Free The Prince’s Bride by Julianne MacLean

covered by a green woolen blanket.
    Stepping around the high-backed chair, Nicholas finally beheld the marquis’s face.
    He was about sixty years of age with prominent dark features. His hair was thick and
     wavy with only a few traces of gray. His nose was slender and straight, his eyes hazel,
     his shoulders broad. Nothing about him struck Nicholas as weak or pathetic. Standing
     at his full height, d’Entremont had no doubt been an imposing figure at one time,
     but tonight, he did not get up.
    “Would you care for a brandy?” the marquis asked. “It’s my finest.”
    Nicholas was tempted to tell him to take his fine brandy and choke on it, but restrained
     himself. Instead he turned and spotted a sparkling crystal decanter and an empty glass
     on a table near the desk.
    He crossed to it, poured himself a drink, then returned to sit on the matching chair
     that faced the fire across from the marquis.
    “I am waiting for you to explain yourself,” Nicholas said. “Why am I here, and why
     all the secrecy? If you wanted to see me, why not just send a letter and invite me?”
    “I couldn’t take the chance that you would refuse my invitation and return to Petersbourg,”
     d’Entremont replied.
    “Then why not come to Paris and call on me at my hotel? Clearly you knew I was there,
     for you had me abducted out of a private ballroom.”
    “I was farther down the coast,” the marquis explained, “trying to arrange for a ship
     to America.”
    “For yourself?”
    “No.” D’Entremont regarded him shrewdly, as if waiting for Nicholas to guess the true
     answer.
    “For Bonaparte?”
    “Yes.” D’Entremont pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were in pain. “Unfortunately,
     I was unsuccessful. The emperor has surrendered. He is now in the hands of the British.”
    Nicholas was relieved to hear it, but was no less on guard. To calm his temper, he
     took a sip of the brandy, which was indeed very fine. Perhaps the best he’d ever tasted.
     He hoped it wasn’t laced with laudanum.
    “So what do you want from me?” he asked. “To arrange Bonaparte’s escape? I assure
     you, you’re wasting your breath—and your fine brandy—if you think I will be pressed
     into helping that tyrant get away.”
    D’Entremont stared at him intently. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet and
     solemn. “You have your mother’s eyes.”
    The words sent a jolt into Nicholas’s heart, and he frowned. “Did you know my mother?”
    And what the devil did his mother have to do with anything? She had been dead for
     over twenty years.
    “Yes,” d’Entremont replied. “I knew her very well, which is why you are here now,
     Nicholas.” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “But I will not drag this
     out and force you to continue to ask why this is happening. I will answer your question
     now. I sent for you with such haste because I am dying. I will not be long for this
     world.”
    Nicholas cleared his throat. “I am sorry to hear it.”
    The marquis began to cough. He clutched his stomach, then recovered his composure.
     “As am I. You may or may not know that I lost my only son at Waterloo, which has caused
     me much sadness and grief.” His voice quavered, and he paused.
    “My condolences,” Nicholas softly said.
    The marquis sipped his brandy, set it down on the table beside him, then managed to
     continue. “When he fell on the battlefield, I lost my only heir. Now I must decide
     what to do with this estate and all my worldly possessions.”
    Nicholas thought of Pierre, the marquis’s illegitimate nephew, but remained silent
     as he waited for d’Entremont to finish.
    “That is why you were brought here, Nicholas. I wanted to meet you in person and explain
     all this myself.”
    “Explain what, exactly?” Nicholas sat very still as an ominous feeling settled into
     his stomach.
    “That I wish to name you as my sole heir, with the exception of one small property
     near Paris, which I