The Hidden Prince (The Royals of Aldonia Book 1) Read online

  The Hidden Prince

  Nadine Millard

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Nadine Millard

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  To the lady gang for love xx

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Protecting the Princess

  More Books by Nadine

  About Nadine Millard

  Prologue

  The Royal Palace

  Aldonia

  “I hope I needn’t remind you how imperative it is that you take care of your sister. This idea of yours Alexander, to travel as though you are not royalty. It’s madness.”

  Alexander Philip Farago Wesselbach, Prince of Aldonia, and bored second son sighed as he listened to his father’s ranting.

  It had been almost a full hour. Quite the feat. Even for King Josef.

  Alex had informed his father that he was travelling to England for the Christmas season, then on to wherever in Europe he felt like visiting. Though his mother Queen Anya would have preferred that he stay home, Alex had been determined.

  For the past few months he’d been suffering something of a personal crisis. His life as the second son, the second prince, had been one of luxury, debauchery and irresponsibility.

  His brother Christopher the crown prince and future king had always been the impeccably behaved one, training for the mantle of king since he’d been in leading strings.

  Alex had come second and therefore was neither as important nor as prevailed upon to act in a certain manner at all times.

  Harriet, their younger sister was of course expected to act as a lady should, suffering the strictures of polite Aldonian society.

  But Alex – Alex had been able to do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted. He’d spent his early twenties touring Europe spending his time with the most infamously wild writers, artists, and rakehells he could find.

  The royal decree had reached him last summer in Italy; his father wanted him home and would brook no argument.

  Alex had returned, albeit reluctantly to find that whilst King Josef didn’t want his son disgracing the monarchy all over Europe, he didn’t particularly care what he did at home as long as it wasn’t too disgraceful.

  And so, Alex had been back in Aldonia for months, losing interest in all of his old vices, and chomping at the bit to get away.

  So it was that he’d decided to leave again. Choosing to remove to England first, where his father’s reach wasn’t quite as formidable.

  The king had flatly refused to allow Alex to leave again, especially when he heard that Alex wanted to travel as any other gentleman; without a royal entourage.

  It had taken a lot of arguments and a healthy dose of Alex’s stubbornness to finally get the king to give his grudging blessing to the trip.

  Alex’s smug sense of victory had been short-lived, however. For he was to take his sister along on the tour.

  Harriet had been beside herself. Thrilled beyond words that she would get to visit the land of the gothic novels she devoured, meet the lords and ladies of whom she read so much.

  Alex had been less impressed with the development, but he found himself unable to refuse Harriet’s request to join him when it obviously meant so much to her.

  Now, the day before they were due to leave, his father had summoned him to deliver yet another sermon on expected behaviour, another list of rules the length of the Aldonian coast.

  “As I have told you repeatedly, father,” Alex spoke when the king paused for breath. “I do not wish to conduct a royal visit. I just want to get away. And I have no intention of letting anything happen to Harriet. I am well capable of taking care of her, without the need for Aldonian soldiers or anyone else you think I should take along.”

  The king glowered at his youngest son, and Alex glowered right back.

  As the silence grew, Alex’s patience shrank.

  Sighing, he stood from his chair.

  “If that is all?”

  “No,” King Josef answered. “That is not all.”

  Something in his father’s tone gave Alex pause and he slowly sat back down.

  “Before you go to England, there’s something you should know, Alexander,” the king spoke wearily now. “Something that I should have told you years ago.”

  Chapter One

  The problem with holly and ivy, Lydia Charring realised, was that it had an unnatural desire to attach itself to parts of a person to which it had no business being attached.

  She had pulled and pushed and battled fiercely against this particular bush for hours, and she was freezing.

  Her nose, she was sure, would be beet red, and she was fast losing feeling in her fingers, even as they were ensconced in her buttery leather gloves.

  Finally, she managed to force the bush to part with some of its holly, and with a satisfied sigh, she dropped it into the basket at her elbow.

  Well pleased with her morning’s work, Lydia stomped back across the vast meadow toward her uncle’s pile of bricks. Although uncle wasn’t entirely accurate, since Horatio Huntsforth (and wasn’t that a mouthful) was her mother’s godfather, and not actually a relation at all.

  The site of Chillington Abbey was always a little intimidating. Never more so than on a day like this, when the clouds hung low and ominous in the sky, and even the weak winter sun didn’t seem able to penetrate the thick cloud sitting over the manse.

  Chillington by name, chilly by nature, Lydia thought wryly. The place was freezing. And though it had fireplaces big enough to stand five of Lydia side by side, her uncle was a miserly old so-and-so who wouldn’t light more than one fire to save his life.

  Thankfully, he kept to his suite or study for the most part, and so the library and Lydia’s bedchamber, as well as her mother’s, were kept toasty and warm, with Lydia promising to bear the brunt of her uncle’s displeasure should the maids get caught lighting the fires.

