The Princess and the Duke (5 page)

Meredith looked over his shoulder to see George walking away, his shoulders slumped in dejection.

“I can get him back for you, if you like,” Pierce said smoothly.

She looked forward. “No, thank you,” she said faintly. “Were you following us?”

“He was following you. I was following him.”

The guilty pleasure she felt quickly deflated. “I see.”

She heard his soft snort. “I doubt it.” He continued walking her to a side door that would let her into the reception area of the private quarters. His arm slid from her shoulder, and he opened the door for her, standing aside.

Telling herself she did
not
feel chilled without his arm about her, she looked into his face. Such a familiar face, and still such a stranger to her. “Thank you for, well, for protecting me.”

He didn’t respond to that. “Good night, Your Royal Highness.”

Familiar face. Familiar distance, she thought with a faint sigh. As if they had never danced hip to hip, breast to breast, beneath the moonlight.

She stepped through the door. “Good night, Colonel.”

“D
arling, please. You’re not so late that you can’t sit and have some tea.”

Meredith paused in the doorway of the breakfast room. She’d overslept. She was already late for work. And she couldn’t abide tardiness. “Mother, really. I’ve got to go.”

The Queen, perfectly coiffed and dressed for the day in a beautiful ivory suit that set off her dark hair, smiled serenely. “Of course, darling. Have a good day.”

Meredith’s shoulders very nearly slumped. She set her briefcase and purse on an empty chair and grabbed a china saucer and cup, filling it with tea. “Has Owen already raced through here?”

“He was heading out as I was sitting down. I don’t believe he’d even been to sleep.”

Meredith hid a smile at her brother’s antics. “Have you had any word from Dylan?”

“No. I’m certain he’s out there having the time of his life clambering up the sides of mountains and goodness knows what else. He’ll come home when he’s ready.”

“And you already miss Megan.” Meredith sat beside her mother.

Marissa smiled faintly. “She’s my daughter. Of course I miss her. I’ll miss you, too, when you marry and go off to live your life.”

An image of Pierceson Prescott flashed in Meredith’s mind, and she ducked her head over the teacup. All she succeeded in doing was scorching her tongue on the piping hot liquid. The colonel’s image was firmly stuck in her mind. “I think you needn’t worry about that happening any time soon,” she murmured. “It’s not as if I have suitors lining up with marriage proposals.” Propositions, perhaps, like the unexpected one George Valdosta had had the inebriated audacity to voice the previous night.

“Only because you hold them off, darling.”

“Mother—”

“All right.” Marissa lifted a graceful hand. “I shan’t complain too much. After all, Megan and Jean-Paul are giving me a start on the grandchildren I’ve been longing for. Granny Marissa. It has a nice sound, don’t you think?”

Meredith snorted softly. If ever there was a woman who did not fit the granny image, it was the Queen of Penwyck. Marissa was only fifty-three years old and looked a solid ten younger than that, to boot.

“I wasn’t aware you were so anxious to have
grandchildren.” Especially given the Queen and King’s stunned reaction to Megan’s unexpected pregnancy, Meredith thought.

“Of course I want grandchildren. More than that, though, I’d like to see my children happily married.” Marissa gently patted Meredith’s hand where it rested on the linen-covered table. “Actually, Gwen tells me that, though Anastasia shared a dance with Colonel Prescott, it was
you
he was looking rather cozy with on the terrace last evening.”

Meredith flushed. She should have known her mother’s dearest friend would tell her about that. “We
were
sharing a dance.”

“Of course, dear.”

Her cheeks felt even hotter. “That’s
all
it was.”

“Yes.” Marissa, utterly unperturbed by her daughter’s consternation, tilted the teapot over her cup, topping off the perfect brew. “A simple dance. Nothing more. I understand completely.” She dribbled a small amount of milk in her cup, gave one swirl with a silver spoon and set the spoon smoothly on the saucer.

Her mother’s tea routine never changed, Meredith thought, vaguely soothed by the normalcy of it.

Her soothed senses were jogged when her mother said blandly, “Colonel Prescott cuts quite a figure in his uniform, doesn’t he.”

“Mother!”

Marissa smiled, her eyes glinting with a mischief reserved only for her children. “Well? I do have eyes, darling.”

“Yes, you do. Eyes of the most beautiful robin’s egg blue,” a voice said from the door.

Both women turned, looking with surprise at the
King who was standing there with a faint smile on his handsome face.

