Numb with grief, Marie-Claire couldn’t even cry. For hours now, she’d been sitting by her window, staring at the twilight sky. Outside, the sounds of dawn reached her through an open window and the whisper of a cool breeze caressed her face. On the ground below, the servants who’d cleaned up after the gala were leaving for home. Voices murmured their partings, car engines rumbled to life. Off in the distance, a rooster heralded the advent of a new day and, at a table by her side a lone candle burned low, hissing.
Dully, Marie-Claire shifted her gaze to the flickering flame and saw her life.
It was over.
Even if Sebastian was not the crown prince, she knew that her foolishness had lost him forever to Veronike. Or, if not Veronike, some other woman who wouldn’t go to such ridiculous lengths to prove her love.
She blinked once, then shifted her unseeing stare back out the window. Why would she and Sebastian harbor such intense feelings for each other for five long years only to have it come to such a disastrous end? It simply did not make sense.
A light tapping at her door interrupted her wretched ruminations. Ariane appeared, carrying a valise and dressed in a sensible wool traveling suit. Quite a change from the last time she’d entered the room, Marie-Claire reflected, lifting a hand in despondent greeting.
Ariane set her purse and bag on Marie-Claire’s bed and then silently moved across the room. Gently, her fingers combed through Marie-Claire’s hair and she whispered, “I just stopped by to tell you goodbye.”
“Already?”
“It’s Sunday morning.”
Marie-Claire nodded. “So. You are off to Rhineland.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Ariane’s chuckle rang false as she fussed with a small tangle of strands. “Why? Because Etienne invited me, of course.”
“He invited you?” Marie-Claire briskly rubbed her face with her hands. Life just kept getting curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would have said when confronted with Wonderland. “Ariane, in the past, you’ve found Etienne to be arrogant and overbearing. Why the sudden change of heart?”
With a careless shrug, Ariane moved behind the chair and began to twist Marie-Claire’s hair into a French plait. “Things change.”
Cheeks puffed, Marie-Claire exhaled long and slow. “Um-hmm. Don’t I know it.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Eventually.”
“Marie-Claire, I don’t think Sebastian cares a fig for Veronike. After you left last night, he didn’t speak a word to her.”
“Before he kissed her or after?”
Marie-Claire could fairly hear Ariane grimace. “He kissed her?”
“On her big, bloated…bulbous…bulging lips.”
“Really?” Surprised, Ariane stilled her hands and then she tut-tutted and once again began to weave her efficient braid. “Well, it couldn’t have been that great because every time I saw him, he was by himself and looking miserable. Eduardo on the other hand, mixed it up rather well on the dance floor with a number of young local ladies.”
Marie-Claire lifted her shoulder a notch. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost him.”
“Eduardo?” Ariane tried to inject a little levity.
“Well, I’ve hurt him, too. I have a lot of apologizing to do.”
“When you do, you must bring me with you. Most of that kooky stuff was my idea.”
“But I was the one with the fruit on my head.”
“Yes, well, we all make mistakes. Especially when it comes to love.”
“Is that what you are doing now, by heading off to Rhineland?”
“Perhaps.” Ariane secured Marie-Claire’s braid with a clip and bent to kiss her cheek. “Call me?”
“Mm-hmm. I’ll be calling from Tatiana’s house in Denmark. For some reason, when my life falls apart, she is the only one able to step in and mother me.”
“Give her my love.”
She covered Ariane’s hand with her own. “I will.”
As Marie-Claire watched her sister gather her belongings and slip into the hall, she wondered listlessly at Ariane’s sudden interest in Etienne Kroninberg, prince of Rhineland. For a while now, she’d noticed that Ariane had been acting rather more secretively than usual, and her motives for going to Rhineland were weak. After all, just six months ago Ariane seemed to have no feelings for Prince Etienne whatsoever. What had changed?
Fingertips wet from a touch to her tongue, Marie-Claire snuffed her candle, crawled into bed and assumed a fetal position. Her eyes drifted shut and she decided to worry about Ariane after she woke up.
Over a week later, Marie-Claire was just now able to lift her head from her pillow and venture out into the world again. She pulled her scarf more closely about her face and hunched against the blustery wind that nudged her down the busy streets of Copenhagen. Tatiana needed eggs and milk for a dessert she was making, hoping, no doubt, to put some weight on her granddaughter’s skinny bones.
Marie-Claire snorted into the furry collar of her coat. Fat chance. Since she’d arrived in Denmark, she’d already lost five pounds. In all the wrong places. Story of her life.
