Kate said with certainty.
“I suppose you’re right about that.” Mary lifted her gaze to Kate. “Do you believe Cecile is his child?”
“He’s adamant that she isn’t.”
“But do you believe him?”
Kate wanted to, honestly she did. “What I think doesn’t matter,” she said, the same thing she’d told Marc earlier. “Cecile’s well-being is important, though. She needs your love.”
“She will have it,” Mary stated. “I am more concerned with my son. He has much to bear as a king.”
“I know, but he has broad shoulders.” In both a literal and figurative sense.
“He also needs the love of a good woman.”
Kate shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a princess somewhere who would be more than willing to give him that.”
Mary patted Kate’s hand. “My dear, we are running relatively low on monarchs in this day and time. Marcel needs someone who understands him. Someone who can settle him down. A nice, educated woman would fit the bill.”
The expectant look on Mary’s face took Kate aback. “Again, I’m sure someone will turn his head.”
“Someone already has, and that someone is you.”
Kate’s breath hitched hard in her chest. “Mary, I really don’t think—”
“You need not think, Kate. You only need to be there for him. The rest will take care of itself. Unless you do not care for him.”
Kate looked away, knowing the guilt had returned. “I’m very fond of Marc. I have been since the day I met him nine years ago.”
“But can you love him?”
In many ways, Kate already did. In many ways, she always had. “Right now, Marc needs a friend, and I’m willing to be that to him.”
“Friendship is a good place to begin.” Mary stared off into space while the afternoon sun washed the gardens in a soft golden glow. “Marcel’s father was my friend and my confidant. My lover. The love of my life, even though it was ordained that we marry.”
“You mean some sort of arrangement?”
Mary smiled. “I know that must sound archaic to a modern young woman such as yourself. But I tend to believe that fate had a hand in our union. If only fate had not been so cruel as to take him from me much too soon.”
The sorrow in Mary’s voice, the mist of unshed tears in her eyes, caused a lump to lodge in Kate’s throat. After fighting back her own tears, Kate said, “You’re still young, Mary. You could find someone else.”
“There is no one else for me, my dear. I’ve loved only one man in my life, a wonderful man, and he has no equal.” She drew Kate into an unexpected embrace. “I wish for you that kind of rare and precious love, my dear Kate.”
Kate desperately wanted to believe in its existence, but with Marc? Only if he was willing to return that love.
Once they parted, she told Mary, “Thank you. Your story inspires me.”
Mary squeezed Kate’s hands. “And your presence here is very welcome, which leads me to a request.”
“Anything.”
“I would like you to move into the palace, or I should say onto the palace grounds.” She gestured beyond the path to a break in the hedge. “Over there, you will see a small cottage. Philippe used it as his own private retreat. We’ve removed his possessions, but it’s still nicely furnished. It would afford you some seclusion.”
Being so close to Marc both thrilled and concerned Kate. If he decided not pursue a relationship, then she would have to face him on a daily basis, and that could be very detrimental to her heart. “I’ll think about it,” she promised Mary, and she would think about it, probably most of the night. “In the meantime, I’ll be happy to remain here for the next few days to help take care of Cecile.”
“That’s not necessary, Kate. Beatrice will serve as her nanny. Besides, you will have enough on your plate when you begin your work tomorrow.”
“I don’t mind missing some sleep where Cecile is involved,” Kate insisted. Or where Marc was concerned. “She’s such a joy to be around.”
Mary stood and stared down at Kate with a knowing look, as if she could read Kate’s thoughts. “She is very fond of you, too, Kate. And whether he cares to admit it or not, so is my son.”
Marc did not care to admit to himself that what he was feeling for Kate Milner went far beyond simple lust. He admired her conviction, reveled in her strength of will, her insight. Yet he couldn’t deny that he longed to make love to her. He also couldn’t deny that she was effectively breaking through the armor he had erected to protect his emotions. And he had no idea how he had allowed that to happen.
Yes, he did know. When he was with her, he didn’t feel so alone.
But he was alone in his office now, trying to concentrate on work, yet he could only ponder his situation with Kate, memories of their earlier interlude in this very place battering his mind. He could not fall into that trap. Not now. Not with so much riding on his country’s expectations of him as a leader. In less than six weeks, he would appear before the governing council to state his case. Doriana needed to move into the twenty-first century, and providing premium health care was of the utmost importance. He had to prove to the ruling body that he had his country’s best interests at heart and he needed the funds to see his plans come to fruition.
Now nearing midnight, he tossed aside the proposals he’d been composing for some time and opted to retire to bed. On his way to his suite, he stopped at the nursery to look in on Cecile, hoping to find Kate so he could issue another apology since he had not joined her for dinner. But he only found Cecile, sleeping soundly in the dimly lit, deserted room.
Quietly he approached the crib and stared down at the infant lying on her belly, her knees tucked beneath her and her face turned toward him in profile. Marc watched her for several moments, trying to find something in her features that reminded him of Philippe. She could belong to either one of them based on looks alone. But Marc was very certain she was not his child, even though in many ways he felt responsible for her. After all, Philippe was gone, and she was all that remained of him—if, in fact, Cecile was his child. Deep down, Marc believed that to be the truth. If only he could prove it.
When Cecile released a soft whimper, Marc feared he had inadvertently roused her by his presence alone. He laid his palm on her tiny back and patted her a few moments, praying she would settle back into slumber before she roused Beatrice. Instead, she let go a cry, prompting Marc to pick her up. He walked her around the nursery, soothing her with soft whispers in order not to wake the household.
“You and I will be in a great deal of trouble if you make too much of a fuss,” he told her as he retrieved the pacifier from the crib then placed it in her mouth. “Now be