“Morgan.” Marissa rose to fetch a cup and saucer from the sideboard. “I thought you’d already gone this morning.”

The King sauntered into the room, his hazel eyes lingering on Marissa as she handed him his tea. “I thought I’d have breakfast with my wife.” He brushed his thumb down Marissa’s smooth cheek in a decidedly lingering way.

Meredith stared hard into her cup. It was better than staring hard at her father. There was no doubt in her mind that her father and mother loved each other despite the fact that their marriage had been an arranged one. Yet visible displays of affection, even within the privacy of the family and the confines of their residence, were few and far between.

The caress seemed to fluster Marissa, as well, Meredith noted. She might be twenty-eight years old, but she absolutely was not accustomed to seeing her father flirt with her mother. She just wasn’t. It was, well, embarrassing. Which made her feel all of ten years old again when she’d first learned the facts of life. “I’ve got to run,” she announced brightly.

“You didn’t eat a thing.” Her mother turned toward her, chiding. A queen she may be, but she still fussed over her brood.

To satisfy Marissa, Meredith grabbed a piece of toast from the basket on the table and tucked it between her teeth as she gathered her briefcase and purse.

“Meredith.” The King shook his head slightly and sat at the head of the table. “Really.”

With her hands free again, she removed the toast from her mouth. “I’ve got to run by Penwyck Memorial to pick up some stuff for the children’s center opening.”

“See you at dinner?”

“Of course.” Meredith smiled at her mother, though it felt a little forced. Where else would she be? She hadn’t had cause to have dinner out in ages unless it was for some official function.

Then, disgusted with her wave of self-pity, she hurried out to the drive where her car was waiting. Pitching her handfuls onto the seat beside her, she slid into the little roadster and set off with a roar of the engine.

Oh, she really did loathe being late.

The thought was still circling in her head an hour later when she finally sailed through the secured entrance of the Royal Intelligence Institute.

The sight of her secretary sitting behind the reception desk brought her up short. “Lillian, how many years of newspapers do we have on record?”

“Two years on paper. Twenty on microfilm.”

Meredith nodded. Perfect. Juggling the strap of her briefcase and her narrow envelope purse, she stopped at the coffee stand and filled her cup, overflowing it on the first try and burning her thumb.

Lillian half jumped from her post at Meredith’s gasp. “Are you all right?”

Meredith waved her back. Her mind still seemed to be barely firing, and she had a vicious headache. “Just clumsy. I hate being late.”

“I hardly think anyone will fire you for a few minutes,” Lillian said dryly.

Meredith smiled. Lillian was correct, of course. No
one at the Royal Intelligence Institute would dream of commenting over her tardiness. But Meredith took pride in being well qualified for her position. She took pride in doing well.

Which did not include strolling into the office forty-seven minutes late. She should probably have given tea with her mother a miss. That would have shaved off about ten minutes, at least.

“Is there something you’d like me to retrieve for you?”

Meredith dragged her thoughts together with an effort. The newspapers. “Oh, no, Lillian. I can do it. Just something I’m sort of curious about.”

“You’re certain it isn’t
this
you’re curious about?” Lillian held out her issue of that day’s paper. The front page was consumed with coverage of Megan’s wedding. A dozen photos, at least, followed the headlines, many of them not focused on the bridal couple at all.

Anastasia and Owen commandeered their share of pictures, and Meredith—well, Meredith was caught boldly in the act of kissing Pierceson Prescott during the wedding ceremony. Next to that damning photo was a long-distance shot of her standing on the terrace alongside him, their hands very nearly touching atop the stone ledge. The captions beneath the pair of photos speculated whether the eldest princess was contemplating romance with the elusive Duke of Aronleigh.

“Darned long-distance lenses,” Meredith murmured, and tucked the newspaper in her briefcase. She was used to seeing her photograph in newspapers. Whether she liked it or not, it was part and parcel of
who she was. But on top of her mother’s comments earlier, it seemed harder to take than usual. And what idiot had allowed cameras to be part of the wedding ceremony, anyway? Was nothing sacred anymore?

She realized her secretary was watching her curiously. “I want to look up the accounts of my uncle’s death,” she admitted, scrambling for composure.

“Something in particular you’re looking for?”

“No.” Meredith smiled at the woman and turned to head up the corridor to the left of reception. “Nothing in particular.” Technically, Lillian was Meredith’s secretary, and she could easily have been put on the little project. But it was only Meredith’s curiosity that was spurring on the interest, and it seemed silly to have one of the staff devote their work time to it. Aside from which, Lillian already had extra duties on her plate as she had been filling in for the regular receptionist who was away on honeymoon.

