Chapter 2
The U.S. Ambassador arrived in a flurry of excitement. A mounted color guard escorted Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun down the parkway to the palace. The citizenry lined the avenue, cheering and tossing confetti. Children waved the Desjardins flag side-by-side with the Stars and Stripes. One blonde cherub brandished a lit sparkler. A military band played American patriotic songs to add to the spectacle.
As Captain of the Royal Horse, I headed the cavalcade. It was a brisk but blue-skied day with high-flying clouds—absolutely perfect to be atop my favorite horse, a palomino Lusitano imported from Portugal last year for my birthday in May. In the sunlight, the stallion gleamed as gold as my helmet. D’or put on a grand show, prancing and dancing down the boulevard. When the procession reached its destination, I slid from the saddle, a fellow cavalryman accepting my horse’s reins. With a start, I recognized the man with whom my sister had enjoyed a short, but torrid affair last summer. Thinking of Eugenie, I strode to the black limousine at the center of the procession.
I opened the ambassador’s door and smiled, extending my hand. “Welcome to Desjardins, Ambassador Calhoun.”
“A grand welcome indeed, Prince Alexander.” He accepted the handshake, his smile honest and friendly. “Thank you.”
Instantly, I liked the man. His bearing reflected his military background. In my research, I’d learned that he was an honor graduate of the proud Citadel.
Stepping around the back of the car, I handed the ambassador’s wife onto the brick-paved street. “Desjardins welcomes you, Mrs. Calhoun.”
A peculiar quiver tickled my stomach. Damn, I hoped I wasn’t coming down with something that would take me out of action. A cold sweat broke over me on a wave of dizziness. I was accustomed to hiding my feelings and steeled myself with a smile. In true courtly fashion, I offered Mrs. Calhoun my arm, escorting her to the front of the limousine. Mr. Calhoun took his wife’s hand. Together, they stepped onto a flower-strewn path. White rose petals littered the red carpet to the palace, their fragrance sweet in the brisk morning air. My father and mother waited on the top tier of the stairs. He wore his formal military uniform. Her waltz-length dress was of the palest cream, her dark hair a rich contrast. As a child, my grandmother had taught me to notice these small details, saying that soon I must win the heart of a princess. I’d wanted to escape those lessons; hadn’t understood then. I did now.
For the next week, welcome meetings and conferences occupied my time. Ingrid complained that she missed the boating adventures, but I had duties to perform. None of them included the yacht or the antique landau we sometimes took to the park.
Two months after Ambassador Calhoun’s arrival to Desjardins, the King and Queen hosted a ball in his honor. Coerced or commanded, my sister Eugenie again came home for the event. Now, she stood beside me in the receiving line, wearing her duty smile.
In English, the Court Crier introduced John Alden Calhoun, the honorable Ambassador from the United States. “Accompanying the Ambassador are his wife, Mrs. Isabel Calhoun, and his daughter, Miss Cristabel Calhoun.”
The ambassador and his family moved down the receiving line, making polite, brief contact with the people he’d engage on a daily basis. Miss Christabel Calhoun, absent when her parents arrived, was resplendent and stunning in a russet gown that rivaled those of the ladies of the realm. Her curvy figure rivaled all but one. Ingrid. The blonde tresses had been elaborately braided around a cascade of curls to her shoulders. While her father greeted Eugenie, our eyes met. A smile any man would interpret as flirting accompanied the look she let linger. The ambassador moved again, and we both looked away.
Eugenie shot me a knowing glance. One blue eye closed in the hint of a wink. The line progressed as I greeted the ambassador, his wife, then Cristobel stood before me.
“Prince Alexander.” The blonde ducked an old-fashioned curtsey, her gaze on the floor.
“Miss Calhoun, my pleasure.” I lifted her hand to my lips.
“What a lovely welcome to your country.” Again, she fluttered her long lashes, favoring me with the innuendo of a smile.
