Princess Laurentia leads a fairy-tale life, but she leads it alone. Until she's swept away by Prince Dominic: soldier of fortune, black sheep of his family . . . and the man hired to protect her. Has her prince finally arrived?

Princess Laurentia leads a fairy-tale life, attending glittering balls and wearing beautiful gowns. But after the ball is over, Laurentia finds herself getting into bed...alone. She dutifully agrees to choose a husband, but when she casts her eyes over her sea of suitors, she doesn't see a single man worthy enough to claim her.

Then suddenly, she is swept off her feet by Prince Dominick, soldier of fortune, black sheep of his family...and the man hired to protect her. He's brazen enough to steal her kisses, yet tender enough to soothe her with one touch. He makes no promises, speaks no vows of forever...yet Laurentia can't help but hope that her prince has finally arrived.

At the ball celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday, Crown Princess Laurentia scrutinized the leering, timid, swaggering, toe-dragging, eloquent, stuttering sea of black and white evening wear and thought she had never seen such a pitiable pool of suitors in her life.

And they were hers. All hers.

"My dear, that smile looks much like the one you don when you suffer the headache, but you are still required to launch a ship."

She didn't look at her father, as was protocol. Each of their gestures, their glances, their words had been choreographed in advance. She stood at King Jerome's right hand while he sat on the gilded, ancient, throne of Bertinierre. Both wore elegant smiles. One by one gentlemen moved forward to the foot of the dais to make their bows to the woman--or more accurately, the kingdom--they hoped to win.

Yet King Jerome spoke in a tone that carried no farther than her ears, and he sounded remarkably amused. Moreover she knew his smile was sincere.

And why not? She'd made him a promise, and he hoped that promise would lead to the fulfillment of his dearest dream.

Hers, too, she reminded herself. She was the only heir to the tiny Mediterranean kingdom of Bertinierre, and she must produce a child, preferably two, before her fruitful youth vanished.

Too bad the whole thing left her feeling like an unpollinated apple tree.

"And these are the bees." To atone for her uncharitable comment, she rewarded her lady-in-waiting's current presentation, a Mr. Andrew N. Sharparrow, with a slightly warmer smile.

He returned it, and took another bow while Weltrude lifted her smartly-groomed brows in inquiry.

Responding to the prearranged signal, Laurentia blinked twice, and the Englishman was sent on his way, allowing another to take his place.

"Perhaps when you're married you'll stop talking to yourself," said her father.

"Probably not. I enjoy intelligent conversation."

He chuckled, then smothered his mirth behind a regal cough. "You haven't given the poor lads a chance."

She chose to ignore his remark. "Besides, you talk to yourself."

Taking her gloved hand, he patted it between his palms. "I used to talk to your mother. I still do, the best way I know how."

Giving in to temptation, she looked down into his warm brown eyes and wished, not for the first time, that she could be more like him--intelligent, yet kind.

Without conceit, she knew she was intelligent, too, but her intelligence contained the sting of acerbity. She had endless patience with children and the feeble of mind, but for those who chose to waste their God-given gifts in idleness and frivolity she felt a vast disdain.

Unfortunately, that included too many of the wealthy, well-born gentlemen milling around the grand cream and gilt ballroom.

A nobleman so ancient he could have been her father's father made his bow before them, and toppled over. Weltrude, large, big-boned, and stem, caught him before his head could make contact with the step.

Jerome indicated that one of his personal guard should assist the aged suitor. "How does he dare to think I would allow my beautiful girl to go to him?"

"Not everyone thinks quite as well of my looks as you do, Papa." Certainly not Beaumont, the English Earl of Burlingame ... and her first husband. "Have you thought you might be influenced by a parent's prejudice?"

"You look exactly like your mother," King Jerome said with finality.