‘If seated, you will stand when His Royal Highness enters the room. You will not sit down unless invited to do so.’
‘I thought Prince Nick was the one sitting for me.’
Lauren regretted the words the moment they were out. She bit her lower lip to stop herself giggling. Lauren hated to giggle. She only did it when she was nervous and she couldn’t remember ever being more nervous than she was right now.
The man next to her stopped walking. He straightened his back just a fraction more than should be humanly possible, and untold generations of aristocrats looked down from his cold brown eyes as he spoke.
‘Miss Phelps, you will address Prince Nicolas as “Your Royal Highness”, or “sir”. You will under no circumstances use any other name or title. Prince Nicolas …’ the name was heavily emphasised ‘… is not fond of the shortened form of address.’
I’m not surprised, Lauren thought. Prince Nick was a favourite with the tabloid headline writers. Naughty Nick was their preferred appellation for the monarch’s younger son. One editor had received a royal slap on the wrist for proclaiming ‘Nice One, Nick’ above a front-page photo of a rather dishevelled prince emerging from a supermodel’s home in the early hours of the morning. No official reprimand had any effect on the media’s fascination with the black sheep of one of Europe’s oldest royal houses.
Lauren’s escort was moving on, his back ramrod straight as he almost marched along the black and white marble tiles of the long gallery. She followed him, forcing her legs to keep pace with the tall man’s long measured strides. She remained slightly to the left, and a pace behind, of course.
She still found it hard to comprehend that she was walking through the royal palace. As a child, she had often stared up at the beautiful building on a hill overlooking the capital and dreamed that she was a princess living inside walls that glowed golden with each sunrise and sunset. Those dreams were her escape from the harsh realities of her life as she had filled page after page of her schoolbooks with pencil sketches of palaces and golden coaches and princesses wearing ball gowns. And of course she had dreamed of the prince who would one day ride up on a pure white horse and win her heart.
This wasn’t exactly her dream come true, but here she was, inside those golden walls about to meet … well, not exactly the prince of her dreams.
The kingdom of Arennes was small and unimportant on the world stage. Nestled on the edge of the Mediterranean, it had a long and proud tradition – and an economy based on tourism and culture and attracting students to the world-renowned universities. One family had sat upon the throne for hundreds of years. They had little, if any, actual power, but were held in high esteem at home and abroad. There had never been a hint of royal scandal, until Prince Nicolas Gerard Verbier d’Arennes walked out of his military service and onto the front pages.
Movie star looks and royal blood, not to mention a family fortune, brought him instant adoration among the jet set and the paparazzi in equal measure. Barely a week passed that his handsome face didn’t grace the newspapers and magazines at home and elsewhere in Europe, usually with an equally gorgeous female or two in attendance. He wasn’t shy in expressing his disdain of social media, but it was a rare month that his antics didn’t have him trending on Twitter. He liked fast cars, fast boats and fast women and the Twitterverse loved him for it.
Now Lauren was being led to him, like a lamb to the wolf’s den.
She grasped her hands behind her back to hide the shaking that betrayed her nervousness. She took a few steps, before realising that she was unconsciously aping the prince’s equerry as she followed him. Biting back another giggle, she quickly dropped her hands to her sides.
‘I understand this is your first commissioned portrait.’
The words caught Lauren by surprise. ‘I … I’m sorry …’ she stammered.
‘I said that I believe this will be your first commissioned portrait.’ The tone said it all. The palace official was putting her firmly in her place.
‘Not at all.’ She forced a casual note into her voice. ‘I’ve been asked to do quite a few portraits.’
‘Really.’
He wasn’t asking a question. Lauren guessed her professional background had been thoroughly checked before this invitation was issued. Perhaps not her personal background though. If they knew everything about her family and her past, she would not have been permitted to take one step through the doors of the grand palace. Not the front doors, of course – a side entrance was good enough for a little-known artist.
