Marrying the Rebel Prince Read online

  A prince who’s used to getting his way…

  His Royal Highness Prince Nicolas Verbier d’Arennes has a reputation. His come-to-bed eyes, tousled fiery hair and regal credentials make him one of the world’s most notorious bachelors. Because, much to the royal household’s despair, the prince refuses to settle down.

  …meets a woman who refuses to be charmed!

  Artist Lauren Phelps is painting the prince’s portrait and vows to be professional – even if the prospect of spending hours gazing at a man so handsome it should be illegal is a bit daunting. Still, with her bright blue hair and her outspoken opinions of His Royal Highness’s behaviour, Lauren knows there’s no danger of Nicolas using his infamous charms on her!

  But what Lauren doesn’t know is that, if there’s anything the rebel prince enjoys, it’s flouting convention to meet a challenge…

  Fall in love with a royal this spring in Marrying the Rebel Prince – perfect for fans of happy ever afters and anyone counting down the days ’til Harry and Meghan say I do…

  Also by Janet Gover

  The Heights

  A modern re-telling of Wuthering Heights, co-written under the name Juliet Bell.

  Marrying the Rebel Prince

  Janet Gover

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © Janet Gover 2018

  Janet Gover asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-830115-6

  JANET GOVER

  JANET GOVER grew up in a small Queensland country town, surrounded by books. She made up her first story when she was about twelve and has been doing it ever since.

  Her day job has taken her from television journalist to IT specialist – and along the way she has visited more than sixty countries around the world. During her career, Janet has met one Pope, several Prime Ministers, a few movie stars and is on first name terms with a dolphin. She had also learned how to ride a horse, drive a tank, ice-skate and knit – although the only one she still does regularly is knit.

  Her novels have won romance awards in the USA and in the UK, including the 2017 Epic Romantic Novel of the Year Award presented by the Romantic Novelists Association.

  She also writes under the name of Juliet Bell – in collaboration with Alison May.

  While living in Hong Kong, Janet met an Englishman with green eyes, whom she subsequently married. They now live in West London with a rather large cat, who considers it his job to assist her writing by sitting on her keyboard as often as possible.

  You’ll find her on Twitter @janet_gover

  www.janetgover.com

  https://www.facebook.com/janetgoverbooks/

  This book is dedicated to every little girl who ever dreamed of a handsome prince on a big white horse.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Letter from the author

  Endpages

  About the publisher

  Chapter One

  ‘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.