Everyone seemed to be marrying, lately.

The thought snuck in, adding to the throb in Meredith’s temples. She stopped and turned. “Have we received any more RSVPs for the Horizons event?”

The woman nodded, reaching for the subtly buzzing telephone as she held out a computerized list. “The latest,” she mouthed before greeting the telephone caller.

Meredith took the list and hurried on her way. Her briefcase flapped against her hip, and her purse strap was slipping from her shoulder, making her wish she’d gone to her office before getting the coffee.

She rounded the last corner toward her office and nearly skidded to a halt at the surprising sight of Pierce, Admiral Harrison Monteque of the royal navy
and Cole Everson, who was head of the RII, leaving Cole’s office and heading straight toward her.

Neither Harrison nor Cole gave Meredith so much as a glance as they neared.

Her office was at one end of the hall, Cole’s at the other. The colonel, however, looked at her without seeming to take his attention from his companions in the least.

That one look, brief though it was, made Meredith want to smooth a nervous hand over her hair. To tug at the hem of her suit jacket. To fuss with her appearance in the way women for centuries had fussed when certain men looked their way.

Fortunately, her hands were already too full, so she couldn’t embarrass herself any more than necessary. She juggled her briefcase and her purse and managed to unlock her office door.

But then the trio passed beside her. And she had to turn to face them. She greeted Cole and the admiral, who both nodded politely, if rather absently, as they continued on their way.

And Pierce, well, Pierce looked her right in the eye and wished her a good morning. Then he caught the weight of her briefcase before she managed to spill her coffee right down the front of her suit. “You need another hand,” he said.

What she needed was her head examined. Because the pleasure sweeping through her at seeing him was completely insane.

The colonel followed her through the doorway, and her spacious office suddenly felt confining. He set her briefcase on the corner of her pristine, glass-topped desk. She murmured her thanks, fully expecting him
to take his leave. She could hear the other men’s voices carrying as they headed down the corridor.

But Pierce didn’t leave. “Nice office,” he said, looking around.

She set her coffee cup on the desk with only a small rattle. Her office was identical to at least a dozen others in the complex. The only difference being that she’d brought in her own decorator for her office. And she’d paid for it out of her own pocket. Something that she’d often felt compelled to point out when some individuals commented on her supposed special treatment. “Thank you.” She sat in her desk chair and, feeling more herself, looked at the Colonel.

He had fresh lines fanning from the corners of his eyes, she thought. Impossibly attractive. Yet she could tell he was as tired as she felt.

“What brings you to the RII?”

“A meeting.”

“I sort of gathered that,” she said dryly. She didn’t take offense at the inscrutable answer. The RII was often involved in highly classified projects. Unless it directly involved the royal family, she was perfectly content in being left out of those numerous loops.

“How is your head?”

She felt her cheeks heat and cursed her fair skin. “Pained,” she admitted ruefully. “It’s the bubbles, I’ve decided. Sparkling wine always gives me a headache.”

“Ought to stick to the unbubbled kind.”

Lillian entered the room, and Meredith abruptly realized she was leaning on her arms toward him across the desk, smiling broadly. She hastily sat back, adjusting her expression.

Lillian looked at Pierce. “Pardon my interruption, Your Grace,” she said, looking a little flustered at finding him in Meredith’s office. She turned quickly to Meredith and handed her a small cartridge. “I pulled the film from ten years ago,” she said efficiently.

Meredith thanked her and set the tape aside, barely noticing when her secretary left just as quickly and quietly as she’d entered.

“What’s interesting about ten years ago?”

Meredith dragged her eyes from the very excellent cut of Pierce’s khaki uniform. Or, more likely, the very excellent cut of the man beneath the uniform. It was no wonder Lillian had been a little flustered. Pierceson Prescott could have that affect on anyone. “My uncle’s death,” she said absently. Did she know anyone who looked as good in a uniform as did Pierce?

“Why?”

She focused a little. Picked up the microfilm cartridge and turned it over in her fingers. “Well, actually, it was something you said yesterday.”

“Me?” He looked disbelieving.

“You know. About how I must have hardly known the man and all that. And truthfully, I don’t know the details of my uncle’s death. Not really. I’d just gone away for university. I know as much about Penwyck’s place in the world—economically, politically and socially—as it is possible to know, but when it comes to my own family…” She shrugged.