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the prince.”

      But for how long? Russell wondered. Once Weston gave up the crown to his son, Russell had more than just an uneasy feeling that there would be no safeguards that could be applied to the unruly Reginald. There would be no one to stop him, at least, not officially. Russell foresaw only turmoil in the months ahead. The way he felt about Amelia had nothing to do with his fears for the realm.

      He studied his monarch’s face. The king was an intelligent man. Granted he loved his son, but he had to see that Reginald wasn’t really fit to take charge, no matter what his chronological age. They needed more time to make him ready to assume his responsibilities. Until now, Reginald had only been playing at being a royal. He had taken on none of the duties that went with his position.

      For heaven’s sake, he couldn’t even show up somewhere on time.

      The words burned on his tongue. Russell couldn’t allow himself just to stand by and say nothing. But he knew the path was one that was lined with mines. He picked his way carefully.

      “Perhaps, Your Majesty, you might reconsider the coronation ceremony,” Russell suggested tactfully. “Postpone the official shift of power for a little while until such time as—”

      The king wouldn’t let him finish. He raised his hand, stopping Russell. “I understand what you are saying, Carrington, and believe me, I have had the same thoughts. More than once,” he added heavily. “But I can’t go against tradition. I can’t simply break rules when it suits me and expect others not to.”

      Russell knew that by “others” the king was referring to the troublesome Union for Democracy. There had been efforts, ever since the group had organized five years ago, to suppress it, to try as subtly as possible to force the members to disband. But instead, it had only grown. Not by any large degree, but enough to deserve further close surveillance. They called themselves a peaceful group, but more than one so-called peaceful group had been known to become the center of violent eruptions. No one wanted to see that happen in Silvershire.

      Russell found himself wondering if perhaps having the Union of Democracy take over might not, in the final analysis, be preferable to having Reginald ascend to the throne.

      But he kept this to himself as he inclined his head, symbolizing his acquiescing to his ruler’s wishes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

      “Go find my son and tell him … tell him …” It was on the tip of Weston’s tongue to instruct Russell to say to Reginald that he was a disappointment to him. But that was between him and his son. No one else, not even Russell, as familiar as he was with the scene, was allowed to be privy to that. “Just tell the prince to hurry back to the palace and live up to his responsibilities,” he concluded.

      “Yes, Your Majesty.” Russell paused, reading between the lines. The gala was still going on, but he had no real desire to remain. He would rather be busy than standing around, left to his own thoughts. Thoughts he found difficult to deal with at the moment. “Do you want me to go this evening?”

      “Yes, if you would. Now,” Weston emphasized. And then he confided, “I have this dreadful feeling that every moment matters.”

      Russell thought of telling the king that he had no need to worry. That Reginald was just being Reginald, shallow and thoughtless and self-involved. That he was most likely in some estate, sleeping off a drinking spree, or availing himself of any one of a number of willing women who wanted to be able to boast to their friends that they had slept with an authentic prince.

      But in the end, he decided that perhaps discretion was the better road to take. So he bowed and withdrew. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

      Russell sighed, relieved to have an excuse to go home and change out of the tuxedo that fit him like a dark glove. He didn’t care that he looked good in it, it was stiff and uncomfortable. He’d never liked formal attire. His rank in life called for it, so he put up with it when it was called for, but he was far happier wearing jeans and a sweater. He had the soul of a commoner, his father used to chide him. He suspected that his father was right.

      As he turned the corner on his way out of the palace, he almost walked directly into Amelia. The unexpected contact was quick and sharp, as were the pins and needles that shot all through his body.

      Without thinking, he’d reached to grab for her, to steady her in case she was going to fall. Reflexes had him doing it even before he realized who it was that he had bumped into, although his body immediately recognized the familiar feel of the impact. All it took, he thought, was once, and the feel of her body had been indelibly pressed onto the pages of his memory.

      God, but he was waxing poetic. At another time, it would have been enough to turn his own stomach. Was this what love did to you? Turned you into someone you wouldn’t normally associate with if you had a choice? He had no answer to that. No answer to anything, except that he was being turned inside out.

      Did it get better with time? He could only fervently hope so.

      But something told him that he was hoping in vain.

      Attempting to collect himself, he retreated to the shelter of formal decorum and released Amelia.

      “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that, but I was afraid you’d fall. Are you lost, Princess?” He congratulated himself on his formal tone. One never knew who might be listening in the palace and he wanted no hint of a stain upon her reputation.

      She raised her eyes to his. “Yes,” she answered quietly, “I’m afraid I am lost.” After a beat, she added, “Very lost.”

      As her eyes held his, Russell knew she wasn’t talking about finding her way through the palace.

      Chapter 8

      He was a man who prided himself on remaining cool under fire. And although standing in the hallway with the Princess of Gastonia could hardly be designated as being under fire, Russell felt himself growing more than a little warm.

      As was she, he thought. Her cheeks were flushed and the temperature within the palace was moderate at best. The king liked it brisk. He maintained that it got the blood moving.

      His blood, Russell thought, was having no trouble moving. Close proximity to the Princess Amelia had seen to that.

      He realized that several seconds had passed and he hadn’t responded to her words yet. His brain felt as if it had been taken hostage. It took effort and concentration in order to free it.

      “It’s a little overwhelming until you get used to it,” Russell finally managed. “The palace,” he added in case the princess misunderstood his meaning.

      Damn, he sounded like some thick-tongued fool. He’d never possessed Reginald’s silver tongue, but he’d never been a babbling idiot, either. Not until now.

      But then, he’d never slept with a princess before. That changed things.

      He had to put that behind him, Russell insisted silently. And what’s more, they couldn’t just stand in the corridor, exchanging nonsense like this. There was no telling who might see them and misconstrue things.

      Or construe them correctly, he thought ruefully.

      The lighting in the corridor was sufficiently bright, yet it paled in comparison to her, he thought. Everything paled in comparison to her.

      He felt the long, slender fingers of temptation reaching for him. Threatening to ensnare him again. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t want her; he did. All he could do was struggle for control.

      But a man’s control only went so far and not nearly enough time had gone by for the embers of the fire that had been lit between them to have cooled.

      Not enough time had gone by for him to have cooled, either.

      Just looking at her made him long for a different place, a different time. A different life.

      “I just wanted to get a little air.” She touched his arm as she spoke and he could literally

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