The King's Bride

Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Sir Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness, and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

You can visit her website at www. lucy-gordon. com and look out for The Italian’s Passionate Revenge which will be available in May!

The King’s Bride

by

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CHAPTER ONE

A SILENCE fell over the packed room. Lizzie looked up quickly, eager to see the man she’d come to find.

His Majesty King Daniel, hereditary ruler of Voltavia, twenty-fifth of his line, thirty-five years old, monarch of his country for the last six months.

Since he’d arrived for his state visit London had been full of official pictures, so she’d thought she knew what he looked like. But while photographs had shown the proud carriage of his head and the stern authority of his lean face, there was no way they could convey the vividness of his features. Lizzie noticed his eyes in particular. They were dark, but with a brilliance that she’d seen only once before, in a picture of his grandfather.

He was tall but carried himself stiffly, and she guessed that a press conference, such as this, came hard to him. In Voltavia he was a monarch, with a good deal of power. He wouldn’t take kindly to answering questions from journalists, and Lizzie knew he’d been persuaded to give this conference only for the sake of ‘good international relations’.

Before his entrance they had all been warned—no personal questions, no reference to his late wife. No questions about his three children, none of whom had accompanied him to London.

Now he was here and every line of his body showed how ill at ease he felt. He took his seat behind a table on a platform, facing the crowd with a practised air of polite interest.

The questions flowed. They were largely routine and his answers were the same, giving nothing away—the friendship of their two countries—mutual interests, etc, etc. Somebody mentioned his grandfather, the late King Alphonse, whose death, six months earlier, had brought Daniel to the throne. Daniel made a short, restrained speech in praise of his grandfather, whose lasting legacy etc, etc.

In fact, as everyone knew, for the last ten years of his life Alphonse had lived in a twilight world, struck down by a massive stroke. At twenty-five Daniel had become regent, and king in all but name. But Alphonse was still associated with the great days of monarchy. His long reign had begun when kings had had real power, and his personal prestige had ensured that some of it clung to the throne, even as he lay dying.

As Daniel mouthed polite nothings Lizzie mentally compared his features with those of Alphonse, whose personally signed photograph hung on her wall at home. There was a close family resemblance, not only in the dominant nose and firm chin, but in the expression of the face: proud, closed, unyielding.

They’d said of Alphonse that he was the handsomest man of his generation, and had still been saying it when he was in his eighties. But they’d said, too, that he was the most puritanical. He could have had any number of liaisons, but he’d been a faithful husband for twenty years. After his wife had died, if he’d indulged himself he’d been so discreet that the world had never been quite sure.

Only one woman had aroused him to a public display of admiration, and that was the great musical comedy star, Lizzie Boothe. She’d visited Voltavia with her own company, and the King had attended her performances. Perhaps she’d also given performances in private. Nobody knew for certain, and the King’s reputation for rigid respectability remained untouched.

Daniel was the image of his splendid grandfather in looks, and also in the pattern of his life. Married young to a suitable princess, he had been a devoted husband and father, and had led a discreet life since his wife’s death, three years earlier.

At last the questions were over and everybody stood in line so that the King could meet them individually. Down the line he came, stopping for a few moments with each person, shaking hands, asking banal questions about things he couldn’t possibly care about, and receiving banal answers with the appearance of polite interest. He must be bored out of his skull, Lizzie thought, but he kept going resolutely.

At last he reached her and stood, professional smile in place, while his aide announced, ‘Miss Elizabeth Boothe.’

His pause was only a fraction of a second, his smile never wavered. But she was close enough to see his eyes and the slight shock in them. So the name was still remembered in Voltavia. That pleased her.

As he shook her hand the King glanced at the identity tag on her shoulder, bearing only her name. ‘The others list also their publications,’ he observed. ‘I think you are not a journalist.’

‘That’s true, Your Majesty,’ Lizzie said, smiling.

