her throat, Madeline forged ahead, “Did you and he—?” And then she laughed at her own question. “Of course you did. Just look at you, you’re glowing. Glowing and naked.” More than slightly familiar with nights of excitement and passion herself, Madeline knew that Amelia had never been with anyone. “Was he good to you?”
“Better than good,” Amelia breathed. “He was fabulous.”
“If you wanted to run off with him, Amelia, I could create a diversion. I could—”
Amelia placed her hand on Madeline’s, anchoring her attention. She shook her head. “No.”
Madeline’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. Amelia knew Madeline had never liked the prince, had never thought of him as being good enough for her.
“No?”
“No.” Amelia took both of Madeline’s hands and held them in her own. “And you can never tell anyone, do you understand?”
Madeline looked into the imploring violet eyes. With reluctance, she nodded and gave Amelia her word. “I understand.”
Chapter 6
King Weston sighed, closed the thick, leather-bound binders and rose from his desk. Opening the double doors at his back, he walked out onto the balcony and looked out past the light green buds of spring, past the huge expanse of greenery. From where he stood, he had a view of the ocean which soothed him.
He’d been in his office for the last hour, going over the final plans for the coronation. It seemed like only yesterday he had been awaiting his own coronation, now it was his son’s he was making plans for.
His reign was coming to an end.
It was time to hand the scepter over to someone else. To Reginald. Unlike most other monarchies, it wasn’t death but tradition that brought about a change in the rulers in Silvershire. According to custom, the crown had to be relinquished after thirty years—to a first-born son if there was one, to a duke if nature had been cruel and withheld heirs from the reigning ruler.
That was how he had come to his crown. He’d been the chosen one. Oh, not at first. The late King Dunford had initially favored Lord Benton Vladimir over him and it was understood that the title of king would pass to Vladimir when the time came.
However, as the crucial moment had approached, King Dunford had changed his mind. Instincts, the old king had confided to him, caused the monarch to decide that Weston rather than Vladimir would make the better ruler. Vladimir was too self-centered ever to be a good king.
He’d accepted this with a heavy heart, because he and Vladimir were cousins and friends. Had been friends, he amended, remembering the course of events. The friendship that had existed had died the moment the crown came between them. Just before the coronation, Vladimir had disappeared, vowing revenge.
It had been a vow that apparently was never to come to fruition. He hadn’t heard from Vladimir in all these years that the crown rested on his head. No one had.
A sad smile curved his mouth. It was too bad, really, because he missed the man and the confidences they used to share.
And then there were the times that he found himself wishing that Vladimir had remained the chosen one. That it was Vladimir who wore the crown that occasionally weighed so heavily on his brow. But that, of course, was only in moments of extreme stress.
He’d tried to be a good king, to do his very level best for the people. And they, in turn, had been there for him. It was his duty to the people that had kept him alive and had brought him back from the brink of insanity, where grief had propelled him. His beloved queen, his Alexis, had died two days after giving birth to their only child.
Reginald.
Thinking of his son now, he shook his head and did his best to bank down a mounting sorrow that entwined itself with the headache that had been his constant companion these last few weeks. The same instincts that King Dunford had once spoken of so many years ago seemed to be now tormenting him. Instincts that whispered in his ear, saying that Reginald was not fit to be a ruler.
The heart of a ruler should be centered on his people. Reginald’s heart was centered on himself alone. On his pleasures, his needs. Reginald took no interest in matters of state, beyond what the state coffers could yield into his private pocket. His son’s main pastime seemed to be the collection of women.
And that collection grew almost daily, if he were to believe the press. The newspapers referred to Reginald as the Playboy Prince as well as the Black Prince. The less upstanding tabloids called him something that was far worse.
And this was the head that was going to be wearing the crown of Silvershire in less than a month.
His hands on the railing, the king closed his eyes, feeling very weary and very old.
God, but he wished that his only son was more like the Duke of Carrington. His mouth curved again. Dear lord, he would have given his life if Reginald was anything like Russell. That was why he was constantly pushing the two together.
Close in age, Reginald and Carrington had grown up together. But they had evolved into two men who were nothing like one another, he thought sadly. The young duke was serious, focused, aside from his riotous penchant for mischief that used to prompt him to play appalling practical jokes on unsuspecting victims, such as the poor princess. But despite that bent, Carrington had a good head on his shoulders, the kind that came from more than just obtaining an excellent education. The kind that came from an innate intelligence and a inherent sensitivity to the needs of others.
For a moment, Weston watched the yachts in the harbor. They were bobbing up and down in the choppy waters like slightly inebriated dancers. He tried to remember if the forecast called for a storm. The princess was coming in today. It would be a shame if her first day on Silvershire’s soil was marked with rain.
If he could have picked the perfect son, the perfect ruler, he was forced to admit, then he would have selected Carrington over his own son. What he had hoped would rub off from Carrington to Reginald had not. If anything, Reginald seemed to be even more determined to burn the candle at both ends, more determined than ever to sow his share of wild oats.
His share, Weston snorted. Reginald was sowing more wild oats than all the young men of an entire third world nation put together.
He had been much too indulgent when it came to Reginald, but that was all in the past. Reginald was thirty, he was going to have to put his reckless behavior behind him. The moment he took on the responsibility of wearing the crown, he would have to devote himself to Silvershire, not to the pursuit of his own pleasures.
And if he didn’t? a small, persistent voice inside Weston’s head demanded. What then?
Weston ran his hand along his aching head. He had no answer for that. All he could do was pray for a miracle, that somehow, his son would be transformed into the monarch that Silvershire needed him to be.
The king glanced at his watch. It was later than he had thought. For the moment, he tabled his thoughts of miracles and simply prayed that Reginald would show up at the airport to greet his bride. There was less than an hour to get ready. The plane that carried Carrington and Gastonia’s princess would be landing soon.
If there was something in his heart that felt
