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His Runaway Royal
Clare Connelly
PROLOGUE
FINALLY ENSCONCED IN the seclusion of Benedetto di Vassi’s exclusive suite in the heart of the opulent, private members’ Diamond Club, Benedetto turned to his friend and spoke, his accented voice gravelled courtesy of the lateness of the hour.
‘What is it?’
Crown Prince Anton strode to the windows that framed a postcard view of the London street. ‘I need a favour.’
‘So I gather,’ Benedetto responded, voice droll, but inside he acknowledged that whatever Anton asked of him, he would agree to, for the simple reason that Anton had stood by him through everything that had happened—had been at his side in the worst days of grief, had supported him when Benedetto would have given up entirely.
There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the man.
‘It’s Amelia.’
Benedetto knew all about the spoiled younger sister of the Catarno royal family—the Runaway Royal, as she’d been dubbed in the media, because she’d simply woken up one day and decided to abdicate all of her royal duties—and responsibilities to her family—and disappear.
‘Go on.’
Anton paused as the door opened and one of the club stewards entered with a silver tray atop which sat a pair of whisky glasses. Both men waited silently for them to be placed on a nearby table.
Though the staff at the club signed strict confidentiality agreements, neither Anton nor Benedetto saw discretion as optional.
‘I need her to come home.’
Benedetto moved to the whisky, lifted both glasses, carried one to his friend.
‘The wedding is in two weeks. Already the media is in a frenzy about whether or not she’ll be attending—it’s all they can focus on.’ Frustration was obvious in Anton’s features. ‘This day is supposed to be joyous. Vanessa deserves that much, doesn’t she?’ he asked, his eyes lightening as he spoke of his fiancée.
‘Yes, she deserves that,’ Benedetto agreed, finding it impossible to keep the censure from his tone when he thought of the spoiled princess Amelia. What a brat she was, not only to have run away in the first place, but also to have stayed away even as the wedding of her oldest brother, and the heir to the throne, approached.
‘Frankly, I just need Amelia to come home, wear a pretty dress, stand beside us and smile.’
‘Yes,’ Benedetto said, because of course that made sense. Otherwise the media would go on about her absence and it would overshadow everything else. ‘And she’s said no?’
Anton nodded. ‘She said it’s best if she stays away. I know the media has given her a hard time in the past—she always copped it worse than Rowan and me—but this is really too much.’
Benedetto didn’t reply. He wasn’t inclined to cut Amelia any slack. After all, the media was capable of saying or writing whatever they wanted but, at the end of the day, it was just words.
Words only had the power to wound if you ceded that to them; she should have known better. Besides, the glare of the newspapers was nothing compared to the grief of losing a child—until you’d felt that loss and desolation, you didn’t understand true suffering.
Everything in Benedetto’s life was benchmarked against that pain he’d known and continued to know each and every day of his life.
Until his dying day, he would think of Sasha with an emptiness inside that simply wouldn’t quit. It was an emptiness he relished, though. What right did he have to enjoy his life in any way when he hadn’t been able to save his beautiful, sweet daughter?
‘We’ve generally taken a policy of allowing Amelia to be Amelia. Let her sort out whatever’s going on in her head and come home when she’s ready. Of course—’ he laughed without humour ‘—we thought it would be a matter of weeks. Maybe months. But she’s now two years into this self-imposed exile with no sign of returning. It’s gone too far.’ He took a drink of his whisky, winced as the flavour hit the back of his throat. ‘My parents are suffering far more than they let on. They miss her. We all do.’
Benedetto kept his own thoughts private from his friend. He’d never met Amelia—most of his time with Anton had been spent abroad, here in London or over in the States, and when he had gone to the small, yet exceptionally wealthy, country of Catarno, he had only met the King and Queen and Anton’s brother once. He had, however, heard enough about Amelia, read enough about her, known enough women like her over the years, to have formed a pretty good idea of what she was like.
Nonetheless, she was Anton’s sister and he understood the way families and loyalty worked.
‘How can I help?’
Anton’s relief was visible. ‘Would you go to her, Ben? You’re the only one I could ever trust with this. I need you to do whatever it takes to bring her home.’ He took a step closer to his friend, eyes closed a moment. ‘Please.’
The last word was unnecessary—most of the request had been. Benedetto had decided to help from the moment Anton had asked. Determination glinted in the depths of Benedetto’s obsidian eyes. ‘I’ll have her there for the wedding—I promise.’
