Reginald.
Thinking of his son now, he shook his head and did his best to bank down a mounting sorrow that entwined itself with the headache that had been his constant companion these last few weeks. The same instincts that King Dunford had once spoken of so many years ago seemed to be now tormenting him. Instincts that whispered in his ear, saying that Reginald was not fit to be a ruler.
The heart of a ruler should be centered on his people. Reginald’s heart was centered on himself alone. On his pleasures, his needs. Reginald took no interest in matters of state, beyond what the state coffers could yield into his private pocket. His son’s main pastime seemed to be the collection of women.
And that collection grew almost daily, if he were to believe the press. The newspapers referred to Reginald as the Playboy Prince as well as the Black Prince. The less upstanding tabloids called him something that was far worse.
And this was the head that was going to be wearing the crown of Silvershire in less than a month.
His hands on the railing, the king closed his eyes, feeling very weary and very old.
God, but he wished that his only son was more like the Duke of Carrington. His mouth curved again. Dear lord, he would have given his life if Reginald was anything like Russell. That was why he was constantly pushing the two together.
Close in age, Reginald and Carrington had grown up together. But they had evolved into two men who were nothing like one another, he thought sadly. The young duke was serious, focused, aside from his riotous penchant for mischief that used to prompt him to play appalling practical jokes on unsuspecting victims, such as the poor princess. But despite that bent, Carrington had a good head on his shoulders, the kind that came from more than just obtaining an excellent education. The kind that came from an innate intelligence and a inherent sensitivity to the needs of others.
For a moment, Weston watched the yachts in the harbor. They were bobbing up and down in the choppy waters like slightly inebriated dancers. He tried to remember if the forecast called for a storm. The princess was coming in today. It would be a shame if her first day on Silvershire’s soil was marked with rain.
If he could have picked the perfect son, the perfect ruler, he was forced to admit, then he would have selected Carrington over his own son. What he had hoped would rub off from Carrington to Reginald had not. If anything, Reginald seemed to be even more determined to burn the candle at both ends, more determined than ever to sow his share of wild oats.
His share, Weston snorted. Reginald was sowing more wild oats than all the young men of an entire third world nation put together.
He had been much too indulgent when it came to Reginald, but that was all in the past. Reginald was thirty, he was going to have to put his reckless behavior behind him. The moment he took on the responsibility of wearing the crown, he would have to devote himself to Silvershire, not to the pursuit of his own pleasures.
And if he didn’t? a small, persistent voice inside Weston’s head demanded. What then?
Weston ran his hand along his aching head. He had no answer for that. All he could do was pray for a miracle, that somehow, his son would be transformed into the monarch that Silvershire needed him to be.
The king glanced at his watch. It was later than he had thought. For the moment, he tabled his thoughts of miracles and simply prayed that Reginald would show up at the airport to greet his bride. There was less than an hour to get ready. The plane that carried Carrington and Gastonia’s princess would be landing soon.
If there was something in his heart that felt sorry for the young woman who was to be his daughter-in-law, he wouldn’t allow himself to admit it.
The knot in her stomach wouldn’t go away, no matter how much Amelia willed it to dissolve. Not only that, but she couldn’t trust herself to look at Carrington, even though he sat in the seat adjacent to hers. Not yet. Not without risking having all her thoughts reveal themselves in her eyes, on her face. She couldn’t afford to have anyone suspect that there was something between her and the charismatic duke.
She’d been so very sure, only two days ago, that it was better to have one shining moment of happiness than none at all. To know what real love, real pleasure was—even if she couldn’t have it for more than a moment—than to endure a lifetime never having experienced it. But now she wasn’t so sure. Because to know was to want. And she couldn’t endanger everything she had been raised to accomplish just because of her own needs, her own desires.
Why? a voice within her demanded. Why not grasp the brass ring? Reginald has spent the whole of his adult life doing that, why not you?
But if she did that, if she indulged herself without thinking of the far-reaching consequences, then that would mean that she was just like Reginald. She wasn’t. She was different. Better, she liked to think.
As Gastonia’s princess, she had the people to think about. Keeping them safe, by means of an alliance with the stronger Silvershire, was her responsibility. She couldn’t bow out now, no matter how much her heart longed to.
The knot in her stomach grew larger as the plane touched down on the runway. Her fingers tightened around the armrests, her knuckles turning white.
She was here. At the place that she was going to have to refer to as home for the rest of her life.
For a moment, panic flared in her veins. She desperately wanted to order the pilot to pull up the landing gear and take off again. To turn the plane around and go back to Gastonia.
Amelia pressed her lips together, keeping the words unspoken. She wished with all her heart that life had not gotten so complicated.
She should have never done what she had, Amelia upbraided herself. But she only had herself to blame. If she had not given in to her curiosity, to her desire, she and Russell would have continued being friendly strangers, nothing more.
But now he was going to have a position of honor inside every dream she had. Almost against her will, she slanted a glance toward Russell. Their eyes met.
Her breath caught in her throat. Breathe, Amelia, breathe.
She looked away, only to see that Madeline was watching her. The redhead’s mouth moved into a quick, comforting smile.
Madeline turned to look out the window. “We’re here,” she announced in a tone that the executioner might have used to tell Marie Antoinette that it was time to climb up the steps that led to the guillotine.
Aware that Carrington’s eyes were still on her, Amelia lifted her chin and took on a regal bearing.
“Yes, we are.”
If she sighed inwardly after the words, no one heard it. But she had a feeling that Carrington sensed it. As his eyes washed over her, she was certain she saw concern glinting in his eyes. She managed a smile that was meant to put him at his ease—and still maintain the distance between them.
As if there would ever be real distance between them, she thought ruefully. The night they had spent together had effectively burned away any kind of space that might have ever existed. Body and soul, she was his now. She always would be, even though they could never make love again. It only took that one time for the promise to be there. To be eternal.
Carrington was the first to unbuckle his seat belt. On his feet, he approached her respectfully. His voice was gentle as he said, “Princess, it’s time to meet your people.”
She took a deep breath, as if that would provide her with the courage that she felt ebbing away from her. She’d been to Silvershire before, but years ago and with her father. She wished he was here now, but he had made it clear that he felt she should come alone, signifying her new position. She was no longer his daughter but Reginald’s