Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

ANTOINE

I close the door to my office and walk to my desk, where a stack of unopened letters awaits me. My laptop hums faintly. I put the letters aside and scroll through my unanswered emails. But concentration eludes me. My gaze wanders to the framed map of Mount Evor hanging on the wall. It’s been in that exact spot since the late eighteenth century. The ornate design pulls me in, as it often does.

Business can wait a minute.

I get up and walk over to the map. Without touching the glass, I trace the borders of my tiny country which could cease to exist in less than six months. The towns and villages would remain, of course. The counties would disappear. Our laws, our traditions, our way of life would go, along with security and prosperity.

Our royal family would join the ranks of other deposed sovereigns. There’s a bunch of them in the world, overthrown by more or less bloody revolutions, be they religious or communist. The House of Valois-Montevor could be brought down after a thousand years of uninterrupted and irreproachable rule.

And by what? By the ire and greed of a single man aided by a ring of shady acolytes.

That ring has corrupted nearly every royal family in the world, breaking the ancient covenant between the aristocracy and the common people—dominion for protection. Perverted by Kurt’s cabal, the rulers have thrown their subjects to the wolves.

How many nations still have peers driven by a sense of duty?

How many still remember that we must re-earn our privilege, hereditary though it may be, with each new generation?

Hmm… I think I can count them on the fingers… of a single hand.

As I stare at the map behind the glass, my gaze shifts to my own reflection, staring back at me.

What was it Mother said? Same thing as always—the perfect son, responsible, considerate, not a moment’s trouble…

Unflattering, but true.

Funnily enough, if there’s one point where Laura and I intersect, it’s this. She’s lived her whole life weighed down by her family’s expectations. And yet, in her low-key, nonassertive way, she’s fought back. She dates bohemian men. She designs and makes costume jewelry in her spare time. Hell, she even married a total stranger on reality TV!

One could argue that most of her cures are worse than the disease. She could certainly push back in a smarter way. But, at least she’s resisting.

What have I done to carve out a little freedom for myself?

What are my needs and wants that don’t align with those of my family or my country?

With shock, I realize I’d never considered I might have them.

I step away from the map, and my eyes fall on the delicate porcelain vase that stands on the Louis XV side table. Both are family heirlooms, but the vase is especially precious. We used to have two—a matched pair—until the day we didn’t. The seventeenth-century masterpieces were given to my ancestors by a reigning prince. Grandmother Mathilde took great pride in them.

My chest tightens as a memory resurfaces, unbidden but vivid. I’m nine years old, back in the grand salon of our chateau, with its gilded mirrors and heavy velvet drapes. Henri’s five. His laughter echoes around the room, high-pitched and wild, as he darts among the antique furniture. I do my best to calm him down, to steer him away from the priceless objects crowding the space. But it’s like trying to control a tornado.

“Henri, stop!” I call. “We’re not supposed to play in here. Let’s go to the library instead or the playroom or the gardens!”

“Catch me first!” he shouts back, laughing.

He’s running in circles around the massive dining table and among all the heavy curtains, gilded mirrors, and antique china. As if that wasn’t dangerous enough, he also spins from time to time, arms outstretched, like a propeller gone berserk. His nanny is off today. Mother is in bed with the flu, and the household staff is busy. So, I’m the unofficial stand-in. But I’m only nine and an inexperienced babysitter. I’m not equipped to deal with the hellion that is my little brother.

When I manage to catch him, he thrashes, bites my arm and breaks free.

“Henri, stop!” I plead again.

“No!” he shrieks, his curls bouncing as he races away from me. “This is fun!”

I change tactics and try to herd him like a sheepdog. But he zigzags around the chairs, outmaneuvering me. My stomach clenched, I glance at the table, covered with a richly embroidered white cloth. At each end of it, Granny Mathilde’s favorite vase holds a bouquet of roses from the garden.

“Henri, seriously, let’s go!” I try again.

He just giggles and darts under the table. I crouch to grab him, but he slips away and reappears on the other side.

“Catch me if you can!” the little imp taunts me.

My heart is pounding as I chase him. “Henri!”

“You can’t catch me?—”

His triumphant jeer cuts short when his hand snags the edge of the tablecloth. Time slows. The vases slide to the edge. I instinctively reach out and catch the one closest to me.

Crash!

The other vase shatters. Fragments scatter across the parquet floor like confetti. Henri freezes, his wide eyes locked on the mess he’s made. My heart sinks into my stomach.

Footsteps. Heavy, urgent.

I put the vase on the table. Seconds later, the double doors fly open, and Father strides in. He’s followed by Granny Mathilde and Grandpa Antoine. They stop in their tracks when they realize what happened. Their eyes dart from the broken vase to my little brother. They’re not happy.

