The Sheikh Takes A Bride

He was quite aware that, despite the fact their mothers were sisters, there was no physical resemblance between himself and Joffrey. His cousin was five-ten, with a slim build, blue eyes, cropped blond hair and a fair, exceedingly English face. In contrast, he was a trio of inches over six feet, with a distinct copper cast to his skin and ink-black hair long enough to necessitate pulling it back for formal affairs like tonight’s.

Yet for all their outward differences, he valued Joffrey’s opinion above all others.

It had, after all, been his cousin’s matter-of-fact friendship that had eased Kaj’s crushing homesickness for his homeland of Walburaq when he’d been sent away at age eight to attend English boarding school. Just as it had been Joffrey’s steadying presence and astute counsel that had allowed Kaj to get successfully through Ludgrove and Eton, where he’d stood out like a hawk among pigeons. In all the ways that mattered, Joffrey was the brother Kaj had never had.

The reminder softened the chiseled angles of his face. “If it will ease your mind, Joff, I’ve made certain inquiries. The princess may be a tease, but she’s no trollop. On the contrary. I have it on excellent authority that her virtue is very much intact. Her pleasure seems to come from keeping her admirers at arm’s length.”

Joffrey’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You see her as a challenge!”

Kaj shrugged slightly, his broad shoulders lifting. “If I have to marry, I might at least enjoy the courtship, don’t you think?”

“No, I most certainly do not,” the other man retorted. “At least not to the exclusion of more important considerations.”

Kaj crossed his arms. “And those would be what, exactly?”

“Compatibility. Mutual respect and understanding. Similar values. And…and love.” A faint flush of embarrassed color tinted the earl’s cheeks at that last, but his gaze was steady as he plowed stubbornly on. “This isn’t a prize to be won, Kaj. This is your life, your future. Your happiness.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” the sheikh inquired softly. “Trust me. I have no intention of making my parents’ mistakes.”

Joffrey looked instantly stricken, as well he should since he was one of the few people who understood the price Kaj had paid for Lady Helena Spenser’s and Sheikh Tarik al bin Russard’s disastrous marriage, bitter divorce and subsequent flurry of heated affairs. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply you did. It’s just that this hardly seems the answer.”

“And what is?” Kaj’s voice was studiously polite. “Given the need for my bride to be pristine, what are my choices? Should I marry one of those tremulous debutantes your mother keeps throwing into my path? Or should I make an offer for some Walburaqui chieftain’s daughter, a sheltered innocent who’ll build her whole life around me?” He sighed. “I don’t want that, Joff. I want a woman who’s pragmatic enough to see a union with me as a mutually beneficial partnership. Not some starry-eyed romantic who’ll fall desperately in love with me and expect me to fulfill her every wish and need.”

“Ah, yes, adoration can be so trying,” Joffrey murmured.

Kaj felt a lick of annoyance, only to have it vanish as his gaze locked with his cousin’s and he saw the affection and concern in the other man’s eyes. His sense of humor abruptly resurfaced. “More than you’ll ever know,” he said dryly.

For an instant Joffrey looked surprised, and then his own expression turned wry. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I doubt excess worship of you will be a problem with Princess Catherine,” he said, matching Kaj’s tone.

Kaj cocked his head in feigned interest. “Do tell.”

The earl shrugged. “It’s simply that the more I think about it, the more I understand your choice. Unlike every other female on the planet, the princess has never shown the slightest tendency to swoon when you walk into the room. And though she may indeed be a virgin—I bow to your superior sources—she doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’ll ever fall at your feet in girlish devotion. As a matter of fact—” he glanced down at the ballroom spread out below them “—you’ll probably be lucky to get a date.”

Kaj followed his gaze. He quickly noted that Altaria’s new king, Daniel Connelly, was about to kick off the dancing with his queen, Erin. Of more immediate interest to him, however, was the discovery that the group of young men vying for Princess Catherine’s attention had grown even larger than before. He felt an unexpected pinch of irritation as one would-be swain said something that made her laugh. Vowing to put an end to such familiarity—and soon—he nevertheless refused to rise to his cousin’s bait.

Catherine would be his. He’d given a great deal of thought to her selection, and one way or another he always got what he wanted. “I appreciate your concern, Joffrey, but I assure you I’ll do just fine.”

“Yes, of course.” The other man’s words were perfectly agreeable, but there was a note of skepticism in his voice that was distinctly annoying. “I merely hope you’re not counting on a quick courtship. Because from the look of things, it may take some time just to breach the crowd around her, much less win her heart.”

“Oh, I think not,” Kaj said firmly. “One month should do the trick.”

Joffrey turned to look at him, brows raised. “You’re having me on, right?”