He did not release her hand. ‘You are, perhaps, an actress?’

Any man, looking at her flamboyant beauty and glorious mane of red hair might be forgiven for thinking so.

‘I’m not an actress,’ she said, ‘but my great-aunt was. She was called Lizzie Boothe, and had many admirers in your country.’

Again the slight shock in his eyes: surprise, she thought, that she’d dared to mention such a delicate subject.

‘Indeed,’ he said in a neutral voice, and prepared to pass on, but Lizzie spoke hurriedly. ‘I’m a historian, Your Majesty. I’m writing a book about King Alphonse, and I hoped you would grant me an interview.’

She’d tightened her hand on his, detaining him against his will, an outrageous breach of protocol as his astonished look told her. Instead of backing off she held him a little longer, meeting his eyes. It was a risk, but she’d never been afraid of that. At his side his aide tensed, ready to force her to release him at a signal from him. But it didn’t come, and gradually the amazement in his eyes gave way to something else. Interest? Curiosity? Lizzie’s heart beat with excitement. She was almost there…

Then blankness came down over his eyes like a curtain, and he pulled his hand out of hers. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I do not give private interviews.’

A curt nod of his head, and he passed on.

It was over. They were all being shepherded out, politely but firmly. Annoyed with herself, Lizzie returned to the neat little London house she’d inherited five years ago from her actress great-aunt, Dame Elizabeth Boothe, as she’d been at the end of her life. The Dame, as everyone had called her, had lived surrounded by mementoes of her great days: gifts from admirers, theatre programmes, some of them fifty years old, and pictures of herself in glory.

Lizzie had loved the Dame. Now she kept the house much as it had been when she’d inherited it.

On one wall was a huge coloured photograph of the actress at the height of her beauty and fame. Next to it was a picture of her most notable admirer, King Alphonse, taken when he was nearly seventy, imposing, autocratic, but still astonishingly good-looking. Near the bottom was written, in the King’s own hand, In friendship and gratitude, Alphonse.

Lizzie tossed her bag onto a chair and confronted Dame Elizabeth.

‘I made a mess of it,’ she told her. ‘Nothing happened the way I meant it to, and I just antagonised him. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? I am supposed to be a professional.’

The Dame’s eyes were laughing, her head thrown back in an ecstasy of song, but Lizzie could read her thoughts.

‘I know, I know! Dress the part. That’s what you used to say. And I didn’t. If I’d worn tweeds and horn-rimmed spectacles I suppose he’d have taken me seriously. But why shouldn’t I dress as I like?’

Good question! If a historian was a modern young woman, five feet ten with ravishing red hair and a model figure, why shouldn’t she wear skirts short enough to show off her silken legs, and suicidally high heels? Why shouldn’t she make up to emphasise her large green eyes and wide mouth that seemed made for the pleasures of life, of which laughter was only one?

If there was an answer, it was because she was as serious about her work as her appearance, which was very serious indeed. And today she’d blown it.

‘There was one moment when I thought I was winning,’ she told the picture. ‘He looked at me in such way that I thought—I was almost sure—but he just got away from me at the last minute. You wouldn’t have let him get away, would you?’ She sighed. ‘And I won’t get a second chance, either.’

But, against the odds, the second chance presented itself next morning in the shape of a gilt-edged card announcing that King Daniel was pleased to invite her to a ball at the Voltavian embassy that very evening. After a whoop of triumph she got down to the deadly earnest business of making an impact.

The evening dress she chose was black velvet and swept the floor, but there all semblance of decorum ended. It was cut to show off her shoulders and bosom. The neckline was within the bounds of propriety, but only just. The bodice clung, and fitted tightly all the way down to her small waist, before outlining the flare of her hips, the length of her thighs and then down to her ankles. It would have been impossible to walk in such a dress but for the slit at the rear, through which the vision of her stunning legs came and went.

