His Majesty's Mistake

Makin was still on his first glass of wine and Emmeline wondered what he was thinking.

Makin caught her glance and smiled at her, which made her stomach do a funny nosedive.

He was really too good-looking. Feeling jittery and shy, she glanced down at her left hand resting in her lap to study the enormous engagement ring. It was the whitest stone she’d ever seen, and the exquisite cut continued to catch the light, glinting bits of blue, white and silver fire.

She glanced at him again and discovered he was looking at her, his silver-gray gaze intense.

Tomorrow night at this time they’d be married. Husband and wife. And from what he’d said earlier, he intended to be a real husband to her….

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Claire repeated, gesturing for one of the footmen to fill her wineglass again. “She’s always been a problem. From the time she was an infant. There has never been a baby that cried so much.”

Emmeline felt Makin’s gaze on her again, but this time she looked pointedly away, a small, tight smile on her face. She wasn’t a problem. She didn’t know why her mother always seemed to think she was. It’s not as if Claire had ever taken time to know her. They were rarely alone together. Her parents had busy, important lives and Emmeline had been raised by hired help—nannies and tutors—before being sent to a very small private girls’ boarding school in France not long after she turned fourteen.

The boarding school had a reputation for being strict, but Emmeline had been happy there. There was order to the day and the rules were logical and consequences appropriate to the crime. Emmeline didn’t mind that fraternizing with boys was absolutely forbidden.

School was the place she could escape her mother’s unsmiling gaze and the tension that permeated the d’Arcy family palace.

“You can’t really blame her, Claire, she was quite small at birth,” her father interjected, rousing himself from his usual silence. He glanced at Makin, brow furrowing, bushy gray eyebrows pulling together. “She was not even four pounds when we got her. I think the nanny tried five different formulas before we found one she could tolerate.”

“See? Emmeline has always been impossible to please,” Claire added thickly. “Even as an infant, she had a temper. She’d cry for hours. Refused to be comforted.”

“Babies cry,” William said.

Emmeline glanced at her father, surprised that he was defending her. He rarely took on her mother, but perhaps the wine tonight had given him liquid courage.

William’s expression softened as he gazed at her. “You look lovely tonight, Emmie.”

She was touched by the compliment. Her lips curved in a smile. “Thank you. It’s the dress—”

“It’s not the dress,” William interrupted. “It’s you. You’ve grown up and you are … you look … just like her.”

“Who, Father?”

“William!” Claire rebuked.

But William lifted a hand as if telling his wife to be quiet. “Your … mother.”

“I’m her mother,” Claire corrected stiffly.

“Birth mother,” William amended.

Goose bumps covered Emmeline’s arms and the fine hair at her nape stood on end. Stunned, she glanced at Claire and then back to her father. “Did you know my birth mother?”

“Yes,” her father answered after the faintest hesitation. “And we think, in light of tomorrow’s ceremony, you should know who she was, too.”

Emmeline’s pulse raced. Her hands shook in her lap. “Who was she? What was she like? Did you ever meet her?” The questions tumbled from her as fast as she could say them.

“Of course we met her,” Queen Claire answered brusquely. “We wouldn’t adopt just any baby. We couldn’t raise just any child. We adopted you because you were … different.”

“Different?” Emmeline repeated wonderingly.

Claire took a sip of wine. “Special,” she added coolly. “You weren’t just any baby. You were royal.”

A moment ago Emmeline’s heart had raced. Now her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. “Royal?”

“Your mother was Princess Jacqueline,” her father said, getting to his feet. “My sister.”

Emmeline shook her head. “No … I don’t … no …”

“It’s true,” Claire said flatly, slurring a little as she stared into her now-empty wineglass with some consternation. “William’s baby sister. You were, what? Ten years older than her?”

He stood next to the table, fingertips pressed to the cloth. “Twelve.” He sounded grave. “She wasn’t planned. My parents had given up on having another. She was quite a surprise.” His voice suddenly quavered. “My parents adored her. I did, too. No one imagined that by sending her away … no one could have dreamed … it was a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake.”