Like a salmon fighting upstream, Marie-Claire navigated through the crowded sidewalk, faces coming, going, all strange, all a blur. Horns sounded, people shouted. Typical, these sounds of life in the city. Marie-Claire was glad for the anonymity. Being able to come and go without the intense scrutiny of the security guards was a rare and wonderful privilege.
As she drew near the market, she passed a newsstand and paused to catch up with life.
Her heart caught in her throat and her head began to buzz as she stared at the blaring headlines:
St. Michel’s Royal Daughters Illegitimate?
Late King Philippe of St. Michel a Bigamist?
And even worse yet:
Sebastian LeMarc Crown Prince of St. Michel?
Clutching the sales table for balance, she perused the articles and her heart shifted from a dead standstill to overdrive. Icy with shock, Marie-Claire spun about and forced her legs to carry her all the way back to Tatiana’s house, forgetting her errand in the process. She rushed inside, turned on the television and searched for a twenty-four-hour news station. After several misses, she hit upon the story being discussed on a Paris network.
“What is it, darling?” Concerned by Marie-Claire’s frantic return and anxious demeanor, Tatiana moved from the kitchen to her parlor. She dusted her flour-coated hands on her apron, then perched on the couch beside Marie-Claire and adjusted her glasses.
“Listen, Tatiana. It’s in the papers, too.” Tears rose with the television’s volume.
“—and this report is fueling further speculation about the sex of Queen Celeste’s baby and whether this child will eventually take the throne.
“Recently, there has been speculation that Sebastian LeMarc, import/export mogul from St. Michel, is the missing heir apparent. However, Mr. LeMarc could not be reached for comment at this time. Palace officials in St. Michel also continue to have no comment, except to say that, quote, ‘We are running the government smoothly and the people of St. Michel can be assured that when the crown prince comes to light, he will fit the DNA profile and all other criteria. These things take time. Speculation is not helpful at this juncture.’ End quote.
“A reliable source close to the royal family does tell us that King Philippe married when he was only eighteen to an American named Katie Graham. The marriage was never annulled, making Philippe de Bergeron’s subsequent marriages invalid, and his offspring illegitimate. And, in a related story, the government of Rhineland—”
Tatiana gasped. “Who would do such a thing?”
Remote in hand, Marie-Claire turned off the television and stared at the black screen, remembering what she’d just read in the paper.
“Wilhelm.”
Luc Dumont heard the ring of his phone just as he was lathering his hair with shampoo. Typical. He slammed off the faucet and listened to the ring. Not his cell. Not the pager. Not the regular phone. Must be the fax. Good. He turned the water back on and ducked. The water sluiced over his head, hot and refreshing. He’d worked late last night at Interpol’s satellite office in St. Michel and had used the better part of the wee hours researching the materials his men had spent this last week collecting on Claudette LeMarc and her late husband, Henri.
Seems that if there had been two sets of railroad tracks in St. Michel, Claudette would have been born on the wrong side of the wrong set. She’d grown up in abject poverty, her father a drunk and her mother bedridden after a stroke. Together, they’d had eight children, and Claudette, being the oldest, was no doubt expected to shoulder much of the parenting load.
A twinge of pity struck Luc as he lathered his body. If he had to guess, that was the reason Sebastian had no siblings. Claudette was tired of mothering by the time she got to him. Which raised several other good questions, including why she would bother to adopt so early in her marriage.
With both hands, Luc leaned against the fiberglass wall and let the hot water pound on his back. Ah, well. The answers would surface all in good time. The pieces were certainly beginning to fall together.
Claudette had dropped out of school with a third-grade education and had met her husband Count Henri LeMarc in a pub where she worked as a cocktail waitress. His pedigree as a descendent of a twelfth-century line of French aristocrats, had impressed her and they were married just four weeks later. Sebastian was born in a hospital in northern France nine months after that.
Once again, Luc shut off the water and, grabbing a towel, mopped himself off and tied it around his hips. He moved to the fax machine, picked up the sheet that had fallen to the floor and began to read. Finally. The DNA test results had arrived at the French offices of Interpol that morning. And, as he flipped through the subsequent pages, he realized with a start that Sebastian LeMarc’s fate had been sealed.
Tatiana Van Rhys had always been a rebel. Photos of herself and her young daughter, Johanna, were scattered around her living room, always depicting them doing something adventurous. One photo was of them sky-diving. Another of them mountain-climbing. And yet another of them smiling on a sailboat, holding up fish nearly as large as they were. On the end table beside the couch where Marie-Claire sat was a particularly beautiful picture of Johanna skiing in the Swiss Alps.