It was a dress for a woman who wanted to be noticed and could afford to be noticed: not always the same thing, as the Dame had frequently observed in her most caustic voice.

Lizzie had booked the cab with time to spare. No matter what the function, the rule was that royalty arrived last. To be late was to be shut out.

To her relief she reached the embassy in good time, and was shown into the great ballroom that looked as though time had passed it by. Glittering chandeliers hung overhead, the mirrors were framed by gilt, and its glamour was the glamour of another age. At the far end was a dais with a throne. Over it hung the coat of arms of Voltavia, dominated by a snarling bear. For a thousand years the bear had been the country’s symbol.

When every guest was in place, fanning themselves and desperate for a drink, the great doors at one end of the room swung open, and the King began the long walk to the throne at the far end.

Lizzie recalled the Dame describing a ball at the palace in Voltavia, with King Alphonse in full dress military uniform, glittering with gold braid. ‘So splendid, my dear! So magnificent!’ Kings didn’t dress like that any more, which Lizzie thought a pity, but she ceased to regret it when she saw Daniel in white tie and tails, which seemed to emphasise his height and the breadth of his shoulders. On some men, anything was magnificent.

First there were the duty dances. The King took the floor with a succession of titled ladies—a member of the British royal family, the ambassador’s wife, the wife of a prominent international banker. Lizzie guessed there were a lot to go before he reached her.

She wasn’t short of partners, and Frederick, one of the king’s aides, solicited her hand several times. He danced well and asked her many questions about herself. Acting on orders, she thought, and kept her answers light and unrevealing. If Daniel wanted to know about her, he could do his own asking.

Occasionally the dance brought them close, but he never looked in her direction. That might have been courtesy to his partner, but once, when he wasn’t dancing, Lizzie glanced up to where he sat alone on the throne and found him watching her. After that she knew he was conscious of her even when he wasn’t looking.

At last Frederick approached her again, not to dance this time but to give a correct little bow and ask, ‘Would you like the honour of dancing with His Majesty?’

‘Thank you. I would.’

She followed him to Daniel, who watched her approach. She sank into a curtsey, but unlike the other women, who lowered their heads, Lizzie curtseyed with her head up, eyes meeting his in direct challenge. He nodded slightly in her direction, before extending his arm. She took it and he led her onto the floor for the waltz.

He was a good dancer, every step correct, but his body was tense. By contrast, Lizzie danced like liquid, gliding this way and that in his arms.

‘I’m glad you were able to accept at such short notice,’ he said.

Lizzie made the appropriate speech about being honoured before saying, ‘I wonder how Your Majesty knew where to send the invitation.’

‘I had you investigated,’ he informed her calmly, ‘and discovered you to be a historian, as you said. I gather you’ve written many letters to the Information Office in Voltavia.’

‘Yes, and I’ve got nowhere. They just brush me off. But I am serious.’

‘So I understand. The list of your degrees and professorships is impressive—and alarming.’

‘There’s no need for Your Majesty to be alarmed,’ she said demurely. ‘I don’t bite.’

‘But you do pursue. When you contrived to get yourself a place at the press reception—oh, yes, I know that too—you were in pursuit, were you not?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And I was the prey?’

‘Naturally. I only pursue the big bears. They’re the most rewarding.’

He looked down at her with a faint, curious smile. ‘And do you think you’ll find me “rewarding”?’

‘I’m not sure yet. It depends whether you give me what I want.’

‘And is that how you judge men—by whether they give you what you want?’

Lizzie raised delicate eyebrows in well simulated surprise. ‘But of course. What other yardstick is there?’

‘Are you by any chance trying to flirt with me, Miss Boothe?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said, shocked. ‘It would be improper for any woman to flirt with the King.’

‘True.’

‘It’s for the King to flirt with her.’

Her demure tone took him off guard, and he frowned, as though unsure that he’d heard her correctly. Then he smiled, cautiously.