Henri steps back, his lower lip trembling. Panic and guilt are written all over his face as he looks up at me.

I step forward. “I did it.”

The accusatory stares shift to me. Eyebrows rise. Heads tilt with suspicion.

I keep my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. “Really, it was me! I was running and I snagged the tablecloth. I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Granny Mathilde covers her mouth and shakes her head, as if refusing to believe the finality of the disaster. Father’s jaw tightens. I hear someone sneeze outside the room. Mother enters in her pajamas. She surveys the damage, swears under her breath, turns away, and blows her nose.

“Antoine,” Father starts, his voice low and firm, “how could you be so careless? You know how valuable that vase was.”

Henri’s lip stops quivering. Relief brightens his round face, which makes me both proud and a little bitter.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

Grandpa Antoine doesn’t say a word as he escorts Granny Mathilde out of the room, her lamentations fading down the hall. Later, after the commotion has died down, I take refuge in the library. I’m sitting on the window seat, staring out at the gardens, when Grandpa Antoine walks in, his hands clasped behind his back.

He stops by the fireplace. “Come here.”

I slide off the seat and walk toward him, my stomach knotting. He places a hand on my shoulder and crouches to meet my eyes.

“Tell me the truth,” he says quietly. “Was it Henri?”

My mouth dries.

Grandpa Antoine narrows his eyes. “The other vase was on the table as if nothing had happened. How come it didn’t fall down and break?”

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Is it because you caught it?” He peers at me. “Come on, kid, I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

I fix my eyes on the floor, considering. It’s not that I don’t trust his word, but I don’t want him to think poorly of Henri, who already has a bit of a reputation in the family.

I shake my head. “It was me.”

Grandpa Antoine studies me for a long moment, muttering something under his breath that sounds like “mature for his age.” But I might’ve misunderstood it.

Then, he ruffles my hair. “You’re a good sort.”

What?

“When you grow up,” he says, “you’ll make this family very proud, Antoine. I know it like I know the sound of my name.”

I’m only nine, but I understand what he means. I’m the responsible one. I can be entrusted with a legacy because I’m solid enough to carry it. I’m the one who holds things together and who isn’t allowed to fail.

A knock on the door interrupts my trip down memory lane.

I open it. Celeste walks in. Her expression is soft as she gazes at me as if she can sense the bizarre state I’m in even though I haven’t said a word.

“I’ve been doing some digging,” she says.

“Oh? For ancient pottery or prehistoric bones?”

She laughs. “No, metaphorically speaking. About Laura.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I could?” She shrugs. “With my family connections, it wasn’t difficult.”

I harrumph.

“It looks like your mother’s theory wasn’t far off.”

“Which theory?” I ask. “She has many.”

“Laura is back with her ex, the pop singer.”

I keep my voice unemotional. “Why do you care?”

“Because you do, Antoine,” she replies without artifice. “And it’s time we addressed the elephant in the room.”

“There’s nothing to address.”

She ignores my denial. “I think we should invite them to dinner.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“The four of us,” Celeste articulates. “A good meal. A friendly chat.”

I scoff. “Even if I was on board with this absurd plan, Laura has no desire to visit Mount Evor. And her boyfriend is not cleared for it.”

“Then we’ll have dinner in Paris.”

“That is a terrible idea,” I say flatly.

“On the contrary,” she retorts. “It’s the best way to clear your conscience.”

“My conscience is fine, thank you very much.”

“I don’t think so.” She searches my face. “I think you feel guilty, and it prevents you from moving on.”

“Why would I feel guilty?”

“Because you’re a decent person.” She gives me a feeble smile. “During the show, you led her on, Antoine. You had to. I’m not here to blame you for it, but I can see how it’s eating at you.”

Is it?

I know my lust for Laura was real. My tenderness, too. I was sincere in every caress, every endearment—I just knew it would all stop with the end of my mission. Laura, of course, was unaware that our relationship had an expiration date, and I never told her. In that, I wronged her.

Could Celeste be right? Could it be guilt, and not… other feelings that keep Laura constantly on my mind?

Celeste touches my arm. “That’s why I want you to see her happily reunited with her ex, the man she never stopped loving, from the looks of it.”

Ouch.

I look out the window. “Laura won’t agree to this dinner.”

“Leave it to me,” Celeste says. “I can be persuasive.”

Her certainty rubs me the wrong way, but her argument has merit.

“One dinner.” She clasps her hands in a plea. “That’s all I ask.”

What if seeing Laura happy with Mike is the bitter pill I need to get over her?

Celeste gives me a final, knowing look. “Stay tuned. I’ll text you the details.”

She blows me a kiss and leaves the room, her heels clicking softly on the floor.