a touch of cynicism.
It seemed that there was nothing, Russell thought with more than a little pride, she couldn’t accomplish if she set her mind to it.
She was charming the pants off everyone, Russell noted. God knew that she had certainly done that with him. Even before they had spent the night together.
He felt a pang stirring within him, born not of guilt but of need. It was followed by a wave of anger. The prince should be horsewhipped for standing her up this way. Reginald had known about this gala, known that it was to have celebrated their upcoming marriage. How could he do this to Amelia?
The very thought of the marriage, of Amelia being intimate with Reginald, made something in the pit of his stomach rise up in his throat. Russell took another sip to wash the taste of bile from his mouth.
He had no business feeling like this, no business feeling anything beyond a mild pity for whoever officially graced the prince’s bed. But he couldn’t help himself. This was personal. It would always be personal no matter how much he wanted to divorce himself from the situation. He realized that his hand was tightening around his glass and he forced himself to relax his grip.
Were this another time, one of intrigue and secret pacts, when daggers rather than words were used to settle matters of discord, he might have been sorely tempted …
To what? To kill Reginald?
No, Russell thought, murder wasn’t his way. And it certainly wasn’t an option, even if he were the kind of person who thought nothing of killing whoever got in his way. It wasn’t an option because Russell had always prided himself on his loyalty to the crown, and Reginald was the future king of Silvershire.
Which meant that he had to be loyal to Reginald, no matter what. Even though, despite all of his and the king’s efforts, Reginald would undoubtedly turn out to be a bad king. But whether Reginald was or not, it was not a matter for him to take into his own hands.
Just as he shouldn’t have taken Amelia into his hands, into his arms, Russell thought. That he had was his cross to bear. In silence.
He figured the almost bottomless longing he felt would make him pay for his transgression every day of his life. Even now, watching the princess as groups of men and women gathered around her, he felt himself wanting her more than he could recall ever wanting anyone before.
Hell of a cross to bear, he thought darkly, taking another drink.
“So where do you suppose he really is?”
The question came out of nowhere, as if echoing his thoughts. Glancing to his side, he saw Amelia’s lady-in-waiting, Madeline. He’d been so lost in his thoughts and in observing Amelia from what he’d initially thought was a safe distance—quickly learning that there was no safe distance when it came to being around Amelia—that he hadn’t heard the princess’s friend approach.
From the little he had seen of her, Madeline struck him as being very honest and straightforward. By no stretch of the imagination could the lady be called shy or retiring. She was outspoken and seemed a perfect match for Amelia.
For the princess, he upbraided himself. He had to stop thinking of her by her given name and just keep reminding himself that she was the princess. And would be, in a matter of weeks, his queen. Continuing to regard her as Amelia was out of order.
He inclined his head toward Madeline, pretending he hadn’t heard her. “Excuse me?”
Madeline gave him a look that said she knew that he knew what she was talking about. But for form’s sake, she elaborated.
“The prince,” she enunciated precisely, wishing she could grind the man between her teeth, as well. “Why isn’t he here?”
Russell paused. Protocol dictated that he say something in the man’s defense. That he tell this woman of less-than-royal blood that it wasn’t any of her concern what the prince did, or didn’t do, or where he was at any given moment. But he was far too modern in his thinking for that. And he liked the fact that Amelia had a friend to help her at a time like this. A friend who could be open.
You’re her friend. Except that, because of what had happened between them, he couldn’t allow himself to assume that role any longer. People would talk. He wanted nothing to sully her reputation. Nothing.
This was a very sticky situation they found themselves in, he thought ruefully.
“I don’t know,” he told Madeline honestly. And then, because he felt he could trust the young woman, he added, “This behavior is pretty reckless, even for the prince.”
Madeline had put her own interpretation to the prince’s no-show. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. “Is this his way of saying that he won’t go through with the marriage?”
That had never been in jeopardy, Russell thought sadly. “Oh, the prince’ll go through with the marriage. There’s too much riding on it for him not to. He might be reckless, but he’s not brave enough to oppose his father in matters that really count.”
Madeline frowned, taking offense for Amelia who was too kind-hearted to voice her own offense. “And not coming here doesn’t count?” she wanted to know. “You know, someone other than Princess Amelia would have been humiliated.”
“She’s made of finer stuff than that,” Russell commented, looking in Amelia’s direction again.
Unintentionally, he caught Amelia’s eye. For a moment, they looked at one another from across the room and he could almost feel a communion between them. But it wasn’t anything that either one of them could acknowledge, even fleetingly, without consequences.
He looked away first, before anyone could see. Or so he thought.
“Yes,” Madeline agreed, noting what had just happened between the duke and Amelia, even if everyone else was oblivious to it, “she is.” Moving closer to Carrington, she lowered her voice. “Maybe the princess is also lucky. Maybe the prince will find that backbone every living creature is supposed to have and use it to sail away to Tahiti.” She flashed a smile at him. “At least, one can hope.” She ended her statement with a wink, then excused herself before drifting back over toward Amelia.
The princess’s lady had winked at him. Was that supposed to mean something? Was she flirting with him, or delivering some kind of a message?
God, but he did hate complications.
Turning away to refill the drink he had finally finished, Russell all but walked into a solid wall of a man. One of the king’s six bodyguards. This one was a tall, burly man who looked as uncomfortable in the tuxedo he was forced to wear as he would have been in a ballet dress fashioned with a profusion of tulle.
He gave a perfunctory nod of his head in place of a bow. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but King Weston would like to speak with you.”
“The king?” Russell looked around and saw that Weston was not anywhere in the ballroom. If the royals continued to disappear like this, he mused, Nikolas Donovan and his Union for Democracy would find that winning their battle took no effort at all.
“Yes. This way, please.”
They left the ballroom. Russell followed the bodyguard into the corridor and then to the king’s
