Chapter 1
Ricard
The cherry-red Dodge Challenger Hellcat roared beneath me as I pushed it faster along the Texas highway, the speedometer creeping well beyond the posted limit. Wind whipped through the open windows, destroying my carefully styled hair, and for once, I couldn't bring myself to care.
One hour ago, I'd stepped from my private jet onto American soil, leaving behind the weight of expectations that came with being Ricard, Grand Duke d'Moncloud. For the next week, there would be no formal dinners, no diplomatic functions, no tabloid photographers—just blessed anonymity.
Seven days of freedom. Seven days to just be Ricard.
My lips curved into a smile as I recalled Sebastien's barely concealed horror when I'd insisted on driving myself from the airport.
“Monsieur le Duc,” Seb had called from behind me as I descended the stairs to the tarmac, his voice tight with concern. “Peut-être devrions-nous nous diriger vers le terminal. La chaleur est vraiment intense.”
“When in Rome, Seb,” I'd replied in English, drawing a deep breath of the warm air into my lungs. “Yes, it is hot, but I'm quite enjoying this.”
“Enjoying heatstroke, sir?” The dry humor in his voice was barely perceptible, but after a decade of service as my personal assistant and security detail, I'd learned to read the subtle shifts in his tone.
“It's still spring here, from what I understand.” Late May, though already quite warm compared to Avaline's alpine climate. “It gets much worse, they say.”
The Hellcat had been waiting on the tarmac, ostentatious and vulgar and absolutely perfect—the antithesis of the discreet black sedans I was accustomed to being chauffeured in.
“Your transportation, sir,” Seb had explained. “Monsieur Stone arranged it personally. He said you might appreciate something... different.”
Different. Yes, that was one word for it. The car was a statement piece, a roaring declaration of excess and power.
I'd loved it.
Seb's military background and serious demeanor had kicked into high gear as he tried to convince me to let him accompany me. “Your Grace, with respect, this isn't Avaline. You're unfamiliar with the roads, the driving customs—”
“That's rather the point, isn't it?” I'd interrupted, smelling new leather.
“I've spent my entire life being driven from one obligation to the next.
For once, I'd like to determine my own direction.” I'd slid my sunglasses on, relishing the momentary flash of freedom.
“I doubt anyone will recognize me here, in the backwaters of America.” The words came out harsher than intended, but there was truth in them.
I was 'visiting friends of the family' in Dallas.
That was the story I'd concocted. Even Seb didn't know where I was going.
Seb's jaw tightened, but he knew better than to argue further. I’d been adamant about being alone this week, even from him. “As you wish, Monsieur. I'll remain available should you require anything.”
“You'll do no such thing. Don't forget, Seb, this next week is your vacation as well.” He had Vincent Stone's phone number to reach me if there was an emergency, but that was all. I’d shot a wry smile at him. “Go enjoy yourself somewhere… indecent. You've earned it.”
The engine had growled as I pressed the gas, the raw power responding to my touch without scrutiny or analysis—unlike in Avaline, where my every movement carried political weight. Here, I was invisibly wealthy, just another tourist indulging in American excess.
“The coordinates are programmed into the navigation system,” Seb called after me. “And sir—” he hesitated, his professional mask slipping enough to reveal genuine concern. “Please be careful.”
I'd nodded, throat unexpectedly tight. Then I'd peeled away from the tarmac, leaving behind the trappings of duty, if only temporarily.
Now, as I navigated the winding roads, the tension in my shoulders loosened.
Live oaks and limestone outcroppings dotted the landscape, creating a scene both alien and beautiful to my European sensibilities.
Rolling hills filled with vibrant wildflowers stretched for miles, offering a primitive sense of space I desperately needed.
Love—or sex—could wreak havoc on an entire kingdom; history has proven that.
My family may have been European royalty, albeit a small yet influential principality, but that accounted for little these days as far as respect and decorum went.
Whispers and disapproving glances followed me in the privacy of my homeland for wrongdoings that weren’t mine.
People had even begun to outright question me about the scandalous affairs of my brother, hoping for a snippet of gossip.
As if I’d betray Remy’s privacy.