  It wasn’t that her uncle was unkind, for truly he wasn’t. He was her mother’s dearest friend, after all. And for years they had trudged here every Christmastide so the old codger wouldn’t be alone.

  He was just careful with money, her mother would say. Very careful. Lydia, on the other hand, would say he was stingy and then receive a sermon for her troubles.

  Unfortunately, as Huntsforth grew older, his health declined and this year he’d kept abed sleeping for hours at a time and seeming barely aware of his surroundings. It was a worry but the doctor assured both Lydia and her mother that the old man would rally soon.

  Lydia kept her eyes trained on the house as she tramped through the snow. The place was beautiful in an austere kind of way.

  She wond
ered, not for the first time, who the mysterious nephew was that would inherit the place on Huntsforth’s death.

  He had married years ago, long before Lydia’s birth, but the marriage didn’t produce any heirs, and sadly his wife had died young.

  He’d never married again, not even to secure his line.

  “He was heartbroken.” Lydia’s mother had sniffed delicately. Which was terribly sad.

  So it was that a nephew from foreign lands was to inherit, though he would appear to be less than interested, since he’d never come to visit, nor written, to Lydia’s knowledge.

  Imagine, a man not caring at all that he was to become lord and master of such a place.

  And not just this! Huntsforth also owned a townhouse in London and, bizarrely, a mansion of some sort in some small European country or other.

  All very strange.

  Well, Lydia continued her rambling thoughts as she hurried across the expansive grounds; she thought it most unkind that his own flesh and blood should treat Huntsforth so ill, not caring about the old man.

  She’d wager the nephew was a slimy little weasel just waiting for his uncle to meet his maker so that he could sell off all the property and continue to stay far away.

  Well, let him, thought Lydia. Nobody wanted him in any case.

  She finally reached the house and hurried to the drawing room, dropping her cloak and gloves into the waiting hands of a maid who’d obviously been watching for her.

  “Your mother wishes to see you in the pink drawing room, miss,” the maid said with a little curtsy and a sympathetic grimace.

  Oh, Lord, Lydia thought. What was it now?

  Her mother had found some problem or another, and no doubt Lydia had done something wrong.

  “I wonder what I’ve done this time,” Lydia quipped.

  The maid’s eyes darted this way and that before she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially “There are guests.”

  Lydia inwardly groaned as she thanked the maid for the warning.

  Guests.

  That meant mama’s nerves were probably at breaking point.

  Prudence Charring was painfully shy. She often said she had no idea where Lydia got her vivacious spirit from, certainly not her timid mother or kindly-but-rather-stuffy father.

  Sir James hadn’t joined them on this year’s sojourn, preferring to stay on their estate and oversee the workings of their modest farm.

  So, if Mama was on her own with visitors and with Huntsforth being confined to his rooms, Lydia needed to hurry.

  Brushing leaves, bark, and even, she noticed to her annoyance, muck from her leaf green skirts, she practically sprinted to the door of the drawing room.

  Skidding to a halt, she composed herself as best she could then pushed open the door and waltzed in, the most ladylike of ladies.

  Three pairs of eyes turned toward her at her entrance: her mama’s blue, so like her own, a chocolate-brown pair belonging to a fetching young lady on the cusp of womanhood, and the darkest, most sinful eyes she’d ever seen, in the face of the most handsome, devilish-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  Lydia felt her jaw drop as her gaze took in the figure of the man who stood to bow to her.

  He was huge, easily above six feet.

  His shoulders were wide, his thighs encased in fawn-coloured breeches muscular and strong, and Lydia would just bet that he required no padding under his dark green coat.

  His cravat, waistcoat, and shirt were a startling white.

  In short, he was immaculately put together from the tip of his sable-black hair to the toes of his shiny Hessians.

  “Lydia, darling.” Prudence Charring sounded weak with relief. “Thank goodness you have arrived. We were beginning to give you up as a lost cause.”

  Her mother tittered faintly, and Lydia guessed that it had been an attempt at a laugh.

  “Please, do come forward and meet Huntsforth’s guests.”

  Lydia stepped forward and donned the polite society mask she used for introductions.

  “This is Mr. Farago, and his sister, Harriet.”

  Lydia smiled politely as the young lady, Harriet, jumped to her feet to execute a lovely curtsy.

  Mr. Farago stepped forward to clasp her hand, and Lydia was shocked by the tingle that shot through her arm at the contact.

  Bowing over her hand, he glanced up at her, and she had to opportunity to see that his eyes were a deep, dark brown, almost black, in fact, with the merest flecks of gold in them.

  Lord, but he was handsome.

  It was terribly distracting.

  “Mr. Farago, Miss Farago… my daughter, Miss Lydia Charring.”

