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Authors: Gaelen Foley
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leave tomorrow.”
Rafe’s eyes widened, his arm falling off the back of the chair.
The man had not taken a break in thirty years of rule.
“Now that that unspeakable Corsican has been penned up again—let us hope for good this time—I have decided to take your mother to Spain for a couple of months to see our grandchildren. I am making you prince regent in my absence, Rafe. What do you say to that?”
Rafe sat there in absolute shock.
He stared at his father and his father stared at him, a mysterious look of challenge in his piercing gaze, perhaps even a trace of wily amusement in the depths of his wise, dark eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir!” he said at once, fervently. His heart gave a violent kick, then raced.
His father held up one hand, halting his euphoria. “But I have one condition.”
Rafe wet his lips. “Anything.”
King Lazar gestured to Orlando. His cousin rose from his chair, went to the huge carved sideboard by the wall, and returned to Rafe carrying a large wooden tray. A roguish smile flicked over the king’s hard mouth as Rafe looked down at the tray.
On it were arrayed five small portraits of women and a small stack of legal papers. Furrowing his brow, he looked questioningly from the portraits to his father.
“It’s time you chose a wife, Rafe.”
He looked up in horror.
“Go on, pick one,” the king said, nodding toward the tray.
“Right now?” he exclaimed, aghast.
“Why not? How much longer do you intend to put it off? We have been waiting for you to make up your mind for three years. It is your duty to produce heirs, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“If you want a taste of rule, Your Highness, you must choose one of these young ladies for a wife and sign the proxy wedding papers there.”
“Proxy wedding!” he cried, yanking his hand away from the page. “You mean if I sign this, I’m married?”
“Precisely. You see? We couldn’t make it much more painless for you than that.”
Rafe stared at the paper as though it were a severed hand lying there on the tray.
The king steepled his fingers, giving him a stern look. “Rafael, your willingness to assume the responsibility of marriage is the only way I can rest assured that I can entrust you with Ascencion when I’m gone.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at his father. “You must be joking.”
Lazar merely waited.
Rafe shot a trapped, simmering glance at the old men, who regarded him in varying degrees of spite and disdain. No help was forthcoming from their quarter, he saw. He glanced at Orlando, but his cousin was studying the women’s portraits.
Rafe couldn’t bring himself to look at them. “Father, be reasonable. I cannot just randomly pick someone I’m going to have to look at every day for the rest of my life. I don’t even know who these women are!”
“You’re thirty years old, Rafe. You’ve had your time to court suitable women, but you chose to spend that time chasing actresses instead, so we have narrowed the field for you.” The king clasped his hands, resting his elbows on the table. “Choose. Then sign. Otherwise, I will leave Don Arturo in command, and you may continue to play. But,” he added in a hard tone, “should you make that choice, I will be forced to seriously reconsider your succession to the throne. Leo is still young enough, after all, to be molded for the crown.”
Rafe stared at him in disbelief, a knot of dread at the terrible threat forming in his stomach while fury gathered in his veins.
What could he do? He had to submit…as always.
Lowering his head, he stared down at the portraits, slowly growing too blind with rage to see the smiling, insipid faces of the approved, voted-upon, politically prudent, royal broodmares.
Puppet.
Prisoner.
He remembered Daniela Chiaramonte, a woman, barely more than a child, standing there on her front stoop as proud as you please, mistress of her own destiny—and he was humiliated.
No, he thought, his heart
Rafe’s eyes widened, his arm falling off the back of the chair.
The man had not taken a break in thirty years of rule.
“Now that that unspeakable Corsican has been penned up again—let us hope for good this time—I have decided to take your mother to Spain for a couple of months to see our grandchildren. I am making you prince regent in my absence, Rafe. What do you say to that?”
Rafe sat there in absolute shock.
He stared at his father and his father stared at him, a mysterious look of challenge in his piercing gaze, perhaps even a trace of wily amusement in the depths of his wise, dark eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir!” he said at once, fervently. His heart gave a violent kick, then raced.
His father held up one hand, halting his euphoria. “But I have one condition.”
Rafe wet his lips. “Anything.”
King Lazar gestured to Orlando. His cousin rose from his chair, went to the huge carved sideboard by the wall, and returned to Rafe carrying a large wooden tray. A roguish smile flicked over the king’s hard mouth as Rafe looked down at the tray.
On it were arrayed five small portraits of women and a small stack of legal papers. Furrowing his brow, he looked questioningly from the portraits to his father.
“It’s time you chose a wife, Rafe.”
He looked up in horror.
“Go on, pick one,” the king said, nodding toward the tray.
“Right now?” he exclaimed, aghast.
“Why not? How much longer do you intend to put it off? We have been waiting for you to make up your mind for three years. It is your duty to produce heirs, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“If you want a taste of rule, Your Highness, you must choose one of these young ladies for a wife and sign the proxy wedding papers there.”
“Proxy wedding!” he cried, yanking his hand away from the page. “You mean if I sign this, I’m married?”
“Precisely. You see? We couldn’t make it much more painless for you than that.”
Rafe stared at the paper as though it were a severed hand lying there on the tray.
The king steepled his fingers, giving him a stern look. “Rafael, your willingness to assume the responsibility of marriage is the only way I can rest assured that I can entrust you with Ascencion when I’m gone.”
He sat back in his chair and stared at his father. “You must be joking.”
Lazar merely waited.
Rafe shot a trapped, simmering glance at the old men, who regarded him in varying degrees of spite and disdain. No help was forthcoming from their quarter, he saw. He glanced at Orlando, but his cousin was studying the women’s portraits.
Rafe couldn’t bring himself to look at them. “Father, be reasonable. I cannot just randomly pick someone I’m going to have to look at every day for the rest of my life. I don’t even know who these women are!”
“You’re thirty years old, Rafe. You’ve had your time to court suitable women, but you chose to spend that time chasing actresses instead, so we have narrowed the field for you.” The king clasped his hands, resting his elbows on the table. “Choose. Then sign. Otherwise, I will leave Don Arturo in command, and you may continue to play. But,” he added in a hard tone, “should you make that choice, I will be forced to seriously reconsider your succession to the throne. Leo is still young enough, after all, to be molded for the crown.”
Rafe stared at him in disbelief, a knot of dread at the terrible threat forming in his stomach while fury gathered in his veins.
What could he do? He had to submit…as always.
Lowering his head, he stared down at the portraits, slowly growing too blind with rage to see the smiling, insipid faces of the approved, voted-upon, politically prudent, royal broodmares.
Puppet.
Prisoner.
He remembered Daniela Chiaramonte, a woman, barely more than a child, standing there on her front stoop as proud as you please, mistress of her own destiny—and he was humiliated.
No, he thought, his heart
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