Prince of Secrets (By His Royal Decree 2)

Seeing a likely hallway, she ducked out of the huge ballroom. The farther she walked along the hallway, the more muted the cacophony of voices from the ballroom became and the more tension drained from her until even her hands, which had been fisted unconsciously at her sides, uncurled.

Only as her fingers straightened did she realize how very hard she’d been holding them.

She could hear voices ahead, one whose tones she recognized with a smile. Demyan.

Delighted by the opportunity to see him amidst the chaos of her wedding day, she quickened her steps, only slowing down when she realized who he was with.

King Fedir.

The one person who intimidated Chanel and brought out her barely resolved and all-too-recent insecurities. There were two other voices as well, a woman and a man.

They were all speaking Ukrainian, thinly veiled anger resonating in at least two of the speakers’ tones.

As Chanel slowed her progress, their conversation resolved itself into actual words she could understand.

The unknown woman demanded, “How dare you humiliate us this way?”

“My actions were not intended as an insult toward you.” Demyan did not sound particularly worried the woman had taken whatever he’d done as such, though.

“How could they be taken any other way?” a man who was not the king said. “You have repudiated us before all of Volyarus.”

“I didn’t repudiate you. I aligned myself with my true family.”

“I gave you birth,” the woman said in fury.

And the identity of the other two people became clear to Chanel: Demyan’s birth parents.

“You also gave me to your brother, abdicating any responsibilities and all emotional connections to me. I am no longer your son.”

“You are not a child.” The man speaking had to be Demyan’s biological father. “You know why that was necessary.”

“I know that you traded your son for the chance at leverage over your brother-in-law, the king. I know that Fedir and Oxana needed a secondary heir to the throne, but they have always treated me as more than an expedience.”

“I’m very pleased you took our house’s name, Demyan,” the king said with sincerity. “Your parents could have avoided this surprise today by allowing Oxana and me to adopt you as a child. It was their choice not to, as you said…for their own expedience. I, for one, was joyfully surprised and I know your mother feels the same.”

Chanel smiled, pleased the outwardly cold man so obviously cared about his adopted son. Demyan said something she did not catch.

“You think you are more than an expedience to the king and queen?” Duke Zaretsky sneered. “He has just ensured you sacrificed the rest of your life for the sake of his family’s wealth. You are far more his tool than you were ever mine.”

Chanel didn’t understand what the duke meant by his words, but there was no question they were intended to wound. And she wasn’t about to stand by while anyone tried to hurt Demyan.

She pushed open the door to what turned out to be a very impressive masculine study and crossed to Demyan’s side quickly.

His dark gaze flared with something that looked like worry before pleasure at her presence sparked to life, as well. “Hello, sérdenko.”

“What are you doing here?” the king asked with his usual less-than-warm attitude toward her.

“The reception was getting too loud.”

“You cannot abandon your responsibilities as a hostess on a whim.”

“Really? Then what are you doing back here?” she asked with enough sarcasm to be mistaken for her sister. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it your name on the invitation listed as host of this party?”

Demyan laughed, taking her hand and pulling her to his side. “You make an excellent case, little one.”

Everyone in the room except Chanel showed differing levels of surprise at his humor. The king recovered first, giving her a grudging look of respect when she’d expected a frown and polite dressing-down.

She had a lot of experience with both and a lifetime realizing she was no good at taking the path of least resistance, even if it meant avoiding them.

“Point taken,” King Fedir said. “We should all be getting back.”

“Does she know yet?” the duke asked, his expression calculating, his tone undeniably malicious.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHANEL DIDN’T ASK what he meant, or even acknowledge the man had spoken.

He’d done it in Ukrainian. Somehow she doubted Demyan had been into sharing confidences with the older man, which meant the duke had no idea she understood the language. That made his choice to converse in it pointedly without courtesy.

“You will be silent,” the king replied in the same language to his brother-in-law, his tone harsh.

Ignoring both posturing men, Chanel smiled up at Demyan. “I missed you.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Princess Svitlana said in a tone that made it clear she thought it was anything but.

Demyan’s expression was an odd mixture of tenderness and a strange underlying anxiety as he looked down at Chanel. “I am very proud of you. Not many science geeks would do so well at an affair of state with so little training.”

“You assigned a very potent group of babysitters.”

His nostrils flared as if her words surprised him.

“You didn’t think I realized you’d asked them to watch over me?” Once she had, she’d felt very well cared for.

Demyan would never leave Chanel to sink or swim in the shark-infested waters of his life.

“I could not be with you the entire time,” he said by way of an explanation.

Not that she’d needed one. “Because you’re a prince.”

“It’s a nominative title only,” his birth mother said with more venom, in English this time. “He’s no more a prince than you are a well-bred princess.”

Chanel gave the older woman a measure of her attention, but kept her body and clear allegiance toward Demyan. “I am not a horse and I wasn’t born in a breeding program. While I won’t claim to be a princess, Demyan is definitely a prince.”

“He won’t inherit. Not now that Princess Gillian is carrying the next heir to the throne.”

“But he is the king and queen’s son. That makes him a prince.”

“I gave birth to him,” the duchess said.

Chanel found it odd that the duke never verbalized his claim at fatherhood. “Congratulations.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No. I don’t know what your other children are like. Hopefully more like their older brother than their parents, but I do know you gave birth to an amazing man in Demyan. I’m sure you are very proud of that accomplishment, but you aren’t his mother any more than I am a princess.”

“Oxana is my mother,” Demyan asserted with absolute assurance.

“And you would do anything for her and the man you consider your father, even marry some socially backward American scientist to protect the Yurkovich financial interests.” She said scientist as if it was a dirty word.

Chanel almost smiled. She’d never considered her vocation as beyond the pale before.

“That is enough, Svitlana.” The king’s tone was again harsh, his expression forbidding.

“Oh, so you haven’t told her?” Duke Zaretsky asked snidely, clearly ignoring his king’s evident wrath and this time taking evident pleasure in speaking English. “I could almost feel sorry for her. She gave up hundreds of millions of dollars by marrying you and she doesn’t even know it.”

There could be no doubt the duke was talking about Chanel, but the words made absolutely no sense.

“I didn’t give up anything and gained everything marrying Demyan,” she fiercely asserted.

The duchess looked at her pityingly. “You have no idea, but no matter what kind of prenuptial agreement these two convinced you to sign, until you spoke your vows three hours ago, you were a twenty-percent owner in Yurkovich Tanner.

”

“I wasn’t. My great-great-grandfather left his shares to the Volyarussian people.” He’d told her great-grandmother so in a letter still in Chanel’s possession, along with the family Bible.

“And they have been used to finance infrastructure, schools and hospitals since then,” the king assured her.

She smiled at him, holding no grudge for his unwelcoming demeanor. “I know. I did some research when I got the scholarship. Your country is kind of amazing for its progressive stance on the environment and energy conservation.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“That money was yours,” the king’s sister insisted. “Until you married my son.”

The claims were starting to make an awful kind of sense, but Chanel had no intention of allowing the two emotional vultures in front of her to know about the splinters of pain slicing their way through Chanel’s heart.

She simply said, “He’s not your son.”

“Would you like to see your grandfather’s will?” the duke asked, clearly unwilling to give up.