  “It is an honour to meet you, Miss Charring,” Miss Farago said with a pretty smile and an accent that Lydia couldn’t quite place. European, certainly. Perhaps French? Her English was so impeccable and spoken so flawlessly that there was just the merest hint of a different inflection. “Your mother has been telling us so much about you.”

  Lydia kept her smile, but inwardly she died a little.

  Her mother found it difficult to engage in the chitchat that was such an inherent part of good Society. As such, when she had a topic she liked to discuss, she talked incessantly about it. Unfortunately, Lydia was one such topic. In point of fact, she was the main one.

  “I do hope it hasn’t been too dull,” she answered with a friendly smile.

  “On the contrary, Miss Charring, it has been extremely interesting.” This from the handsome gentleman. Lydia’s heartbeat picked up speed as she heard the same subtle accent in his deep voice as in his sister’s.

  She had the ridiculous urge to fan herself. Perhaps Huntsforth was right to keep all the fires banked. This man could heat a room with his mere presence.

  “Now that we see the subject in person, I think it is safe to say your mother was modest on your behalf.”

  Goodness.

  He was a charmer, too.

  Warmth crept into Lydia’s cheeks, shocking her. She’d never been the blushing sort.

  But then, she’d never met anyone worth blushing about. But Mr. Farago, well…

  “Lydia, won’t you have some tea and—is that holly in your hair?”

  Her mother’s question brought Lydia’s thoughts back from decidedly wanton places to the situation at hand.

  Holly?

  Eyes widening, Lydia lifted a hand to pat her chestnut-brown hair. She winced slightly as she felt an array of leaves and berries scattered through it.

  “Ah, why, yes, it is,” she answered as though it were perfectly normal for a young lady to go around with foliage in her hair. “I was collecting holly and ivy for the ball.”

  A gasp from Harriet saved Lydia from her mother’s disapproving gaze.

  “A ball? How exciting.”

  Lydia grinned at the younger girl’s excitement.

  “Have you attended many balls here in England?” she asked by way of engaging the other girl in conversation and distracting her mother.

  “None.” This from her brother. “And certainly none with forest nymphs,” he quipped with a devastating smile, nodding his head at her hair.

  Lydia grinned in response. She could run off embarrassed, but what would be the point? It was hardly the crime of the century to have some holly in one’s hair.

  “A forest nymph,” she answered, taking a seat beside her mother. “That is a terribly polite way of saying I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush.”

  Mr. Farago’s laughter was delectable; raspy and deep.

  Dear heavens! She simply must get a hold of her wanton thoughts.

  “Really, Lydia,” her mother twittered like a little bird, “you shouldn’t be gathering holly. Can’t you get a footman or a maid to do it for you?”

  Lydia shrugged, unrepentant.

  “I enjoy it,” she answered simply. “And it wouldn’t be fair to pull them from their duties because I insist on having it.”

  “When will the ball be?” Miss Farago asked,
her dark eyes, though not as dark as her brother’s, shining with excitement.

  “Twelfth Night Eve,” Lydia answered excitedly. It truly was the highlight of her calendar. “Will you still be in the area by then?”

  “Not in the area,” Miss Farago answered. “Here!”

  Lydia’s stomach performed a strange little flip at the news that she would be sharing a house with the mysterious stranger and his sister.

  “Oh?” was all she managed with a suddenly dry throat.

  “Yes, they have travelled from Aldonia!” her mother said, her tone awed as though she’d just announced they’d arrived from the moon.

  Lydia was suitably impressed. “How envious I am that you have travelled so far.” She smiled. “I should love to travel to Europe—Aldonia, Italy, Spain, France! I’ve never gotten past Yorkshire,” she finished glumly.

  But then she remembered something. “Huntsforth has family in Aldonia,” she said. “I wonder if you know them? Some odious nephew who can’t wait to get his greedy paws on Huntsforth’s wealth but apparently can’t bring himself to write a letter.”

  “Lydia, really,” her mother chided with scalded cheeks. “You cannot say such things. We do not even know Horatio’s nephew.”

  “I know enough,” Lydia continued, unrepentant. “Imagine ignoring an elderly man on his last legs then having the audacity to inherit everything. Oh, and I would just wager that he is rich as Croesus and has no need for Huntsforth’s money. If he were a poor man, he’d have been here begging years ago.”

  She turned to look at their guests and was ashamed to see their expressions; Harriet looked both confused and embarrassed; Mr. Farago brooding and most displeased.

  “Oh dear.” Lydia was immediately contrite. “Please, forgive my forwardness. I do let my tongue run on.”

  Then she was struck by the most horrid thought.

  “You don’t know his nephew, do you? I haven’t just insulted a friend or cousin or something?”

  Miss Farago opened her mouth to answer, but her brother got there before her.