Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!

‘Would you care to be seated, Miss Phelps?’ The equerry indicted a large chair that looked like an antique.

‘Thank you …’ Lauren hesitated. ‘I’m sorry – what do I call you?’

‘You may call me Mr Courtauld, Miss Phelps.’ There was no trace of warmth or invitation in his tone.

‘Thank you, Mr Courtauld.’ Lauren moved to the chair he had indicated, realising only as she got there that her knees were shaking. Gratefully she sank onto the fine embroidered cloth. She clasped her hands in her lap, to overcome the desire to fiddle with her hair. A few more minutes of silence flowed, until Lauren felt she had to talk, or scream.

‘How long have you worked for the prince?’

‘I have served the House of Verbier d’Arennes all of my life.’

He had to be in late his fifties. That was a long time to spend with a single employer. ‘You must enjoy it.’

‘It is an honour to serve.’

‘Of course.’ Lauren still didn’t hear any warmth or encouragement in his tone, but his ingrained politeness would force him to converse with her. That was enough. The waiting would be impossible if she didn’t talk to someone.

‘And how long with Prince Nicolas?’

‘I have served in this capacity since His Royal Highness left the military to take up official duties.’

‘I see.’ Lauren was rapidly running out of things to say. Courtauld remained silent, so she plunged on again.

‘Do you know where the prince saw my work? Which piece did he like? Was it the painting that won the Academy portrait award?’

‘I don’t believe he has ever seen any of your work. Photographs of course, but not the actual work.’

‘Oh?’ Lauren was startled. ‘Then why am I painting his portrait?’

‘The curator of the royal collection had chosen another artist, but after some discussion His Royal Highness selected you.’

‘But if he hasn’t seen my paintings, how did he even know my name?’

‘I do not know, Miss Phelps.’ His tone told her that this topic of conversation was over.

Lauren tried to read between the lines. Courtauld gave every impression of being fiercely loyal. If he said ‘discussion’ had taken place, she would assume an argument. She guessed that her selection was a deliberate act of rebellion by the notoriously difficult prince. He chose her to annoy someone, probably the curator. Possibly his family.

Lauren swallowed her disappointment and her anger. She was used to being the wrong one. The wrong girl to date, the wrong person for a job. The wrong one – just because of her father and a social stigma that had always been beyond her control. Not that it mattered any more. She would surely be fired after her earlier rudeness. Members of the royal family would not take kindly to having their faults remarked upon.

Still, it was a great pity she wouldn’t get to paint the prince. He would be a fascinating subject. Any artist would relish the challenge of capturing the spectacular face and restless energy of the man. A well-received royal portrait would have been the making of her career. And then there was the money! The only thing she didn’t regret was being excused from his presence. She didn’t like him at all. He was arrogant and spoiled. Lauren ignored the tiny voice that added the words gorgeous and sexy to her summary.

Lauren leaped to her feat as the door opened, driven by fear rather than any instructions from Mr Courtauld. Prince Nicolas strode into the room, shrugging off his jacket. He tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, and slipped off his tie. As the strip of colourful silk settled onto the jacket, Lauren found herself wishing the careless striptease would continue. That the fine white cotton shirt would follow the jacket and tie.

The prince was the most stunningly attractive man she had ever seen. If she wasn’t going to paint him, just for a few minutes she would let the woman replace the artist, and enjoy the flutter he caused in her lower belly. She would also ignore that pesky inner voice reminding her that his personality didn’t match his looks.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

His voice, however, did match his looks. Strong. Low and very sexy. Wondering how it might sound coloured with emotion, or passion, Lauren waited for him to continue.

‘A photo call. It comes with the job I’m afraid.’

‘With whom?’ Lauren asked.

‘I’m not really sure. Some children’s group. Courtauld?’

‘Students from year ten, the winners of a national school competition – an essay on the history of the royal family.’

‘Ah.’ The prince dismissed that comment with a wave.