Miss Calhoun’s slow cadenced voice was seductive yet innocent, and I, like so many men I suspected, fell victim to her sweet Southern charm. Her accent was rather like soft music or a mountain spring flowing gently over rocks. Her eyes made subtle, mysterious promises. A pleasant shiver of excitement glided over me. I glanced up to see Ingrid, stiff as an ivory statute, glaring at me from the assembled company. She sensed my interest in Miss Calhoun. In two years, I’d never strayed. Maybe it was time for a change. Cristabel’s eyes captured mine again as she moved on, a challenge in that deep brown gaze. I must get on Miss Calhoun’s dance card before it was full! My father would approve of Miss Calhoun. Not that I needed my father’s blessing, but I wanted it. Add to that, Cristobel was a feast for the eyes. I’d like to have watched her proceed to my father, but bound by strict rules, I greeted Lord So & So.
Custom and duty required that I dance with both young and old. Once or twice, Ingrid and I shared the dancefloor, but I looked forward to the next engagement with Miss Calhoun. I arranged a dance with her to Shostakovich Waltz No 2. Her reserved but sexy demeanor intrigued me.
Usually in the waltz, the male doesn’t hold the female close, but shy Miss Calhoun positioned her body near mine, smiling into my eyes as we twirled to the music.
“I must tell you, Prince Alexander—” She batted her brown eyes.
“Please call me Lex. My friends do, and I hope we’ll be friends, Miss Calhoun.”
Eugenie and her partner, an elderly white-haired gent, waltzed by. She arched a brow and tossed me a disapproving look. Though she was three years younger than I, she wore her big sister expression. My sister took it upon herself to make sure I made the right choice and was as diligent as my father in her dislike of Ingrid.
“Lex, I’m not Miss Calhoun.” My partner laughed enchantingly. “I’m Chrissy to my friends.”
“What were you going to tell me, Chrissy?”
Pink crept into her cheeks. “My friend Ginny and I have long been fans of yours.”
“I’m delighted. I hope I can live up to your idea of me.”
Her gaze slid over my face and hair. “You already have.” And she stepped into me as I guided her backward.
In minutes, I’d have to face a livid Ingrid, but I was where I wanted to be at the moment. Indeed, I might cause a war between two gorgeous blondes. Being competitive, I’d find the contest interesting at least. Did that realization mean I’d tired of Ingrid? Would I let a pretty face and a gorgeous body tempt me to stray? My conscience was notably silent on the matter. I’d never proclaimed any undying love for Ingrid. We each filled a need for the other. She wanted to be seen on a prince’s arm. Her aim was fame. I believe she could see a crown in her future. I wanted…at the moment I couldn’t have told anyone what I wanted. Just something more.
***
The next day, an invitation from the ambassador arrived.
Father and I were in his Jacobean paneled study when a knock sounded. I was at the library table, sorting my mail. A footman, walking as stiff as a marionette, delivered an embossed envelope on a gold tray.
“For you, sir.” He extended his offering. “Just arrived.”
I unfolded the crisp paper, reading the ambassador’s invitation aloud.
“You will not take Ingrid.” Father wagged a crystal letter opener at me. “She was not included in the invitation.” He cast away his weapon in favor of a pen, which he pointed, indicating a chair in front of his desk.
I rose, sauntered to the chair, and rested a negligent hand on its dark blue wing. “I’d no intention of inviting her.” I shrugged, remained standing. “She’s not happy the ambassador’s daughter is absolutely stunning.”
“Good that you noticed.” He tapped the pen to his palm. “She’s very attractive…and very much more suitable a wife for you than Ingrid.”
I bristled, my shoulders tensing. “Arranged marriages are a thing of the past, Father.”
“I doubt that would happen, Lex.” He laughed. “From my observation, our Miss Calhoun isn’t a young maiden who’d allow anything to be arranged for her. She’s an only child, and that should tell you something.”
“She said she and her friend were fans of mine.” Remembering my dance with Chrissy Calhoun, I smiled. “She’s very…very flirtatious.”
His grin was sheer mischief. “Maybe, they’ll Like your Facebook page.”
