Francis is a lucky kitty.” So am I. Christina bit the inside of her cheek. Prince Richard ran his fingertips down the lapel, stopping when he reached the first button. “Tell me more about Francis.” Christina didn’t want to think about what he was doing, about what she wanted him to do. “She’s cute—a tabby with calico spots and white fur on her chin and belly.” Christina watched with anticipation as he ran his fingertips along the circumference of the silk-covered button. “She’s a good cat. When I rub her belly, she purrs like an engine.” Prince Richard flashed her a devastating grin that made her want to meow. “Belly rubs work wonders.” “Yes, they…” Warning bells sounded inside her head. You almost meowed, for heaven’s sake. Get away from him. Now. Christina searched for a way out, an escape route. She saw nothing except two leather chairs in front of the fireplace. They would have to do. “About our sleeping arrangements, Your Highness. I can sleep on one of the chairs or on the floor.” “The floor?” Prince Richard laughed. “That would be so uncomfortable. Surely we can do better than that.” Not if she had any say in the matter. Christina stepped around him and moved toward the chairs. “That’s okay, Your, er, Highness. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve bedded down, I mean, slept.” Needing to shut up before she said something stupid, she faked a yawn. “I’m really tired.” “If you are tired, it should not matter if we share the bed.” “It would matter,” she said a little too quickly. “I mean—” “What do you mean, Christina?” Her name rolled from his lips with the slight hint of a French accent. She loved the way he said her name. No, she hated it. “I toss and turn. And I snore.” “Did Francis tell you that?” Damn. Caught in her own trap. She never could tell even the smallest of white lies. Her cheeks warmed. Only a soft knock on the door saved her from further embarrassment. “Who is it?” Prince Richard asked, sounding impatient. “Your mother,” a female voice answered. His mother? That could only mean one thing—trouble. Christina exchanged a panicked look with Prince Richard. “Just a minute,” he said to his mother, then turned to Christina. “Hide.” “Where?” He glanced at the bathroom and another door. “If my mother finds you here…” The beautiful Princess Marguerite probably wouldn’t understand why Christina was in the prince’s room at this late hour and wearing his pajama top. He opened the doors to his armoire and pointed. Looking inside the wardrobe, Christina hesitated. “In there?” “Richard?” Princess Marguerite called out. “I must speak with you immediately.” He tensed. Without a second thought, Christina climbed in, moving aside the tails of shirts hanging side by side. Prince Richard rolled her gown and tossed it to her. He closed the armoire, leaving her in darkness. The cramped armoire smelled like cedar. She clutched her gown to her chest. A tight fit, but it worked. For the time being. “Don’t forget my shoes, Your Highness.” “Richard? Open this door,” his mother said. He messed his hair, rumpled the sheets and kicked Christina’s pumps under the bed before unlocking the door. “Good evening, Mother.” Marguerite pushed her way into the room. Her black gown swished against the Savonnerie carpet. “I hope I did not interrupt anything.” “No, I was in bed.” “Alone?” She peered around him to stare at his bed. Her question did not deserve an answer. She always seemed disappointed when she failed to find a woman spending the night. It meant waiting that much longer for grandchildren. “I thought you would be asleep by now, Mother.” “How could I sleep after what happened tonight? I want to know what’s going on, Richard.” Crossing the room, she glanced in the bathroom. “And do not tell me you evacuated the palace because of your uncle’s heart attack. I know he was pretending.” “He was not pretending.” Richard saw the contrast of green against the black of the bed skirt. One of Christina’s pumps stuck out from under his bed. Damn. “He simply mistook a bout of indigestion for the real thing.” “He ruined your party.” While his mother peered inside his walk-in closet, Richard nudged the shoe farther under his bed. “He thought he was having a heart attack, Mother. Surely his health is more important than a party?” “But the ring.” She shut the closet door. “There were so many lovely young women present at the ball. I was hoping you would find her tonight.” “I am sorry to disappoint you.” “It’s not your fault the ring didn’t fit any of the women or the party was cut short.” “Fate seems to have conspired against me.” It most definitely had. A piece of green fabric—Christina’s gown?—stuck out of the bottom of his armoire. His mother had not seen it. Yet. “I simply wanted you to experience the same love and happiness the Legend of the Ring brought your father and me.” “Happiness, Mother?” Richard could not believe he was hearing this. He hurried to the armoire. Leaning against it, he struck a casual pose and hid the fabric with his heel. “For the past ten years, you have done nothing but wear black and mourn him.” “I miss him, Richard, but do not forget we had twenty-one years of joy before his death. I will always have the memories, and I have the ring to thank for that.” A ring could not bring happiness, true love, no matter how much his mother wanted to believe it. Just listening to her…She spoke as if she had died, too. She sounded so sad. The way she had sounded since his father’s death. Richard blamed her sorrow on the Legend of the Ring. “Why not experience that joy again, Mother? You can fall in love and remarry.” As his mother moved closer to him and the armoire, her smile disappeared. “The love your father and I shared…I cannot replace that with another. I would not even want to try. But I do want you to marry and provide me with the grandchildren I so long to have.” He knew how much his mother wanted him to marry, to produce an heir—grandchildren. Talking about the legend and his birthday ball had brought the light back to her eyes. Now it was gone. Completely. What kind of son was he, putting his wants ahead of his mother’s? He did not want to know the answer. “Where is the ring?” Torn between his own happiness and hers, Richard hesitated. All he had to do was show her the ring on Christina’s finger. His mother would be thrilled, and he would be… He could not. If he caved in and married because of the legend, he would live to regret it. He had to break the de Thierry tie to the Legend of the Ring. Not only for himself, but for future generations. The pursuit of a wife had taught him “one true love” and “happily ever after” existed only in fairy tales and fantasies. Not even an enchanted ring could change that. “Do you have the ring, Richard?” “No, Didier has it.” The lie came so easily. “Well, at the very least, I can wear it again.” “No.” Her blue eyes widened. “You do not want me to wear it?” Richard had been too harsh. He hated disappointing his mother; the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. She was the one woman who loved him for who he was—simply her son. His title did not matter, nor did his faults. “So many women tried on the ring tonight, I want to have it cleaned first.” The tenderness in her eyes made Richard swallow the guilt lodged in his throat. She caressed his cheek. “You are always one step ahead of me, my son. Just like your father.” The comparison to his father made Richard feel like a cad. His father had been a respectable and honorable man. Richard was neither. A battle of duties raged inside him. Duty to his country or duty to himself. Had his father ever felt so torn? “I try my best.” “You do better than try.” She kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Richard.” “Thank you, Mother. For the ball and…everything.” “It has been a long evening.” She stifled a yawn. “I will see you in the morning.” “Good night.” Richard escorted her out of his room, closed the door and locked it. He hated lying to his mother, but he had no choice. He had to keep the ring on Christina’s finger a secret. It wasn’t as if the ring fit her. It did not; it was only stuck. But all San Montico wanted him to marry. He could not let them think the legend had come true. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/melissa-mcclone/if-the-ring-fits/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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