‘Yes, really.’ Lauren took a firm grip on her false bravado, desperately trying not to feel intimidated by her guide, and the long portrait gallery, and the royal faces gazing down at her from the walls as she passed.
‘I meant for money, Miss Phelps.’
Lauren had no answer, because he was right. She had won two fairly important art competitions, including a portrait contest. Her paintings were exhibited in a couple of minor galleries. A few had sold for modest sums. But no one had ever paid her hard cash to paint their portrait. She wouldn’t even try to explain the other payments she had received in the past. This cold, officious man would never understand the treasure in a mother’s gratitude for a sketch of a child she was too poor to photograph. Nor the riches in an old man’s tears on receiving a likeness of the woman he had loved for fifty years, then lost.
She said nothing, allowing her tormentor his victory. Instead she focused on keeping a steady, confident rhythm in her stride as she marched behind him. The click of her stiletto boot heels echoed too loudly off the stone and marble walls. Too late, she realised that she should have worn shoes with soft soles, like those worn by the stiff figure in front of her. Her black ankle boots were a favourite, as was the pleated black skirt that bounced around her thighs. The skirt was a little short, perhaps, but she had the legs for it. She’d found both skirt and boots at her favourite second-hand clothing shop. She had chosen this outfit because it made her feel attractive and confident. At least it did most of the time.
Not this morning. Lauren battled to gather her shaky confidence, holding her head a little higher, as a voice deep inside her cried out for this excruciating march to end. Everything about her surroundings seemed designed to intimidate. From the polished marble floors to the high ceiling with its intricate mouldings, the gallery spoke of a world far removed from Lauren’s tiny apartment. It was a world she knew little of, and had never thought to enter. Until today.
Lauren could almost feel eyes judging her as she passed the royal portraits staring down from the walls. Generations of the Verbier d’Arennes family had been captured on canvas by some of Europe’s most popular artists. The royal portraits had occupied many of Lauren’s student days. She had written a paper about the collection for her finals, without ever being able to examine the actual works.
As she walked, Lauren’s eyes flickered left and right. That was surely a Reynolds. On the opposite wall, she recognised a Gainsborough. The eighteenth-century portrait of some princess in a blue dress was one of Lauren’s favourites, yet she was swept past it with barely a glance.
Soon, one of her paintings would hang in this same gallery. Her painting of Prince Nicolas, commissioned to mark his thirtieth birthday, would find a place among the masters, probably enclosed in an equally elaborate gilt frame. If it was good enough. A new wave of nervous terror washed over Lauren, bringing with it an almost irresistible desire to turn on her pointy heels and run as far and as fast as her legs could take her. The only thing holding her back was the certain knowledge that she would be instantly lost in the maze of palace corridors. Lost – and no doubt quickly arrested by the well-armed palace guards.
After an eternity, the man in front of her turned abruptly to his left and stopped before an ornate wooden door. He knocked, but waited only a brief moment before pushing it open. He indicated that Lauren should enter the room before him. She felt better the moment she stepped through the doorway.
Equally as impressive as the other rooms in the palace, this one nonetheless seemed warmer and more welcoming. Bookshelves lined the walls. The rich colours of the leather book bindings were echoed in the large burgundy sofa that faced away from her, towards a huge fireplace at the far end of the room. The fireplace was empty, but Lauren could easily imagine the comfortable glow of a burning log, warming winter days. The two armchairs that flanked the fireplace would be a welcome haven in winter. Richly patterned carpets lay scattered over the polished wood floor and at the far end of the room a large antique desk held only a phone and a leather-bound blotter.
Lauren had barely begun to examine her surroundings, before her eyes were drawn to the paintings either side of a doorway to her left.
‘The Kneller portraits.’ She recognised them instantly.
‘Indeed. They are held to be the jewels of the royal collection.’
Lauren barely heard the official’s remark. She was lost in studying the paintings. To the left of the doorway, a grey-haired man in military dress ignored the three small dogs prancing at his feet. On the other side of the tall doorway, a rather plain, middle-aged woman wearing a diamond coronet smiled mysteriously into the distance.