Marie-Claire peered closely at her mother’s blissful smile and felt stirrings of melancholy for that mother-daughter relationship. Now, more than ever, she needed her mother, even though Johanna had never really had a maternal bone in her body.
Rebellion seemed to run in the family, Marie-Claire thought wryly, as she regarded her grandmother’s simple cottage. Having lived her entire married life in a palace, Tatiana, as a widow, now preferred this simplicity and the freedom that came with it.
Outside the curtained windows a March wind blustered, but inside by the fire, it was cozy. Safe from the injustices of life. The small living room was tidy and furnished with odds and ends and souvenirs of Tatiana’s many travels and the kitchen always had the smell of something freshly baked, as it did now.
Marie-Claire could see Tatiana withdrawing Danish pastries from the oven and drizzling icing on them. The kettle whistled and cups clanked. Upon her arrival in Denmark this last time, Marie-Claire had decided never again to leave this homey haven, especially since there was no real reason to return to St. Michel anymore. She’d stay here and take care of Tatiana, when and if the tiny dynamo ever needed caretaking, and then, when Tatiana passed on, she would be the next old lady to love this house.
Fragrant tray in hand, Tatiana swept into the room and pressing an ottoman into service as a table, poured them each a cup of tea. Gooey and warm, the Danish would tide them over until suppertime. All afternoon, she and her grandmother had been deep in a conversation that had Marie-Claire regaling a softly clucking Tatiana with the details of Philippe’s secret marriage that, until now, had been known only to Simone.
“—and he was three years younger than I am now. Can you believe that? I guess, when they found out she was going to have a baby they ran away to France to get married. They were very brave, I think, to buck convention and marry.”
Tatiana had held her tongue for the better part of an hour, which for her, was a minor miracle. But now, she had to unleash her opinions or burst.
“Child, do you want to live your life with a man you do not love?”
“What? No.”
“Well, that’s just what your mother did, poor thing. And I was partly responsible. I encouraged the marriage between your mother and father, because my husband—God rest his soul—convinced me that it would be a good political alliance. But from the minute your mother said ‘I do,’ I could see that the child was miserable. I have always carried a terrible load of guilt over that. She was never cut out to be a wife. Or, unfortunately for you lovely girls, a mother. But thank God she had you, no?”
Marie-Claire swallowed hard and nodded.
“Even so, I can never encourage anyone not to follow their heart again.”
“But Sebastian is convinced that he is my brother.”
“Stuff and nonsense. You have a very good feel for character, my child. If your gut tells you that Claudette is lying, then I don’t doubt that she is. From everything you’ve told me so far, it would only stand to reason.”
Marie-Claire set down her teacup then flopped back and rolled her head toward Tatiana. “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Grandmama, but last time I saw Sebastian, he was lip-locked with Veronike Schroeder.”
“I’m going to hazard a guess that he kissed her for a very good reason.”
“Which is?”
“Why, how better to protect you from the unknown? My darling, if he were to have thrown caution to the wind and declared his undying love to the public that night, where do you think you and he would be right now?”
Marie-Claire gestured limply at the television. “On that show?”
“Precisely. Now, my sweet, as much as I hate to do this, I’m going to kick you out of my house. I want you to go home and get to the bottom of this. Certainly, the truth will surface soon. And, when it does, you need to be there to fight for your man.”
Sebastian was fighting mad. Blood pumping like the bellows that fanned the flames of hell, he stared at the papers Simone had just faxed to him at Claudette’s house. He could taste murder in the bile that rose in his throat as he swung around to face her. His mother cowered in the corner. He advanced on her, brandishing the faxed papers.
“Why?” he shouted.
“Why…what?” Claudette cringed more deeply into her calfskin club chair.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mère. I have papers here that spell out the unfortunate fact that I am indeed your flesh and blood. Though it seems that we are both reluctant to admit that.”
“What is that you have there?” Holding out one last hope that her dreams of becoming the next dowager queen were not crashing down around her, Claudette gestured to the pages he held.
“This is news from Interpol in France. DNA results that state unequivocally that thirty-two years ago, in a hospital in France, the woman who bore me, was you. Claudette Alexandra LeMarc. Not Katie Graham, in some tragic story that you concocted.”
