If The Ring Fits.... Melissa McCloneЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Two

      Christina stood outside the double white-paneled doors, her heart pounding in her throat. The prince, the engagement ring, his bedroom.

      Oh, man. His bedroom, the prince’s bedroom.

      No one would believe this was happening. Well, maybe her family would, but no one else. She pinched her arm to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

      Prince Richard stepped in front of her and opened one of the doors. “You will wait inside.”

      “Your Highness,” she said, then hesitated.

      His I’m-better-than-you stare made her feel unwelcome, emphasizing the fact she didn’t belong. “What is it, Miss Armstrong?”

      Christina might not be royalty, but she was an Armstrong. She forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry for ruining your birthday.”

      “Go on.” With his hand at the small of her back, he led her inside. It was obvious he could care less about her apology. “Do not touch anything and stay away from the windows.”

      She almost asked if she should remove her shoes before stepping on the carpet but thought better of it. “Yes, Your Highness.”

      “I must return to the party. I believe my uncle is going to have a heart attack.”

      A what? Heart attack? She tried to speak, but no words would come. Prince Richard closed the door behind her, and she heard a click. Christina tried the handle, but it was locked.

      Locked in the prince’s bedroom. Alone.

      But a heart attack? Was Prince Richard joking or did he really mean…She glanced at her gloved hand.

      The ring. It had to be the ring.

      Oh, no. What had she done? A heart attack. This was her worst yet. People died from heart attacks. Christina clutched her hands to her chest. She’d really done it this time. The marquess—such a charming, entertaining man. Unlike his nephew, Prince Richard.

      A heart attack.

      Awful, dreadful, inexcusable.

      What would her family—make that the world—think? For once, she would deserve everything the press threw at her. She truly would not deserve to be an Armstrong.

      She plopped onto the king-size bed, a fit-for-a-prince bed made of elegantly carved mahogany with pomegranate-shaped finials on the canopy posts. Through an open window, a gentle breeze, carrying the smell of the sea, filled the room, but the fresh air did nothing to ease the suffocating guilt.

      Her fault.

      Lying on the hard mattress, Christina pulled the gloves up to keep them from falling off. Over the years, she’d broken things, valuable things. She’d started a war, actually a small insurrection, as her father preferred to call it. But she’d never hurt…

      Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. But breaking Tom’s thumb with the winch handle during a regatta could have happened to anyone. And Ron’s concussion was a total accident. Grabbing that cast-iron skillet was instinct, pure and simple. He could have been a burglar. If only she’d seen the box of Ho Hos first, but no one drops by at midnight unannounced. No one but Ron. At least she hadn’t had a gun. The gun, she couldn’t forget about Kent. But that was his fault, one hundred percent. Kent knew better than to take her skeet shooting. Thank goodness for the advances in medical technology. It was amazing what could be surgically reattached.

      Okay, so she might have accidentally hurt a few men, but she’d never killed anyone. A heart attack? Tears welled in her eyes. The stupid ring. She’d cut off her finger if it would save the marquess. She really would. She’d do anything to rid herself of the helpless feeling settling in the pit of her stomach like a week old glazed doughnut.

      After what seemed like a forever of silence, the lock on the door clicked. As Christina sat up, one of the double doors opened. Prince Richard stepped inside, followed by Didier and the marquess.

      The marquess.

      Thank goodness. He wasn’t dead. Christina ran and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re alive.”

      The marquess smiled. “Now more than ever.”

      She stared into his twinkling blue eyes, eyes that reminded her of the prince. Or had until she saw the real man beneath the princely facade. “I thought I’d killed you.”

      “My dear Christina. May I call you that?”

      Nodding, she couldn’t stop looking at the marquess. He was alive. Alive. A warm tear slipped down her cheek.

      “Are those tears for me?” The marquess wiped her cheek with a white linen handkerchief. “You make this old man wish he were thirty years younger. Richard, my lucky boy, you have found yourself a wonderful—”

      “Why would you think you killed my uncle?” Prince Richard asked.

      “You told me he was going to have a heart attack. I assumed it was because of the ring.” Her heartbeat accelerated. The ring. She’d forgotten for a moment. Christina faced the prince, wishing he’d shown the same compassion and sincerity as his uncle, but all she saw was a scowl of impatience. How could she have ever mistaken him for Prince Charming? The two had nothing in common except the word “prince.” The realization made her long for a familiar face. “Do you know where my father is?”

      The marquess gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He should be along shortly.”

      “Take off the gloves,” Prince Richard ordered.

      “Really, my dear nephew,” the marquess said. “Christina is not one of your subjects. She’s going to be your—”

      “Uncle Phillippe, please. If you feel the need to interfere, I will have to ask you to leave.”

      “I pretend to have a heart attack so you can clear the palace and this is what I get,” the marquess said, sounding affronted.

      “You pretended to have a heart attack?” Christina asked.

      “Yes, my dear.” The marquess winked. “And a valiant performance, worthy of an Oscar if I might say so myself.”

      “Why?”

      Prince Richard cleared his throat.

      The marquess sighed. “Why don’t you ask His Serene Highness?”

      Prince Richard said nothing. Who the hell did he think he was, standing there with an arrogant expression on his face as if she was a low-life serf? She’d cried thinking she’d been the cause of the marquess’s heart attack. Cried. She deserved an answer. Christina planted her hands on her hips. “So, are you going to tell me, Your Serene Highness?”

      Both the marquess and Didier chuckled, earning them a glare from Prince Richard. He glanced toward the ceiling and let loose a tirade in French.

      Pompous ass. As if I wanted to be part of this. She could match his colorful French vocabulary word for word, but she chose to take a calming breath instead. “Your Highness, I did not glue the ring to my finger, nor did I do any of this on purpose. If you have anything to say, please say it to my face in English.”

      Prince Richard studied her. “You speak French?”

      “Fluently,” she said, enjoying the surprise that registered in his eyes. The man had way too much pride. “When I was in college, I studied in Paris.”

      “Any other languages?”

      “Italian.” Christina realized she had the upper hand. And she liked it, liked it a lot. “I