‘And if the King didn’t flirt with her?’ he asked. ‘Might she not show a little enterprise in the matter?’

‘She wouldn’t dare,’ Lizzie informed him, straight-faced. ‘Lest he think her impertinent.’

‘I don’t think you fear the opinion of any man, Miss Boothe.’

‘But Your Majesty is a king, not a man.’

‘Is that what you think?’

She looked straight into his face, saying demurely, ‘I’m waiting for you to tell me what to think.’

‘By heaven, you’re a cool one!’ he exclaimed softly.

‘But of course. A woman would need to stay cool when entering the bear’s cave,’ she pointed out. ‘Unless she’s well protected.’

‘You, I think, are protected by your effrontery.’

‘Oh, dear! I have offended Your Majesty.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Do not fish for compliments, Miss Boothe.’

‘Is that what I was doing?’ she murmured.

‘Yes. And it was quite unnecessary.’

There were a dozen ways to take that but, raising a questioning eyebrow to him, she sensed exactly what he was telling her and a swift excitement scurried through her veins.

She hadn’t meant this to happen. So far and no further. That had been the idea. Flirt with him, intrigue him until he was putty in her hands. It had worked before.

‘Use your charms to bring them to heel,’ Dame Elizabeth had always advised. ‘What else are charms for?’

But it had never been part of the plan for him to charm her. Now matters were getting out of hand. Beneath his stiff exterior this man had a devil in his eyes. Lizzie had an uneasy feeling that he’d sized her up and decided he could deal with her.

But how? That was the question that made her blood race. Whatever the answer she decided she was going to enjoy it, and if she could gain her professional goals as well, so much the better.

‘The music is ending,’ Daniel observed. ‘But our talk is just beginning. I’ve ordered champagne served on the terrace.’

Two hundred pairs of eyes watched him lead her from the floor and through the French windows that led onto the broad terrace. A footman was just laying down a tray bearing two fluted glasses and a bottle. Daniel waved him away, indicated for Lizzie to sit at the small table, and himself did the pouring.

‘So you’re writing a book about my grandfather?’ he said, putting the glass into her hand and seating himself opposite. Through the tall windows Lizzie could see couples swirling by as the dance resumed, and hear the soft swell of music. But she was intensely conscious of the King, watching her closely, as though she was the only person in the world. ‘Why do you wish to do this?’

‘Because he’s fascinated me all my life,’ she replied. ‘Aunt Lizzie told me so much about him, and about Voltavia. She made it sound like a wonderful country.’

‘It is a wonderful country. And I know she had many admirers there. Among whom, of course, was the King.’

‘She always kept the medals and decorations he gave her. She was a compulsive hoarder. I don’t think she ever threw anything away. When she died she left everything to me, and I still have them all—the medals, the scrapbooks, even some of her costumes.’

‘You must have meant a great deal to her.’

‘She was my grandfather’s sister and almost the only family I had. When I was ten my parents died and she took me in. She was thought very scandalous when she was young, but when I knew her she’d become Dame Elizabeth Boothe, and very respectable.’

‘And I suppose you were completely in her confidence?’

Lizzie considered. ‘Not completely. I don’t think she told everything to anyone. She lived in the public eye but she kept many secrets.’

‘But some secrets are harder to keep than others.’

‘If you mean the fact that King Alphonse admired her, no, that was hardly a secret, especially with all the jewellery he gave her.’

‘He gave her jewels? I must admit I didn’t know that.’

Lizzie touched the diamond necklace and matching earrings that blazed against her fair skin. ‘These came from him.’

Daniel looked hard at the flashing gems. ‘Magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘Clearly he valued her a great deal. But how did she value him?’

‘She kept his photograph on her wall to the end of her life.’ Daniel shrugged, and she said quickly, ‘No, it wasn’t just a formal picture. It was inscribed in his own handwriting.’

He was suddenly alert. ‘What did he write?’