Now that Sebastian knew the truth, Claudette shifted into an offensive mode and sitting up straight, did her best to smoothly backpedal. “Sebastian, surely you could not have learned to be such an ingrate from me! I did all of this for you. In your best interests.”
Jaw slack, Sebastian stared at this illogical woman he once thought he knew. “You think that lying about my parentage and slipping me into the royal family like some…cuckoo’s egg, was in my best interest?” Sebastian advanced to the edge of her chair and, gripping the edge until the wood frame cracked, leaned down. His voice was low. Menacing. Deadly. “What kind of crazy are you?”
Hand to throat, Claudette leaned away from him, afraid. “I thought that after you were in place, all the questions would die down. They would see, as I do, that you are the one who should wield the power in this country. You would make a wonderful king.”
“Not if I am not born to the position!” Sebastian strode several paces away from her. “Do you realize what you have cost me? Do you have any idea at all, what your selfishness has done?”
Her stare was blank.
“No. I see that you do not. Mère—” Nose to nose again, Sebastian inclined his head to the mass of clutter in her parlor. “It is time for you to grow up. I have just two suggestions for you. First, you need to take back everything you have purchased in the last month, and then have an estate sale and get rid of everything else. When you have finished that gargantuan task, I suggest,” his gaze stabbed into hers, “that you get a job.”
“A…” Claudette looked as if she’d just swallowed something rancid, “a job?”
“If you wish to continue eating, yes.” Sebastian pushed off her chair, reached for his overcoat and tossed it over his shoulder. “I’m going to the palace to beg forgiveness for your temporary insanity. I’ll tell Simone to expect you soon so that you can do the same. Then, if she can even still look me in the eye, I’m going to ask for her granddaughter’s hand in marriage.”
Forgetting the hot water within which she was boiling, Claudette leapt to her feet and clasped her hands in a rapturous manner. “You will be joining the royal family after all?”
“If I am lucky, yes, I’ll be joining the royal family. You, on the other hand, will be joining the work force. Good luck, Mère.”
Once back at home in St. Michel, Marie-Claire was anxious to discuss the headlines she’d seen with Luc Dumont. After stowing her bags in her suite, she was told he was in one of the palace’s comfortable salons. She found him sitting with the dowager queen, flustered over some sharp remark the old woman had just made. Upon spotting Marie-Claire, Simone beckoned. “Come here, darling girl, and save me from this boy’s endless flirtation.”
Flushing crimson, Luc opened his mouth to protest but thinking better, instead heaved a resigned sigh.
Simone ignored him. “How was your trip to Copenhagen?”
Marie-Claire grinned in sympathy at Luc, then turned to Simone.
“I heard the news. Saw it in the papers, even there.”
“I was hoping we could spare the world our dirty laundry, but Wilhelm—” Simone’s eyes clouded over and she swallowed hard.
“I know. How is Lise holding up?”
“As can be expected. Depressed about Wilhelm. Morning sick with the baby. Still grieving Philippe. Trying to cope with possible illegitimacy. Other than that, she’s in fine fettle.”
“I’ll go see her in a moment. But first, I heard that the palace is still officially denying Sebastian as crown prince. What are we waiting for?”
“You haven’t heard? Oh, darling, I’m so thoughtless. I should have called you first! Luc here has discovered through a series of DNA tests, that there is no way that Sebastian is Philippe’s son.”
“What?” Marie-Claire whispered as joy surged into her throat.
“Yes, it seems that Claudette was lying to save her spendthrift hide. Although I forgave her and assigned her a job in the palace kitchen, slicing onions. Which reminds me. I must check on her now.” Before she could struggle to her feet, Luc leapt to assist. “I’m too old for you, son,” she groused and slapped his hand from her arm.
“But—”
“Why don’t you focus this energy on someone your own age. Tell this child about Claudette’s deception and leave me be. Marie-Claire, you can ask him the finer points of the case, but suffice it to say, we are still searching for the crown prince.”
Relief lifted her out of her chair and Marie-Claire stood watching her grandmother totter out of the room. “She’s a tease,” Marie-Claire said once her grandmother was out of earshot.
“I’m finding that out.”
Hands clasped under her chin, Marie-Claire looked deeply into Luc’s eyes. “So it’s true. Sebastian is not my brother.”
“No. In fact, I’m in the process of tracing Katie Graham’s marriage certificate to Texas. So we’re back to the drawing board.”
Laughing, Marie-Claire rushed forward and, grabbing him round the neck, stood on tiptoe and soundly kissed his cheeks. Pleased, he made no effort to back away.
