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Chapter One
Late Spring, 1819
It was generally acknowledged, in the circles of polite society, that staring was not permissible-never permissible, regardless of the circumstances. Yet each and every guest in the too crowded ballroom — from jaded rakes to overdressed matrons, from sweet young things in the first flower of youth to elderly lords on their last legs, from the envious to the curious to the vastly amused — did indeed stare...or at least observed carefully, which was much the very same thing.
Oh, discretion was in order, of course. There were no open mouths or overly wide eyes. No pointed fingers or upraised brows. Besides, regardless of the rules of proper behavior, no one who was anyone would ever admit he was not already privy to the liaison unveiling itself before the very eyes of the ton. And everyone in attendance at the gala reception given by the Marquess of Throubridge for the crown prince of Avalonia was indeed someone, or at least believed himself to be someone, which was nearly as important.
Still, even the illusion of good breeding and fine manners could not prevent a fair amount of discreet tittering behind fans, an inordinate number of speculative smiles, and more than a little nudging of elbows.
And why not? It wasn't every day London had a foreign prince in its midst. That he was handsome and wealthy and unmarried made his every move of utmost interest to the mothers of eligible daughters as well as to the daughters themselves. That he was showing particular attention to one young lady made him the subject of intense curiosity for everyone else. And that the young woman inquestion was the incomparable Lady Jocelyn Shelton made him the envy of the majority of men, married or otherwise.
Whatever their circumstances, each and every guest in the room watched Prince Alexei Frederick Berthold Ruprecht Pruzinsky escort the lady from the dance floor. Jocelyn herself was well aware of the scrutiny. Indeed, she could feel it almost as if the gazes directed toward her had a physical presence: long, probing fingers of curiosity. She lifted her chin the tiniest notch and tried to maintain as natural a smile as possible.
Not that she was uncomfortable at the attention. On the contrary. She reveled in it. She simply didn't want to appear too smug, too satisfied, and too, too triumphant.
At this particular moment, Lady Jocelyn Shelton, sister of the Earl of Shelbrooke and relation by marriage to the Duke of Roxborough and the wealthy Effington family, believed, regardless of the differences in their stations, that she would soon be the bride of the heir of the House of Pruzinsky, the crown prince of the Kingdom of Greater Avalonia.
The prince bent closer to speak low into her ear. "I had quite forgotten the English tendency to stare."
"Had you, Your Highness?" Jocelyn said lightly. "I was under the impression that you rarely forgot anything. Or that you were especially bothered by being the subject of observation."
"Quite right." He smiled that particular smile worn only by men who have no question as to their standing in the world. "When one knows one's own worth, one expects such attention. But then I need not tell you that." He studied her in a satisfied manner. "You are as aware of your worth as I am of mine."
She ignored his comment as she could not deny it and raised a brow. "Are all royal princes as arrogant as you, Your Highness?"
His eyes widened with surprise and she feared she'd gone too far. Then he laughed, the kind of unfettered, rather personal laugh that ensured the continued attention of onlookers and upped the stakes of any number of wagers made in recent days in the betting books of London.
"Indeed we are, my dear. Arrogance is a privilege of rank and the higher the station, the easier it is accepted. Besides, I see no need for false humility." He shrugged. "Surely my attitude does not surprise you?"
"Not at all. Since our first meeting, nearly everyone of my acquaintance has made it a point to tell me all they know of you. About your arrogance and your reputation and" — she paused for effect — "your women."
"You are extremely impertinent, my lady." A wicked gleam danced in his eye. "I have always enjoyed impertinence."
"I have heard that as well, Your Highness."
He laughed again, the intimate nature of the sound increasing her confidence. They reached the edge of the dance floor and he turned toward her. "You have not told me if you liked the flowers I sent today."
"Haven't I? Do forgive me. They were lovely." She tilted her head to gaze up at him, allowing the slight enigmatic smile men had likened to those seen on Renaissance portraits to graze her lips. A smile well practiced and always well received. "As were those delivered yesterday and the day before and the day before that. In truth though, we are inundated in blossoms. Your generosity is appreciated yet it seems a bit excessive."
"Only a bit? I shall have to do better then." He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
"Better, Your Highness?"
"Alexei. Perhaps it is too soon for such familiarity but..." His gaze never left hers. "I am an impatient man, my dear. And my position permits me to be. I feel no need for subtlety when I see something I want."
Anticipation shivered in her blood. "And what is that?"
"I want precisely what I wanted when I first danced with you last week. And again each and every time I have seen you since then. And now." He brushed his lips across the back of her gloved hand. "You, my dear Jocelyn, are what I want."
A wave of triumph swept through her. It was all she could do to keep from grinning like a lunatic. A genuine, wealthy, handsome prince wanted to marry her. Prince Alexei Frederick Berthold and so forth and so on wanted her to be his bride. His princess. And one day ... his queen...
The Prince's Bride. Copyright © by Victoria Alexander. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