“I’m sure of it,” I quipped as I sank onto the navy leather chair.
He nodded, his voice dripping sarcasm. “That’s one of the things I like about you, son. You’ve no problem feigning arrogance.”
“But it is an act, Father.” Did everyone think I was conceited? Arrogance and conceit meant different things to me. I appreciated the finer nuances of the words. “I’m interested in seeing the friend.”
“Compared to Miss Calhoun, she’s probably plain. Beautiful women always seem to have drab friends.” Father shoved a stack of correspondence toward me. “If you have time before the school dedication, would you please sort these for me?”
I reached across the desk and scooped the letters beneath my hand. “Your Majesty, it would be my honor. Where is Gabrielle?”
“On sick leave. Her child is ill.” He frowned.
“Sorry to hear that.” I rose, took the mail, and returned to the stacks on the library table.
In the following two weeks, I saw as much of the ambassador as I did my family. Or Ingrid who pouted when I wasn’t interested in sex. Emotional not physical exhaustion was the culprit. The feeling of something missing in my life grew with each passing day. At home, ennui set in.
***
Mid-morning, the day of the dinner invitation darkened from sunny blue to misty gray. Before the party, I decided to escape the captivity of the palace, to lose the men in black, and take a drive through the streets of Saint Delacorte, the capital city of Desjardins. The old, cobbled lanes were fun to drive, especially if you were piloting a finely tuned machine that was quick and nimble in your hands. At twilight, I gave everyone the slip and left the palace, hidden in plain sight, out the back servant’s entrance. I’d taken a cue from my sister, wore a baseball cap and dark glasses. Luckily, no one waited at the back gates. The invitation from the ambassador had read seven. If I managed to ignore the call of the twisty mountain roads, I’d return in ample time to dress and hurry to the Parsonage, so named because the rambling old house and the embassy had once been a church complex. The mist made for a gothic feel. Despite the damp, I dropped top, slid my arms into the sleeves of my Barbour riding jacket, and settled in for a brief taste of freedom. I glanced at my watch. Perhaps, I’d take a walk in the rain along the seashore.
As I whipped the Maserati around a bend in a historic lane, I decided to drive by the Parsonage and see the final results of the renovations by early evening light. During the rebuild, I was charged with reporting to the King on the progress. About quarter mile from my destination, I heard a slam, the screech of tires, and the horrible sound of rending metal. One of the new SUVs that at best had trouble navigating the inner city’s narrow streets had hit a black Audi head-on. He’d clipped the other car midway of the hood. Smoke poured from the Audi’s damaged radiator, water gushing onto the road. The SUV looked as if it were on the verge of tipping. The driver of the Ford climbed out of his car and stumbled toward the other vehicle. I jumped from the Maserati, already running toward the accident scene as a young woman emerged unsteadily from the Audi. Blood trickled down her face from a cut on her forehead. A damp wind had risen, whipping her long copper hair across her face. She battled it back with a graceful gesture, and staggered a step, almost tripping over the curb. To avoid the accident, she’d whipped the Audi to the very edge of the street.
I skidded to a halt in front of the woman. “You’re injured. Has anyone called for help?”
“No,” she muttered, staring at the ground. “I’m fine, really.”
I knew head wounds bled profusely, but there seemed too much blood for a cut on her forehead. I held my mobile to my ear. “You need care.”
She shook her head, mumbling something under her breath. “I must get back. Sooner rather than later. Cook needs the milk. I’m okay. Really. How bad is the car? Dammit.”
Bracing a hand on the Audi’s fender, she glanced up. A whispered cry broke from her. She staggered back a step. The other driver joined us, steadying her with a hand to her elbow, but her gaze never wavered from my face. I looked at her then, really looked at her, and the ground beneath my feet trembled. She had the most amazing green eyes. They were the color of green onyx—with that see-through quality—and they were mesmerizing. I couldn’t look away as long as she stared into my eyes. I had a vague impression of a lovely shade of red, of a slender figure, and a pretty face, but it was her eyes that held me motionless and speechless.
