Rushing through the sitting room, Madeline burst into the princess’s bedroom. The same room where they had played and whispered stories to one another in the dead of night when they were children.
“Amelia,” she cried, “are you all right?”
But even as she asked the question, she saw that rather than looking violated, or like the victim of some sort of mistreatment, Amelia looked absolutely fine. She also looked as if she were asleep.
The sound of Madeline’s breathless question elbowed its way into the dream she was having. With reluctance, Amelia opened her eyes. Dazed, disoriented, it took her a moment to pull herself together.
The fact that she was alone in bed came crashing down on her consciousness.
Her brain replayed Madeline’s question as she tried to focus on the woman’s concerned face. Belatedly, Amelia realized that she was still nude. As regally as she could, she gathered the sheet to herself, forced a smile to her lips and made an attempt at diversion.
“Madeline. You’re better.”
The redhead waved her hand, dismissing the reference to her health. All that was yesterday’s news. She had very obviously stumbled across something that came under the heading of “breaking news.”
And she wanted to know every last detail about it. “Never mind me, what about you?”
For a moment, Amelia avoided her best friend’s eyes. She picked at the sheet, as if arranging it in a more flattering way. “What about me?”
Madeline knelt down beside the bed, her eyes searching Amelia’s face for some kind of sign that would tell her if something was truly wrong. “Are you all right?”
Amelia lifted her head, tossing her hair over her shoulder. A portrait in regalness. “Yes, why shouldn’t I be?”
“Because—” Madeline stopped and tried again, more coherently this time. “Amelia, I saw a man coming out of your rooms.”
So, he’d only just left her now. Somehow, she found that heartening. It meant that he couldn’t tear himself away. The thought made her happy. “No, you didn’t.”
Madeline frowned, confused. “Yes, I did, he—”
Amelia fixed the other woman with a very intent look. “No, Madeline, you didn’t,” she repeated, enunciating every word carefully.
Madeline returned Amelia’s look, trying to gauge the princess’s thoughts. “I didn’t.” It wasn’t quite a question, nor was it completely a statement.
“No.” Amelia’s tone was firm and not to be argued with.
Madeline drew closer still to the woman who had her allegiance before all others. “And this man I didn’t see, exactly who was he?”
They had shared everything. Intelligent, witty and blessed with a delicious sense of humor as well as irony, Madeline was the old-fashioned sort of confidante, the kind who was loyal to her very last breath. They had kept one another’s secrets since before either one had understood what that meant.
Looking down on her knotted fingers, Amelia whispered, “The Duke of Carrington.”
Madeline covered her mouth to keep the squeal of surprise from emerging. When her voice returned to normal, she dropped her hands and asked, “That was Russell?”
Amelia nodded. Rather than regret what, in a moment of wine-aided weakness, she had done, she found herself missing him.
“My lord.” Madeline stared at Amelia, speechless.
No, he’s mine, Amelia thought.
Clearing her throat, Madeline forged ahead, “Did you and he—?” And then she laughed at her own question. “Of course you did. Just look at you, you’re glowing. Glowing and naked.” More than slightly familiar with nights of excitement and passion herself, Madeline knew that Amelia had never been with anyone. “Was he good to you?”
“Better than good,” Amelia breathed. “He was fabulous.”
“If you wanted to run off with him, Amelia, I could create a diversion. I could—”
Amelia placed her hand on Madeline’s, anchoring her attention. She shook her head. “No.”
Madeline’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. Amelia knew Madeline had never liked the prince, had never thought of him as being good enough for her.
“No?”
“No.” Amelia took both of Madeline’s hands and held them in her own. “And you can never tell anyone, do you understand?”
Madeline looked into the imploring violet eyes. With reluctance, she nodded and gave Amelia her word. “I understand.”
Chapter 6
King Weston sighed, closed the thick, leather-bound binders and rose from his desk. Opening the double doors at his back, he walked out onto the balcony and looked out past the light green buds of spring, past the huge expanse of greenery. From where he stood, he had a view of the ocean which soothed him.
He’d been in his office for the last hour, going over the final plans for the coronation. It seemed like only yesterday he had been awaiting his own coronation, now it was his son’s he was making plans for.
His reign was coming to an end.
It was time to hand the scepter over to someone else. To Reginald. Unlike most other monarchies, it wasn’t death but tradition that brought about a change in the rulers in Silvershire. According to custom, the crown had to be relinquished after thirty years—to a first-born son if there was one, to a duke if nature had been cruel and withheld heirs from the reigning ruler.
That was how he had come to his crown. He’d been the chosen one. Oh, not at first. The late King Dunford had initially favored Lord Benton Vladimir over him and it was understood that the title of king would pass to Vladimir when the time came.
However, as the crucial moment had approached, King Dunford had changed his mind. Instincts, the old king had confided to him, caused the monarch to decide that Weston rather than Vladimir would make the better ruler. Vladimir was too self-centered ever to be a good king.
He’d accepted this with a heavy heart, because he and Vladimir were cousins and friends. Had been friends, he amended, remembering the course of events. The friendship that had existed had died the moment the crown came between them. Just before the coronation, Vladimir had disappeared, vowing revenge.
It had been a vow that apparently was never to come to fruition. He hadn’t heard from Vladimir in all these years that the crown rested on his head. No one had.
A sad smile curved his mouth. It was too bad, really, because he missed the man and the confidences they used to share.
And then there were the times that he found himself wishing that Vladimir had remained the chosen one. That it was Vladimir who wore the crown that occasionally weighed so heavily on his brow. But that, of course, was only in moments of extreme stress.
He’d tried to be a good king, to do his very level best for the people. And they, in turn, had been there for him. It was his duty to the people that had kept him alive and had brought him back from the brink of insanity, where grief had propelled him. His beloved queen, his Alexis, had died two days after giving birth to their only child.
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