“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.