“One month and I’ll have Catherine of Altaria in my bed, my ring on her finger. Guaranteed.”

Joffrey rocked back on his heels. “Really. Doesn’t that first part rather violate your father’s purity directive?”

Kaj rolled his eyes. “I think not. My intended is supposed to be chaste for me—not with me.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“I suppose I do.”

“In that case… Care to chance a small wager as regards to your success—or lack thereof—in this venture?”

“By all means. Simply name your terms.”

“Well, I have always fancied Tezhari…”

Kaj nodded. His cousin had long coveted the exquisite Arabian brood mare. “Very well. As for me, I think the Renoir that graces your drawing room at Alston will make Catherine a lovely wedding present.”

Joffrey winced but didn’t back down. “It’s a deal, then. And may I say good luck. Because in my opinion, you’re going to need it.”

For the first time all evening, Kaj smiled, regarding the other man with cool confidence. “That’s very kind of you, Joff, but unnecessary. This hasn’t a thing to do with luck. It’s all about skill. Trust me.”

At that his cousin laughed. “Why do I suddenly feel as if I should pen the princess a note of condolence?”

The sheikh nonchalantly flicked a nonexistent speck from his impeccably tailored Armani tux. “I can’t imagine. But I do hope you’ll excuse me.” His gaze once more located Catherine down below, and he felt a distinct spark of anticipation. “I suddenly find I’m in the mood to dance.”

“Oh, by all means.” Joffrey stepped back, clearing the way with a flourish.

A twist of amusement curving his mouth, Kaj strolled away.

“Please, Highness.” The handsome young Frenchman at Catherine’s side gripped her hand and drew it toward his lips. “You are so very exquisite, with your Titian hair and your yeux emerauds. Take pity and say you’ll dance with me.”

Fighting an urge to roll her “emerald eyes,” Catherine told herself to be patient. After all, the ball, for which she’d done the bulk of the planning, was going well. Overhead the thousand tiny lights in the mammoth chandeliers twinkled like iridescent butterflies. The lilting strains of the orchestra were neither too loud nor too soft, and the scent of blooming flowers drifting through the score of French doors thrown open to the mild March night was refreshing rather than overpowering.

Add the men in their sleek black tuxedos, the women draped in silk and satin and a glittering array of jewels, and it was perfect, a storybook scene. Most important to Catherine, the guests of honor—her cousin Daniel and his wife, Erin, Altaria’s new king and queen—appeared to be enjoying themselves.

She watched for a moment as they danced, smiling at each other. There was such happiness in the looks they exchanged, such perfect understanding. Out of nowhere she felt an unexpected pang of envy.

What must it be like to share such closeness with another person? Catherine couldn’t imagine. She might be only twenty-four, but she’d long ago concluded that such intimacy wasn’t for her.

Her conviction had its roots far in the past, when her nouveau-riche mother had happily surrendered Catherine to the royal family, making it clear in the years since that she regarded her illegitimate daughter as a stepping-stone to high society, nothing more.

It had been further shaped by Catherine’s father, Prince Marc, who had always treated her like a unique trinket to be displayed when he wanted, then promptly forgotten once his need to impress others had passed.

Only her grandmother, Queen Lucinda, had ever truly cared for her. But that wonderful lady had passed away five years ago, and her loss had only underscored to Catherine how truly alone she was.

Oh, she had an abundance of suitors, but none of them had ever bothered to get to know the real her, the person beneath the public facade. They were too afraid of making a misstep and losing the chance to win her favor—and with it her money, her connections and, she supposed, her body.

Usually she didn’t care. But every once in a while she caught a glimpse of what her life might have been if she’d been born plain Catherine Rosemere, instead of Her Highness Catherine Elizabeth Augusta. And she would suddenly feel unutterably weary of fawning admirers, frivolous soirees and always feeling alone no matter how big the crowd that surrounded her.

Oh, poor, pitiful princess, said a mocking voice in her head. What a trial to be required to spend time in such a lovely setting, surrounded by the cream of high society. How unfair that you have to wear pretty clothes and listen to a few hours of lovely music and some meaningless chatter. What a tragedy that you’re minus your very own Prince Charming.

One hates to think how you’d stand up to a real problem, like being hungry or homeless. Or wait, how about this—you could be dead, like your father and grandfather, their lives snuffed out in an accident that now appears to have been no accident at all, but rather a deliberate act of murder.

Appalled at the direction her thoughts had taken her, Catherine cut them off. But she was too late to stop the anguish that shuddered through her. Or the guilt that came hard on its heels as she recalled the report by the Connelly family’s investigator concluding that the speedboat involved in the disaster had been sabotaged. A speedboat meant to be manned by her, not her father.