Prince of Secrets

The duchess gasped. “You’re American.”

“Which does not equate to uninformed, stupid or uneducated.” Chanel met eyes so similar in color but different in expression from Demyan’s. “My heritage in this country may not be royal, or as long-standing, but when it comes to the welfare of Volyarus, it is equally as important as yours.”

Her grandfather had helped this nation stay afloat financially three decades ago and his efforts were still benefitting the Volyarussians.

“You already knew,” the duchess said, almost as if she admired Chanel’s acumen. “But then why did you marry him?”

“Because she loves me,” Demyan said, his voice gravelly.

Chanel turned back to him without agreeing or giving his parents another single solitary moment of her time. She hadn’t known about the will being different than what her great-grandmother had believed, or what that had to do with Chanel’s marriage to Demyan, though she could make a pretty educated guess based on the prenuptial agreement.

She wasn’t about to admit that to the Zaretskys, though.

Demyan was searching her face as if trying to read Chanel’s thoughts. So far in their relationship, she’d been an open book. She had little hope of hiding what was going on in her head right now.

But she didn’t have to talk about it. Especially in front of the older generation of the royal family.

“Leave,” the king said to his sister and brother-in-law.

The Zaretskys started for the door of the study.

“No,” the king instructed. “Out through the secret passage. You will not return to the reception and you will be out of the palace within the hour.”

“What? You cannot be serious. How would that look?” his sister demanded.

“Like you threw a temper tantrum when your son chose to change his name to reflect his true parentage,” the king replied, his tone arctic.

Princess Svitlana crossed her arms, but stopped just shy of stomping her feet. “I won’t do it.”

“You will. Do not presume to forget that this is not a nominal King of Volyarus. I hold the power to revoke your citizenship and deport you. Do not tempt me to use it.”

The duke and his wife both paled at the king’s words, Princess Svitlana doing a fair imitation of a gasping fish, though no words passed her lips.

The expression in her brother’s eyes suggested she keep it that way.

Showing she was marginally more intelligent than evidence might suggest, the princess left without another word. Through the secret passageway. Her husband followed close behind her.

Chanel stepped back from Demyan, intending to return to the reception. The crowds of people and litany of voices that fifteen minutes ago had seemed so overwhelming now called like a beacon for escape from the thoughts that were multiplying by the second in her head.

And with every new thought came a shard of pain Chanel had no idea how long she could contain.

The king blocked her exit, his gaze searching hers as much as his adopted son’s had done. However, the level of ruthlessness behind his perusal chilled her; she’d felt only confusion mixed with hurt at Demyan’s look.

She said nothing, simply waited for the King of Volyarus to move.

He frowned. “You will not return to the reception only to cause a scene.”

She was doing her best to hold back an emotional devastation she hadn’t experienced since her father’s death. Did he really think his display of bossiness was helping the situation?

“Let me give you a small piece of advice, Your Majesty.”

His brows rose in obvious shock at her tone.

She went on, “Right this second, all I see when I look at you is a man who would use whatever underhanded means are necessary to rob a woman and her family of a legacy they knew nothing about.”

“There was nothing underhanded about your marriage to my son. It is legal in every sense. You cannot undo it.”

She said a word that rarely passed her lips, but called the lie for what it was. Oh, he might be correct in that she could not undo whatever legality the wedding had wrought, but as for nothing about it being devious?

That was an ugly bit of nonsense. “All I’ve done so far is tell you my opinion, not offered my advice. If you’re smart, you will take it.”

“Chanel, you cannot speak to him like that,” Demyan said, sounding tired rather than corrective. “He is your king.”

“Not my king.” Any more than Demyan was her prince.

King Fedir asked before Demyan could reply to that claim, “What is your advice?”

“Do not attempt to tell me what to do. Because though my intention is not to embarrass my family, or Queen Oxana who has been nothing but kind to me, your very instruction not to cause a scene is nearly overwhelming impetus to do so.”