and their endless romantic complications than in their son.
Luc could not bring himself to regret his unorthodox upbringing, no matter how many people seemed to think it pointed to some lack in him—something no one had dared say to his face in some time. Growing up in such a way, surrounded by so much heightened emotion mixed with jealousy and betrayal and avid outside interest, had stripped him of many of the needs that ruled other men. It had also made him that much more successful, which was all he cared about—for what else was there? He did not need the emotions that other men did. He was not interested in love, and all the upheaval and agony it brought. He wanted a wife in the most traditional sense, for the most traditional reasons. He was nearing forty now, and it was time he created a family to carry on his legacy and his mother’s royal Italian bloodline. The wife he chose would have to be from an equally august bloodline—noble for centuries, at the very least, as his family was. It was tradition. It was his duty.
He needed a wife who knew her duty.
He strode into the elegant old hotel, past the white-gloved doormen, and did not bother to gape like a tourist at the sparkling lobby that emanated old French charm and elegance all around him. He had seen it many times before. The Hotel Negresco prided itself on its luxuriousness. Luc made his way toward the Salon Royal, with its Gustave Eiffel-designed dome and Baccarat chandeliers sparkling over a crowd of some of the world’s foremost philanthropists. He ignored the well-dressed and genteel throng, as well as the priceless art that graced the walls. He searched the room until his eyes fell on the woman he’d been looking for—Princess Gabrielle of Miravakia.
She stood out from the crowd in a good way, he was pleased to note. She did not call attention to herself. She did not display her chest in an inappropriate manner or hang all over the men who competed for her attention. She seemed cool and elegant, refined and royal, as she stood in the center of a knot of extremely well-dressed patrons.
She was lovely—but then, she should be. She was a royal princess, after all—the heir to her country’s throne. He ignored her looks and concentrated on the way she presented herself: her public persona, which was by all accounts completely without blemish.
Her hair was swept back into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore a simple cocktail dress with restrained hints of jewelry at her ears and one wrist. Nothing flashy or gauche. She was all sophistication and class, presiding over this great reception for one of her pet charities with all the grace for which she was known. She was every inch the perfect princess.
He liked what he saw. But he couldn’t trust what she showed the world at a reception for six hundred. Could a woman really be as above reproach as this one appeared to be?
Luc signaled a passing waiter and requested a drink, then moved to the outskirts of the crowd, from where he could watch her without being observed in return. She was in Nice for the week, he knew, and was expected to make a number of appearances—which interested him less than what she got up to in her free time.
He was sure that, like Lady Emma before her, Princess Gabrielle would eventually show herself to him. He had only to wait, and watch.
But as Luc watched the perfect-looking princess make her rounds, he allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism as he sampled his drink.
If she proved to be as perfect as she looked, he had done it. He had finally found his bride.
Chapter One
“DO YOUR duty,” her father ordered her only moments before the organ burst into life—his version of an encouraging speech. He frowned at her. “Make me proud.”
That was the entirety of his fatherly pre-wedding advice.
The words swam in Princess Gabrielle’s head even as the heavy weight of her silk taffeta wedding gown tugged at her and slowed her down. The long train swept back from her dress, extending almost ten feet behind her as befitted a royal princess on her wedding day. Gabrielle only knew that it was hard to walk with ten feet of fabric to pull along with her, though she kept her spine erect and her head high—as always.
Thank God for the veil that covered her face, hiding the expression she was afraid she couldn’t control for the first time in her twenty-five years—to say nothing of the prickly heat flooding her eyes.
She could not cry. Not here. Not now.
Not as she walked down the aisle of her kingdom’s holiest of cathedrals, holding fast to her father’s arm. Her father—King Josef of Miravakia. The man she had spent her life trying—and failing—to please.
Even at university she had been too determined to win her father’s elusive approval to do anything but study hard. While her peers had partied and explored all that London had to offer, Gabrielle had lost herself in her books and her research. After university, despite the degree she’d obtained in Economics, she had dedicated herself to charity work, according to her father’s expectations of the Crown Princess of Miravakia.
Anything and everything to curry her father’s favor. It was the mantra of Gabrielle’s life.
Even this. Marriage to a perfect stranger of his choosing.
Why was she going through with this? Hers was not some ancient feudal kingdom—and she was no chattel. But if there was a way to go against her father’s wishes without incurring his wrath she did not know what it was. She knew that she could have said no. Couldn’t she? Or was she simply too desperate to prove to her father that she was worthy of his approval—even when the stakes were so high?
“I have accepted a marriage proposal,” King Josef had told her one morning, barely three months ago, jolting Gabrielle from her contemplation of the day’s schedule. He had not glanced up from his breakfast as he spoke. It had surprised Gabrielle that he’d spoken at all—he generally preferred to breakfast in silence, with only his newspapers spread around him, though he insisted that she join him every morning.
“A marriage proposal?” Gabrielle had been amazed—her father had shown no interest in remarrying, not in all the long years since Gabrielle’s mother had died of cancer when Gabrielle was barely five.
“I found the combination of a royal bloodline and near-limitless wealth sufficiently attractive,” the King had said, almost thoughtfully. “And it will certainly bolster the standing of the Miravakian throne.”
It had been as if he was discussing the purchase of a vehicle. But Gabrielle’s thoughts had raced ahead anyway. Was she really to have a stepmother? She rather thought it might be fun to have someone else around the palazzo. Much as she loved her father and tried to please him, he was not an easy man.
“There will be no tedious long engagement,” he had continued, touching his thin, disapproving lips with his linen napkin and signaling one of the hovering footmen for more coffee. Finally, he’d looked at her. “I’ve no patience for such things.”
“No, of course not,” Gabrielle had agreed. Her mind had been racing wildly. Who on earth could possibly meet her father’s high standards? He had a universally low opinion of almost every woman he’d ever encountered, as far as she knew—and then again, as King of Miravakia, he would only consider a bride from a select class of royals. And how like him to keep his intentions a secret, she’d thought, almost amused.
“I expect you to conduct yourself well,” he’d said, sipping at his coffee. “None of the hysterics that seem to afflict your sex when they come into contact with a wedding ceremony, thank you.”
Gabrielle had known better than to respond to that.
He’d sniffed. “I have confidence that you can put everything together quickly and efficiently, with as little disruption as possible.”
“Of course, Father,” Gabrielle had said at once. She had never planned a wedding before, but how different could it be from the state events she’d put together in the past? She had a marvelous staff whom she already knew could perform miracles. And who knew? Perhaps a new wife would bring out the softer side of her stern father. She’d give