In a few weeks, my father would celebrate his fortieth anniversary on the throne, yet all the media could focus on was Remy, the crown prince, and his latest scandalous affair. The words in every headline blurred together in a sea of betrayal and disappointment.
My brother couldn't keep his pants on around pretty actresses, yet somehow I was the one who threatened the family legacy, at least according to our parents.
Painfully ironic. While Remy's heterosexual indiscretions made headlines, my sexuality remained a carefully guarded secret, known only to my immediate family and a few trusted confidants.
The memory of my mother's face—lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes cold with disappointment—when I'd announced my intention to take a brief holiday before the anniversary celebrations still stung.
Her silent disapproval had spoken volumes.
I was expected to stand beside my brother, presenting a united front as the perfect royal family while reporters hounded me about when I'd take a wife.
The GPS showed I was approaching my destination. I spotted the old gray water tower that marked the turnoff and made a right onto a smaller paved road. Twenty minutes and two armed security checkpoints later, I faced the imposing gates of Dove Canyon Ranch and Resort.
My heart raced as the wrought iron bars swung open. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, the reality of where I was and why I was here hitting me all at once.
Baron Julius von Konigsberg had been the one to suggest this retreat. As a diplomat and family friend, he'd taken me under his wing after I'd shared my sexual preference with my family, showing me how to navigate homosexuality in the European royal court system.
“It's a place where one can... explore without judgment,” he'd said, his gray eyes knowing. It was Julius who had sponsored my membership to The Ranch, describing it as “a sanctuary for extraordinary men of particular tastes.”
For years, I'd orchestrated my life around discretion, choosing partners who valued secrecy as much as satisfaction, meeting in properties so private even the staff didn't know who owned them, creating elaborate covers for the briefest encounters.
Yet the tabloids of Europe were filled with stories of my alleged conquests—beautiful women from noble families, actresses, models—all carefully orchestrated appearances.
The truth was far more complicated, and potentially far more scandalous.
Nestled in a natural hollow surrounded by hills, Dove Canyon Ranch and Resort resembled a Spanish colonial estate, with clay-tiled roofs and stucco walls the color of sun-baked earth.
The main complex sprawled across several acres, its architecture complemented by landscaped grounds that blended with the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside.
The driveway curved around a central fountain before terminating at the main entrance, where a valet stand had been set up beneath a covered portico. As I pulled to a stop, a handsome young man wearing only a pair of dark shorts and sandals stepped forward.
“Welcome to Dove Canyon Ranch, sir,” he said, opening my door with practiced efficiency. “Mr. Stone is waiting to welcome you personally.”
I stepped out, strangely reluctant to surrender the keys. The Hellcat had become a symbol of my brief taste of autonomy. “She's quite a machine,” I said, handing over the keys. “Handle her with care.”
“Of course, sir.” The valet's expression remained professionally neutral, but I caught a flicker of eagerness in his eyes.
Before I could say more, a figure emerged from the main entrance—tall, confident, with sandy blond hair and a blinding smile.
Vincent Stone, co-founder of The Ranch, moved with the easy grace of someone completely at home in his own skin, dressed in a pristine white linen suit that complemented the Texas heat, along with a white Stetson hat he tipped in greeting.
“Your Grace. I trust you enjoyed my Hellcat?” His bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “She's a personal favorite.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Stone,” I returned his smile, caught off guard by his casual warmth. “Elle est magnifique. Though perhaps conspicuous for someone in my position.”
“That was rather the point,” Vincent replied with a wink.
“Sometimes the best disguise is to be unforgettable.” His easy manner reminded me of our meeting two weeks ago, at a discreet Manhattan office where I'd signed the contracts finalizing my membership and transferred an eye-watering sum from my Swiss accounts—the membership fee that made most luxury yacht purchases look like pocket change.
He gestured toward the entrance. “I hope the drive down was pleasant. We aim to make your stay here everything you're hoping for, and perhaps a few things you haven't dared to hope for yet.”
As the massive wooden doors swung open before us, I took a deep breath and stepped forward, leaving behind the Grand Duke d'Moncloud and walking into a week that promised to change everything.
“Welcome to The Ranch.”