‘“In friendship and gratitude, Alphonse,”’ Lizzie replied.

‘“Friendship and gratitude,”’ Daniel repeated slowly. ‘Yes, my grandfather was a restrained man. I can imagine him using such words when what he really meant was something else—something a great deal more intense and emotional.’

There was a new note in his voice as he said the last words that made the silence hang heavy between them. For a mad moment Lizzie wondered if she’d strayed into something that was too much for her. This man held every card in the pack, yet she was trying to gamble with him on equal terms. It was heady wine, and his sudden urgent tone made it headier still.

The music of the waltz was floating out onto the terrace.

‘Dance with me,’ he commanded, taking her into his arms without waiting for her answer.

In the ballroom he had danced correctly, preserving the proper distance of a few inches between them, and touching her back so lightly that she’d barely felt it. Now he held her close enough for her to feel his breath on her bare shoulder, and his hand was firm in the small of her back. She had said that he was only a king, not a man. And she’d been so wrong.

‘What do they call you?’ he murmured. ‘Liz? Elizabeth?’

‘Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie, I’m glad we’ve had this talk. It makes many things clearer.’

‘Do you mean that you’ll help me?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Ah, yes, you want an interview.’

‘And much, much more.’

There was a sudden keen look in his eyes. ‘How much more?’ he asked.

‘Access to the royal archives,’ she said, breathless with hope. ‘Official memos, private correspondence…’

‘Private—?’ With a swift movement his hand tightened on her waist, drawing her hard against him.

‘I want to show him in the round, and for that I must see everything,’ she said, speaking breathlessly for he was holding her very tightly. ‘We all know the face he presented to the world, but it’s the things the world didn’t know that have real value.’

‘Ah, yes. Value. We mustn’t forget that. And of course their value is higher precisely because the world doesn’t know.’

‘Exactly. There’s no substitute for private letters.’

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ he murmured, sending warm breath skittering across her cheek. She saw how very close his mouth was to her own, and tried to control her riotous thoughts. But they wouldn’t be controlled. They raced ahead, speculating about the shape of his mouth, the firmness of his lips, how they would feel against hers…

She looked up and what she saw gave her a shock. Despite the apparent ardour in his behaviour there was only cool calculation in his eyes.

She tried to clear her head, to know what this meant, but that was hard when the world was spinning around her. As they slowed she realised that he had danced her right around the corner of the building. He was smiling at her, and she could believe, if she wanted to, that the chill look of a moment ago had been all her imagination.

‘You’re not the only historian who wants to write about my grandfather, Miss Boothe.’

‘No, but I’m ahead of the pack,’ she said simply.

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. Because of Aunt Lizzie, who knew him as nobody else did.’

‘I wasn’t forgetting that, nor that such knowledge is valuable.’ He stressed the word in a way that fell oddly on her ear.

‘Priceless,’ she agreed.

‘I’d hardly say priceless. Sooner or later most things have a price. The problem is agreeing on it.’

‘I’m not sure that I understand Your Majesty.’

He smiled. ‘I think you do. I think we understand each other very well, and have done from the beginning.’

The reserve had gone from his eyes, replaced by something that made her heart beat faster. Almost unconsciously she raised her face towards him as he lowered his mouth onto hers.

She was no green girl experiencing her first kiss, but it might almost have been the first from its effect on her. There’d been a time when a king had held his throne by being better, stronger, more skilled at everything than his subjects, and perhaps it was still partly true, for this king kissed like an expert, ardent, subtle, knowing how to seek out a woman’s weakness. Lizzie had never been kissed like this before, not even by the eager young husband with whom she’d shared a few months of wild passion before parting in bitterness.

His mouth caressed hers with urgency. In repose his lips were firm almost to the point of hardness, but now their movements were teasing, driving her as though he was being harried by his own desire. She tried to master her own rising excitement, determined to stay in control, but he was equally determined to strip control away from her. And he was winning.