on, Juliet, I can’t do this without you.”
He could, of course. She knew he could. But it was impossible for her to turn away from the look of teasing pleading in his intense blue eyes. She doubted there were many women on the entire planet who could turn Luc down when he gave them that look—no matter what he wanted.
“Protocol and traditions, right?” she said briskly.
“Right. Piece of cake, right?”
“Speaking of cake, I think we’ll begin with royal meals and formal state dinners.” She kept her voice coolly efficient. If she was going to be coerced into doing this, she was going to do it her way.
“That sounds fine. There’s just one thing. I don’t want anyone knowing you’re giving me these lessons.”
“Why?” Was he ashamed of being seen with her? The thought stung like a cruel barb.
“Why? Because I don’t want anyone else knowing yet about my being the future king,” he explained. “Not until the corroborating documentation comes in. I figure we have about a week to ten days before that happens.”
“So you’re not telling Celeste that you’re the king until then?”
“That’s right. I thought you and I could get together later at night, after everyone else in the palace has gone to bed,” Luc suggested. “Would that work for you?”
Work for her? None of this worked for her. Not one single thing. Not him thinking of her as a friend, not him being king, certainly not her spending more time alone with him. But there was no changing reality. And the reality was that she had to help him. “That will be fine.” She could only hope that stating it so confidently would make it so.
Bond. Juliet Bond. That’s how she felt. As if she were participating in some sort of covert operation.
She was even wearing the appropriate clothing—black, so she wouldn’t be seen in the palace’s shadowy hallways. King Philippe had ordered a reduction in the electricity used within the palace, and had replaced the light bulbs with low-wattage models that wouldn’t need replacing for a decade.
The dim light served her purposes well. So did the fact that most of the servants had gone home to their own beds in St. Michel, leaving only a skeletal staff behind in the palace. A hundred years ago, the staff would have lived on the top floor in the servants’ quarters. But things had changed a lot in the past century.
She tried to imagine any of the royal women she was researching sneaking down the hallway toward the Crystal Ballroom to meet the future king. Only one kind of woman did that. A royal mistress. Not that a royal mistress would ever have been caught dead wearing the tailored black slacks and black long-sleeved T-shirt she was presently wearing. Or rubber-soled shoes so her footsteps would be quiet in the marble corridors. Not the sexiest of outfits.
As often happened, Juliet was so caught up in her own thoughts she didn’t realize anyone was in front of her until she almost ran smack into him.
At least she didn’t shriek in surprise. Instead she emitted a startled oomph.
A pair of male arms circled her waist. But even before they did so, she knew it was Luc. Her nose was buried in his shirtfront and she could smell the citrus scent of his soap.
He, too, had changed from his normal working attire. Instead he was wearing the most deliciously silky shirt in a midnight blue that brought out the color of his eyes. She noticed that the minute she looked up. She also noticed the fact that he was smiling at her. Little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.
She’d once spent several hours trying to pinpoint the exact blue of his eyes. She’d even gone so far as to check out a color chart in an old watercolor set from her boarding school days.
She’d been younger then. And foolish.
Foolish enough to believe a man like him might come to have feelings for a girl like her. But now the man was about to become a king, leaving her even further behind.
“Nice outfit,” Luc was saying with a grin. “All you need is some face camouflage and you’d be ready for a covert op.”
“Since there are no jungles in St. Michel or in the palace, I didn’t see the point in wearing camouflage. It’s not as though we were rendezvousing in the Palm Room,” she noted tartly, not appreciating his comments about her clothes.
“I’d never find you in all those palms and ferns in there. Besides, it’s too easy for someone to spy on us.”
“Now who’s sounding like James Bond?” she countered mockingly.
“I already told you that I don’t want anyone else knowing about our meetings.”
“And I still say you’d be better off having the protocol minister assist you in this matter.”
“Now don’t go getting all prissy on me, it’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with you or anything. That’s not what you’re thinking, is it?” Luc demanded, studying her face. “Because you’re dead wrong.”
“If you say so, your majesty.”
He glared at her. “None of that fancy talk.”
“You’re going to have to get used to it,” she firmly informed him. “So you might as well start now.”
“Not with you.”
“Yes, with me. At any official function, you’re going to have to be comfortable with the way others treat you. And they will treat you differently. You must learn to be comfortable with that.”
“Or learn to be a damn good actor,” he muttered.
“Which will no doubt come in handy as well,” she briskly agreed. “Now, one of the royal rules is that no one is to speak to you unless spoken to. I can foresee that this will be a problem since you’re so closemouthed.”
“I am not closemouthed. See?” He pursed his open lips at her.
She was immediately distracted by his actions and by the sensual outline of his mouth—the sculpted curve of his upper lip, the seductive fullness of his lower one. There was little doubt that most women would be fascinated by his smile, fascinated by him…period. Even without the title of king. Without any title at all. Without anything at all.
Oh my. She raised her hands to her cheeks. Concentrate, she fiercely ordered herself. And not on him! On protocol. Which certainly precluded her having fantasies about him. Focus on protocol. What were you saying? Oh yes, you were telling him that he was closemouthed, no, don’t look at his lips again. Stay focused.
“You must learn to speak first and initiate a conversation,” she continued as if nothing had happened. “Go ahead. Pretend I’ve just walked into the royal dining room for an official function. What do you say?”
“Whaaatsuuup?” he drawled, like those American beer commercials they saw on satellite television.
She stifled a laugh and attempted to give him a reprimanding look worthy of Mrs. Friesen, the headmistress at her boarding school. Mrs. Friesen was the queen of reprimanding looks.
He