‘Painted in 1710, to mark …’
‘… their Majesties’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.’ Lauren didn’t need a lesson. ‘These were required study at art school.’
Forgetting her earlier nervousness, Lauren stepped closer to the paintings. Her trained eyes sought out every detail of the work.
‘Indeed. They did set the standard for many royal portraits that followed. If your portrait of His Royal Highness were along similar lines, I believe it would be well accepted.’
Lauren ignored the comment. She took several steps backwards, wanting a wider view of the portraits. She stopped only when she reached the back of the huge leather sofa. Leaning against its solid mass for support, she studied the portraits.
‘They are … not as I expected,’ she said slowly.
‘Oh really? Better or worse?’
Lauren gave a startled cry and leaped forward, as the deep masculine voice spoke so close to her ear. She turned to watch a tall man slowly rise from his hidden place on the sofa and move towards her. Despite his grey civilian slacks and open-necked shirt, the man’s military background was evident in the straight back and the controlled strength of his movements. Nor did he need a crown to proclaim his heritage. With his thick dark hair, blue eyes and raffish smile, he was the most photographed man in the kingdom.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ The equerry bowed slightly, seeming unfazed by his master’s sudden appearance.
The prince ignored the official. He stepped lightly around the sofa, stopping disconcertingly close to Lauren. He seemed to tower above her. Slowly he ran his gaze down her tiny frame, to the tip of those black boots, then all the way up again, pausing on her hair.
Lauren forced her feet to stay rooted to the floor, and her hands to remain still at her sides. She waited for him to look back at her face. He didn’t. He stepped to his right and slowly circled her. Only when he returned to his starting place in front of her did his gaze leave her hair and return to her face.
‘Courtauld,’ the prince addressed his equerry without looking at him, ‘you are failing in your duties. Please present the young lady.’
‘Your Royal Highness, may I present Miss Lauren Phelps, artist.’ The functionary’s voice was devoid of all expression, well versed as he no doubt was in such introductions.
‘How do you do?’ The words almost fell out of Lauren’s mouth, as she thrust her hand forward.
For several long seconds, the prince didn’t move to take it. Lauren’s courage almost failed her. Had she committed some inexcusable breach of protocol? She was about to drop her arm to her side, when strong warm fingers enclosed her hand.
‘What Courtauld will not say, because protocol doesn’t allow it, is that I am Nicolas Verbier d’Arennes.’
None of the photographs, not one second of the television news clips, had prepared Lauren for the prince’s beauty. He wasn’t handsome. Many men are handsome. He was simply beautiful – the way a tiger is beautiful, or the sunlight as it streams through clouds after a storm. He was the intricate pattern on a frosty windowpane, and the dancing colours on a windswept ocean. Powerful. Elemental. Beautiful.
Lauren explored his face. The strong lines of his jaw, lips curled at the corners in a slight smile. Those cheekbones would stand him in good stead as he grew older. He would still be an attractive man at sixty. His sandy-red wavy hair would look like silk as it flecked with grey. Lauren found herself almost mesmerised by the sensual promise of unusually dark blue eyes. Come-to-bed eyes, framed by long dark lashes.
It would certainly be a challenge to capture those eyes on canvas. She would need to give careful thought to the colour themes that would highlight their unique shade and the way the light danced in them when he smiled, as he was smiling now.
That smile, the supremely confident smile of a man who knows his attraction, shook Lauren from her artist’s reverie. She started to move back, to put a safer distance between herself and this disturbing man. She couldn’t. Prince Nicolas was still holding her hand. Lauren was suddenly conscious of the warmth of his flesh on hers. Carefully she extricated her hand and took that much-needed step back.
It didn’t help. His Royal Highness seemed to fill the room. He was a tall man, made even taller by aristocratic poise and confidence, tempered by military fitness. Would she paint him in uniform, she wondered, or civilian clothes? A more casual painting would emphasise the broad shoulders and chest.