‘You didn’t know?’ Lauren couldn’t hide her disgust. She knew only too well what it felt like to be so carelessly dismissed. ‘Those children worked hard for this. And you didn’t care enough to find out who they were?’

‘They don’t care about me,’ the prince said. ‘They just care about their photographs, and the stories they’ll bore people with for years to come.’

‘That’s horrid.’ The words were out before she could stop them. Lauren sensed Courtauld almost flinch. His Royal Highness, however, just raised one eyebrow. That made Lauren even angrier.

‘You know nothing about those kids. And their lives and how important something like this might be to them. A bright moment in an otherwise difficult life. Maybe it’s a glimpse of something they only ever dreamed about. Those photos mean something to them, although if they could hear you now, they probably wouldn’t be so proud of them. Those kids deserve better treatment. Being rich and royal doesn’t excuse you from behaving well. Quite the reverse. If we are supposed to consider you to be so much better than the rest of us, you should at least have better manners than we do.’

Something flickered in the prince’s deep blue eyes. Was it anger or shame? Lauren hoped it was the latter, but she seriously doubted it. Shame was not an emotion common to people who lived in palaces.

‘Well, Miss Phelps, you don’t mince words.’ The prince sauntered over to the leather sofa, and propped himself casually against one end. ‘You know, in the past my forefathers wouldn’t have taken such an attack lightly. Why, my namesake once had a servant executed for not much more than that. Isn’t that so, Courtauld?’

‘I believe one of the Archduke Nicolas’s servants was executed in 1687.’ Courtauld allowed no taint of emotion to colour his voice. ‘The crime was treason, sir. Perhaps a little more serious.’

‘Quite. Well, what recourse is open to me in this day and age, Courtauld, should I feel myself put out by Miss Phelps’s comments?’

‘The Royal Courts of Justice are ready to serve as always, Your Highness, but I doubt they would consider the matter too grave.’

‘What a pity.’

Throughout the exchange, Prince Nicolas had not for one instant taken his eyes from Lauren’s face. She was quivering, with suppressed rage and mortification. He might be a prince, but she didn’t take this sort of thing from anyone. She gathered the remnants of her pride to her, like thin and battered armour.

‘If you are quite finished, Your Royal Highness, perhaps you could call someone to show me out. I will give you no further need for your executioner.’

To her surprise, the prince started to laugh.

‘Miss Phelps, if you are as eager to paint my portrait as you are to argue with me, we no doubt have an interesting time ahead of us.’

‘You still want me to paint you?’ Lauren was astounded.

‘I certainly do. More than ever.’

Lauren had no answer. He mind was racing, trying to understand what had just happened. Had she made the prince her enemy, or her friend? She was still trying to decide when he rose gracefully to his feet and glanced at his watch.

‘I’m afraid I must leave now. Other duties. And before I attend to them, I must take time to learn about the people I shall be meeting.’ His lips twitched with a hint of mischief. ‘Courtauld will show you out. Please tell him what arrangements he needs to make for your studio.’

‘My studio?’ Lauren had no idea what he was talking about.

‘I imagine you will need to spend a certain amount of time observing me, doing preliminary sketches. That sort of thing?’

Lauren nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

‘Then it will be much easier on all of us if we find you a studio here in the palace. Somewhere close to my own rooms, I think.’

‘Yes. Yes … of course,’ Lauren stammered.

‘Good. That’s settled. It’s been a great pleasure. Miss Phelps.’ One long stride and he was next to her. He reached down to take her hand. ‘A very great pleasure, indeed.’

Her hand felt very small as he took it. Lauren was very conscious of the warmth of his hand, and the promise of great strength in his firm but gentle grasp. She raised her eyes to meet his, and felt a curious sensation stir in her chest. After a long, long moment, he released her hand and turned away. Pausing to collect jacket and tie, he moved quickly to the other door. He opened it, and passed through. Almost. He paused for one second, and turned back to where Lauren was standing, still too confused to move.

‘By the way, Miss Phelps, I do like your hair. The stripes are interesting and the blue suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes.’

Then he was gone.

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