Of Royal Blood. Carolyn Zane

knocking Ariane off-balance.

      A hush descended over the crowd.

      Sebastian laced his fingers over the handle of the club and, having lined up his shot, drew back.

      On the down swing the words “Go, Sebastian!” pierced the hush and too late, Marie-Claire realized that the giddy shriek had come from the depths of her own throat. She wanted to die.

      People turned to stare.

      King Philippe rolled his eyes.

      Buck teeth poking through his smile, Eduardo shot her the thumbs-up.

      Her sisters’ strangled giggles revealed their horror. Lise hissed, “You’re not supposed to yell at a golf tournament, you silly twit, have you lost your mind?”

      Ears still ringing, Ariane gawped at her. “It’s no wonder he’s noticed you. You’re a loon.”

      Much to his credit, Sebastian managed to execute a perfect shot, straight down the fairway, ending up a mere yard from the flag. The crowd went wild. Grins broad, King Philippe and Sebastian locked their hands overhead in a victory high-five and the paparazzi went nuts, scribbling on their pads, cameras flashing.

      Through the throng, Marie-Claire felt Sebastian’s eyes search her out as he turned and, once again, winked at her. Hands to face, her cheeks scalded the cool tips of her fingers and, in spite of her mortification, she smiled.

      Their gazes met and clung, as they had, from time to time, over the years.

      Around them, noises and colors swirled. Reality fell away. Marie-Claire’s heart skipped several important beats and planet Earth seemed suddenly to be rotating backwards, so slowly was everything moving.

      Sunlight glinted off the back of Sebastian’s head, highlighting his dark hair in a glorious crown of burnished gold. He dipped his regal chin, his deep bedroom eyes never leaving hers and he arched a brow so loaded with questions that Marie-Claire knew.

      He remembered.

      Now that the tournament had ended, people were headed home to get ready for the victory celebration being held at the de Bergeron Palace that evening. A great ocean of humanity flowed past the clubhouse to the parking lot and gridlock was immediate. Impatient horns sounded and threatening shouts only added to the festive feel of victory.

      Sebastian LeMarc watched his caddie as the lanky, flamehaired Van Groober lad stood staring after Marie-Claire. His freckled face wore the twitter-pated look of unrequited love. Sebastian knew the feeling. He’d been watching the stunning Marie-Claire de Bergeron from afar for half a decade now. Along with most of the male population of St. Michel.

      But that was going to change.

      Tonight.

      She was twenty-one. Fully grown and fair game. And he had a good feeling that his interest was reciprocated. At least he hoped so. She was an amazing young woman. Full of vitality and as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.

      Apparently, Eduardo thought so, too.

      “She’s something, huh, man?” Sebastian clapped the gangly lad on the back.

      “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir! I’m not…I could never…” He tore his gaze from Marie-Claire’s retreating form and stared up at Sebastian. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Le-Marc?”

      Sebastian took his golf bag from the skinny Van Groober and shouldered it with an easy move. “Yes.”

      “What happened?”

      “Nothing.” He squinted off into the throng. “Yet.”

      From where she stood in her suite behind the king’s state apartment, Marie-Claire could hear the muted strains of a victory party gearing up from the grand Crystal Ballroom below. She pressed her nose to a balcony window to better see the headlights swinging around the circular drive at the front of the castle to the valet parking area.

      For the umpteenth time, she wondered when he would arrive. She strained to make out his sleek Peugeot through the gloaming and almost thought she saw it parked in the family’s private guest area. No doubt he was already downstairs, mingling. Though there were slated to be somewhere between twelve- and fifteen-hundred guests, for Marie-Claire, there was only one.

      Sebastian LeMarc.

      Light-headed with anticipation, Marie-Claire pushed the window ajar and music wafted in on the evening breeze. Every window in the palace blazed, and the gardens that unfurled from its rock walls were strategically lit to invite the fairy Queen Mab’s dreamers, or young lovers in clandestine escape.

      It was unusually warm for the first week in September, sultry, deceptively lazy, for the humidity lent an electric quality to the air, almost as if the thunderclouds looming in the distance might roll by and let loose with a wild abandon that would rival the emotional storm brewing beneath her breast.

      Palms to the ornately carved window casing, she levered herself from her fascination with the arriving guests and moved to her vanity to give her gown a tentative twirl and to check her makeup one last time for flaws. After a breathless inspection, she deemed herself to be as ready as she’d ever be, and set off to find her sisters.

      “How do I look?” Marie-Claire burst into Ariane’s suite to find her helping Lise fasten a dazzling choker of platinum, gold and diamond baguettes about her neck. No doubt a gift from Wilhelm Rodin, Lise’s husband of less than a month. Appearances were important to Wilhelm.

      They both spared Marie-Claire a casual glance.

      “You look quite grown up this evening,” Ariane allowed. “Hoping to catch Sebastian in a weak moment and club him over the head and drag him by the hair to your cave?”

      Fingers to lips, Lise pinched back her amusement.

      “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” With a grin, Marie-Claire waved off the sisterly jibe. “Any advice?”

      Lise sobered. “Yes. Stay away from men.”

      “This from a newlywed?” Marie-Claire’s own smile faded and she exchanged a concerned glance with Ariane.

      “Wilhelm and I were never a love match, you know that.”

      “Yes, but we thought you were at the least very good friends.”

      Lise shrugged. “They say that even for lovers, the first year is the hardest. For friends, I imagine it to be…less appealing.”

      Marie-Claire ached for her sister. She could never imagine agreeing to a marriage of convenience. It was lucky Papa hadn’t chosen her to create a political alliance between St. Michel and Rhineland because, though Wilhelm was handsome and charming, there was no warmth in the depths of his velvety brown eyes.

      Not at all like the sexy twinkle that sparked in Sebastian’s eyes when he caught her gaze and held it across a crowded room. Marie-Claire gave her head a slight shake. She would ponder Lise’s marriage another time. Tonight, she had a date with destiny.

      To Ariane, “What from you, dear sister? Any words to impart, to aid me in my mission?”

      Ariane sighed. “Quite simply? Stay off the floor, try to keep your hair pinned neatly to your head, and check your teeth for spinach, if you must eat. Speak when spoken to, and don’t, under any circumstances, let on that you care. Play it cool. Men like that.”

      Marie-Claire frowned. They did?

      Always the practical one, Ariane had little time for whimsy.

      But Marie-Claire was a much freer spirit. “I’m off.”

      “But we’re not ready.”

      “So?”

      “You’re surely not thinking of descending the stair by yourself?”

      “Oh, pish, Lise. This is the new millennium. You don’t have to do everything you are told to do, you know.” Marie-Claire moved to the heavy double