me, ‘Your Highness,’ but you’ve been ‘flinging’ ever since you discovered you had something to fling.” Moving swiftly, he got in front of the prince, aborting the latter’s getaway. He’d endured enough of Reginald’s evenings to know exactly what was on the prince’s mind. “Don’t you think going to Gastonia to bring back your future bride is a little more important than having some nameless, vacant-headed woman pour herself all over you?”
Reginald pretended to pause and actually reflect on the question. “Well, since you put it that way—” His eyes narrowed as his expression became cold. “No.” He sighed, irritated. “Look, Carrington, this marriage is for my father, for Amelia’s father who wants to keep that poor excuse of a little country of his safe.” His tone increased in its sarcasm. “It’s for the people of Silvershire so they can litter the streets, rubbing bodies against one another as they jockey for position, pathetically waving the flag and getting a small thrill into their dull, dull lives when the royal carriage passes them by. It’s for the news media, who just love ‘storybook weddings.’” His eyes narrowed into dark, almost malevolent slits. “It’s for every damn person in the universe except me.”
Russell struggled not to allow the contempt he felt show on his face. If this was a play for sympathy, it fell well short of its mark. All of his life, the crown prince of Silvershire had had everything he’d ever remotely asked for or wanted. King Weston had never learned how to say no to his only heir. Sadly, abundance and indulgence did not give birth to a wise, magnanimous leader. Reginald had been the Playboy Prince ever since he’d reached his sixteenth birthday.
But despite the fact that the prince was accustomed to women of dazzling beauty, the woman who was to officially share his martial bed was not someone who would fade into the woodwork. He’d seen recent photographs of Princess Amelia and thought that Reginald was getting far better than he deserved.
“Princess Amelia isn’t exactly Medusa,” he reminded Reginald.
The prince shook his head. He’d made it known more than once that he hated having no say in the matter, hated having any part of his life dictated to him. And this marriage pairing him with the twenty-six-year-old princess had been arranged years before he’d even known what the term meant.
“No,” Reginald agreed, “she isn’t. But she is undoubtedly a cold fish, because she is a princess, which means she’s pampered. And,” he recalled, “she had a willful streak as a young girl. I always had to remind her that when we grew up, she was going to have to mind me if she knew what was good for her.” He placed his hand on Russell’s shoulder. Rather than a show of affection between friends, it was a way for him to remind the duke of his powers over him. “This will be a good start. Come on, be a sport, Carrington.” The edges of his smile became slightly brittle as a sharp edge entered his voice. “Don’t make me command you.”
Russell’s face never changed, but inwardly, he felt his resentment flare. He could not remember a day that he hadn’t known Reginald. He also couldn’t remember a day in which he’d felt that the milk of human kindness even marginally flowed in the prince’s veins. They were companions because of proximity, because their ages were similar and because Reginald, although never verbalizing the thought, cleaved to him as a protector.
That was his role more than any other, more than the royal title that he bore or the fact that King Weston had appointed him as Reginald’s political advisor. He was Reginald’s protector. He knew the political climate, knew the ways of the people. But his first loyalty had always been and would continue to be to the crown, and so, to the prince.
He was Prince Reginald’s confidante, his protector and, at times, he was the man’s scapegoat. The latter occasion came about when either Reginald’s temper got the better of him or when he got into trouble and couldn’t bear the close scrutiny of his father or the kingdom for his misdeeds.
A scapegoat was one thing. Serving as a lackey was another. Russell balked at the latter and this certainly felt as if it came under that heading. Bringing the princess back was something Reginald should be doing himself. To send someone else in his place was clearly a veiled insult to the kingdom that was the place of her birth.
He considered what it was that Reginald was telling him. So Amelia had gained some spirit, had she? Good for her. Russell remembered the princess, a fair, shy girl with vivid, violet eyes, who, for the most part, attempted to hide whenever the prince and he accompanied King Weston on royal visits to Gastonia.
On those visits, the adults would converse, leaving Reginald and him to their own devices and wiles. Reginald would entertain himself by ordering around everyone—especially the princess—like a spoiled child while he, well, he had to admit he wasn’t exactly an angel in those days either, Russell remembered with a smile. He loved to play practical jokes. Still did, actually, although it was no longer dignified for him to indulge himself that way.
The poor princess had been his chosen target for water balloons. Hers was always his bed of choice when it came to depositing the vast variety of bugs that the almost fairy tale-like kingdom of Gastonia had to offer. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her high-pitched, blood-curdling scream the night he’d slipped a huge black spider in between her sheets.
He remembered that Amelia always looked so relieved whenever their royal vehicle would be pulling away from the palace, signaling an end to their visit. Hers was always the last face he saw as he left the country. He’d focus on her, standing there, beside her father, a small vision in pinks and whites, her blond hair moving in the breeze, her smile widening as they disappeared into the distance.
And now she was going to marry Reginald. He wondered if he would ever see her smile widening again.
That was none of his concern, Russell reminded himself. Reginald was his prince, his soon-to-be king.
The man was going to be unbearable then, Russell thought, feeling sorry for Amelia.
Reginald was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to gain the door.
“There’s no reason to bandy this about any longer,” Reginald said in a dismissive tone. “You will go in my place and you will bring Princess Amelia back. End of discussion.”
Russell found his own impatience difficult to bank down. Maybe because, as an adolescent, whenever he’d heard Reginald ordering Amelia around, something inside of him had rebelled, softening to the look in Amelia’s eyes. It was a necessary political alliance, but that didn’t mean that Reginald should be able to treat the princess like chattel. “Do you intend to be so careless of her feelings once you’re married?”
“Feelings?” Reginald jeered incredulously. He looked at Russell as if he thought that he’d lost his mind. “She doesn’t have any feelings. She’s a princess,” he pointed out. “She has duties. I’m sure she makes love that way, too. Like it’s her duty.” Reginald smirked. “It will be our royal duty to make the Princess Amelia attempt to make love like a flesh-and-blood woman.” Smug superiority highlighted his features as the prince delivered another patronizing pat to his shoulder. “That’s a royal ‘our’ in case you think that’s an invitation to sample the royal goods before delivery.”
Russell shrugged the prince’s hand off. “Have I ever told you that you disgust me?”
Reginald took a step back, hatred flashing in his eyes. Hatred, Russell knew, because the prince knew that in a contest of wills or strength, he was more than Reginald’s match.
“Frequently. With your eyes.” And just so that there was no mistake in intent, he added, “You’re the only man