Perhaps a setting that suggested his liking for sport and physical pursuits. Physical pursuits of all sorts, Lauren thought, as she noted the strong curves of his shoulders under the well-cut jacket. How she would love to sketch his bare chest and shoulders, to capture the curve of his neck. Her fingers ached to trace the line of his neck and his jaw. Her face flushed when he raised one eyebrow, almost as if he knew what she was thinking.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘I … what …’ Lauren blustered, feeling her embarrassment deepen into mortification.
‘What do you think?’ He stepped back and spread his arms wide, inviting her further inspection. ‘Will I do?’
‘Will you do what?’ Lauren’s confusion coloured her voice, making it almost shrill.
‘As a subject?’
‘Oh … of course,’ Lauren stammered. ‘I was just …’ Just what? Picturing him with his shirt off? Hardly something she could say to a prince, and her first paying customer.
‘I know, thinking about the painting.’
‘Yes I was,’ Lauren agreed. ‘I do hope I can do justice to the collection.’
‘So do I. So tell me, in what way do the Kneller portraits disappoint you?’
With relief Lauren turned her back on the prince, not caring if that was also a breach of protocol. She pretended to study the matching portraits either side of the door as she took a long slow breath, trying to recover the wits scattered by the prince’s overwhelming presence.
‘They’re not that good,’ she said without thinking.
‘Not that good?’
Lauren tried to read the prince’s tone. This wasn’t going at all well. ‘I mean … there are better paintings in the collection.’
‘I wouldn’t let the curator hear you say that.’
It was too late now to back off. ‘I’ve never understood why these were considered the best. Kneller was never one of the greats. Not like Reynolds. Or Gainsborough.’
‘Ah, but you forget the subjects.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘To devalue the portraits would be to devalue the subjects. And that we must never do. Not after they did so much to find a place in a turbulent world for this small and rather unimportant country. Isn’t that right, Courtauld?’
‘Indeed, Your Royal Highness.’ Not one shred of criticism touched the functionary’s voice.
‘They did it by marrying off their many sons and daughters to ruling families the length and breadth of Europe,’ the prince continued. ‘Not an easy task, I should imagine, given their looks. But they did have brains. My older brother inherited the brains, which is rather appropriate as he will one day rule. My job, on the other hand, is to improve the family looks. Which means …’ he moved to her side, and leaned close ‘… you won’t have to work quite so hard to hide my imperfections.’
He was so close that she could almost feel the warmth of his body.
The arrogance of the man! Lauren bridled and spoke without thinking.
‘I do try to capture the personality of the subject, not just their appearance,’ she said in tone dripping with sugar. ‘So there might be some things to hide.’
No sooner were the words out, than she regretted them. She could almost feel the equerry stiffen in his place near the door. She kept her gaze glued to the portraits, not wanting to see the reaction of the man at her side. Silence reigned for a few seconds, then Lauren heard the prince take a deep breath, as if to speak. Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock on the door. Another man appeared.
‘Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. They are waiting.’
A slight pause.
‘Yes. Of course.’
From the corner of her eye, Lauren saw the tall figure move away. He paused by the desk to retrieve his jacket. He slipped a tie around his neck, fastening it as he moved towards a large gilt-framed mirror to check his appearance.
Lauren turned to face him, feeling safer now the expanse of the room separated them. Carefully avoiding the disapproving look of the prince’s equerry, Lauren opened her mouth to apologise.
‘You wait here.’ The prince spoke before the words even formed in her mouth. ‘I shan’t be long. We are not finished yet.’ With that promise, or threat, he followed his servant out of the room, leaving Lauren alone with her escort.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Lauren decided she should at least study some of the other paintings on the walls of the room. It would be her last chance to admire the collection that she had read about in college. After this disaster of a meeting, she would no doubt lose the royal commission. She would never return to the palace, see the paintings … or the prince … again. She sighed.
‘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.