“Oh,” she breathed, “thank you, thank you!”
“My pleasure. Anything else I can do?”
“Yes. You can let her go.” Sebastian’s voice, like the voice of an angry mythical god boomed fire from behind them and before they could even protest, he’d grabbed Luc by the scruff of the neck and landed a neat right cross to his face.
Surprised, Luc reeled, and falling to the floor, clutched the welt that was forming at his jaw. “What the hell?”
Astonished, Marie-Claire emitted a strangled scream. “Sebastian!”
“This time,” Sebastian roared, “I’m not getting hit.” He dove down and lifted Luc off the floor by his shirt. Luc dangled, still too shocked to register the fact that Sebastian LeMarc was preparing to beat him to a bloody pulp.
“Sebastian,” Marie-Claire rushed to grab his arm, “stop it! Luc is simply telling me the truth! That you are not the crown prince! That you are not my brother! That we can,” she burst into tears, “be together.”
Sebastian dropped Luc with a thud.
“For crying out loud,” Luc moaned from the floor, “what is it with this family?” Dragging himself to his feet, Luc stood swaying and pointed at them. “I keep getting accused of flirting and dammit, I’m not!” With that, he straightened his shirt and staggered out of the room.
“Dumont,” Sebastian called after him, “I’m really sorry—”
Luc waved a hand behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered and left.
Slowly, Sebastian turned and stood, watching Marie-Claire, and she was reminded of that night at the pond, when his eyes saw into her soul. His hands settled at his narrow hips, and, breathing hard, she thought how masculine he was, always charging in to save her from herself.
“So you know.” Boyishly, he pushed the fingertips of one hand through his hair, straightening it.
“Yes.” Marie-Claire nodded, her pulse drumming crazily, and she fought the urge to move to him and tousle his hair.
“You were right.”
“You will have to learn to live with that, as I usually am.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes.
A slow smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
They stood, transfixed with helpless wonder at their sudden freedom.
“Come here,” he whispered.
Marie-Claire need not be told twice. She ran the few steps it took to fling herself into his powerful arms and fill her hands with his hair.
Noses bumped, chins collided, but it only took an instant for their mouths to come home. Marie-Claire’s laughter turned to a liquid moan as he gave her the kiss she’d been wanting for weeks. Wilting in his arms, she could feel her heartbeat pounding against his and hear his breath coming in labored pants.
“Ahh, Marie-Claire,” he whispered. “How I’ve missed you.”
“Mmm.” He swallowed her heartfelt reply.
How long they stood like this was anybody’s guess, but the clock chimed the quarter and half hours. The kisses ebbed and flowed, entwined with whispered endearments, ripening to perfection like fine wine. Marie-Claire draped her arms over his shoulders and fell back, dangling in his embrace, loving the onslaught.
“I missed this.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You have certainly helped me realize three very important things in this life.”
“Mmm. And what would they be?”
“Well, for one thing, that life is very short, and to waste even a moment is a sin.”
Her head snapped up and her eyes flew to his. “That’s just what I learned from you!”
“Ahh, good. Then you won’t refuse me, when I ask you to mar—”
“Yes!” Marie-Claire’s squeal was gleeful as she pulled his face low for another kiss.
“I don’t want to wait,” Sebastian said, when she let him up for air.
“Neither do I.”
“Good. You have two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
“Just enough time to let the public digest the fact that we are not related. Yet, anyway.”
Marie-Claire nodded, the cogs in her mind already grinding into motion. “Two weeks is not much time, but I’m up to the task. There are cable shows and advice columns dealing with just such emergencies….”
“God help us all,” Sebastian moaned.
Marie-Claire giggled and buried her fingers into his back pants pockets. “Sebastian?”
“Hmm?” He was busy kissing the back of her jaw, directly under her ear.
“What else have you realized?”
“Uh…I forgot.”
Her laughter was lazy. “You did not. Think.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
Eyes heavy with desire, Sebastian paused and thought. “Oh. The second thing is that I have no desire ever to live above my means. So. If you’ll agree to live with me at my house in the—”
“Yes!” Again, Marie-Claire cut him off with a long, soulful kiss.
“And last, but certainly most important of all, I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman.”
“Oh, Sebastian. I love you.”
Sebastian loosened his collar. “You know, it’s still going to take some adjusting, to get me over the idea that you are not my sister.”
Marie-Claire growled and tugged his lower lip between her teeth.
“Okay. I’m adjusted,” he said, and angled her mouth beneath his.