“It’s you—I mean. Surely, it’s you. No one else has those eyes—I mean. It’s you,” she strung the words together in hesitant, jumbled fragments. Like me, she wore a ball cap, and she tugged it low, shadowing her face. Again, she looked as if she were going to fall, and this time, I reached to catch her “It is you,” she breathed and melted to the ground in a dead faint.
I bent over her, took her cold hand, chafing the long, elegant fingers. This mysterious stranger had the hands of an artist or a pianist. An odd shiver coursed down my spine, giving me pause. “Madam, can you hear me? Someone, call an ambulance now. This woman has lost consciousness. Perhaps, she’s losing blood from internal injuries. Or has a concussion.” When no one moved, I seized my mobile from where I’d laid it on the road. “I’m Alexander Leandres, your Crown Prince, and I demand that someone call an ambulance at once.”
Several people in the crowd answered by grabbing their phones. The police skidded to a halt on the wet cobbles, took in the situation at a glance, and took control. I stood back, allowing the uniformed medics to put her on a stretcher. If she’d been conscious, I had the feeling she’d have given them a struggle. I stood idly by, feeling rather helpless, but struggling with something about her that felt familiar. As they worked with their patient, she roused, looking around.
She pushed up to her elbows, asking the medic, “Where is Prince Alexander?” From her vantage point, she couldn’t see me nearby.
“I don’t know, Miss. Likely in the palace on a night like this.” The man gripped the stethoscope around his neck and shot the other medic an amused glance.
The mountain of a man chuckled, leaning nearer to peer closely at their patient. “You got a nasty bump on the head. Are you—"
I knew she wasn’t seeing things. “I’m here.”
The medic’s mocking gaze snapped to where I stood, but before I could step forward, someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder.
I spun on my heel, almost colliding with my manservant. “James, what the hell are you doing here?” I laughed, but my heart sank. My drive now was a thing of dreams. “I didn’t know you were an ambulance chaser.”
My relationship with James was relaxed enough for him to feel comfortable joking with me. “Likewise, sir. I didn’t expect to find you chasing ambulances, though I daresay the Maserati is a good vehicle for chasing anything.” He wagged his gray, bushy eyebrows.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t know why I asked. I know very well why you’re here. Father sent you to find me, without rousing security, before I missed dinner with the ambassador. Let’s go, my man. Follow me. If you can.”
As we walked away, we passed by the ambulance. The young woman somehow now stood, and I heard a snatch of her conversation with the medic. “My name is Ginny MacDonald. And I don’t need an ambulance. I just fainted. I didn’t lose consciousness.”
The niggling familiarity clicked into place. Ginny MacDonald spoke with a Southern accent—the same as the ambassador and his charming daughter Chrissy. Alike but not quite the same. The mystery woman became even more mysterious and intriguing. I turned to go back to the ambulance, but James blocked my path. He tapped his watch.
I sighed. Another mystery never to be solved. “I must speak with that young woman. She may be connected to the ambassador in some way.”
“It took me a deal of time to find you, sir. You’ve only twenty minutes to change, meet the driver at the family’s private entrance, and arrive at the Parsonage on time.”
I huffed a laugh. I didn’t turn back. Nor did he move aside. “Why do I always feel like a naughty schoolboy when you’re lecturing me, James?”
“Call me a cab. I don’t need medical attention,” the Southern Belle said.
“If you insist, Ms. MacDonald.” The medic sounded as if he were reciting a boring poem, “But we can’t be responsible for any undetected injuries.”
On impulse, I called, “Get well soon, Ginny MacDonald,” but we were beside my car, and it was time to leave the real world behind.
I slid into the driver’s seat, engaged first gear, but hesitated, looking into the rearview at the flashing lights. “And Ginny MacDonald,” I tugged at the ballcap shadowing my face, “How did you recognize me?”
Leaving the palace, I’d passed my aunt in a corridor, and she hadn’t stopped me, but my mystery woman had said something about eyes she shouldn’t have been able to see.