The Accidental Princess

By Margaret St. George

Cinderella in Jeans

When Duke Nicolas Rondo strode into the dingy diner where Jana Laskowski waitressed and proclaimed her heir to the throne of his mountainous homeland, Jana thought he was joking. But there was nothing funny about the duke's intentions, the transfixing gaze of his dark eyes or the firm set of his sensual mouth.

Being swept away to the castle of a handsome stranger was every bit as idyllic as it sounded in fairy tales–except the dashing duke was more disarming than charming. Swarthy and sophisticated, Nicolas took Jana's breath away, but did he want her or her crown?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781488723285

Book preview

Chapter One

"We’ve been searching the world for you!"

Well, lucky you. You found me, Jana said, smiling at the three funny-looking little men seated at the restaurant counter.

Resort areas attracted all kinds of oddballs, and even oddballs had to eat somewhere. Statistically this meant at least some of them were sure to wander into Cheese Dips and a few were bound to sit at Jana’s station.

On the positive side, it was more fun to talk to someone, even the funny little barons—that’s how they had introduced themselves—than stand around waiting for a customer to come in for a late-afternoon snack.

But we are telling you the truth! one of the barons insisted. They were playing their little joke out to the end, pretending to be shocked that she wasn’t taking them seriously.

She smiled pleasantly, indulgently, poised with pen to pad. The three barons threw up their hands and chattered to each other in agitated voices. Jana thought they spoke a Slavic language; they sounded like her grandmother Laskowski.

The skinny one silenced the other two with a gesture and a sharp word. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his pointy chin and smoothed his lapels like a man about to plead for his life. Smoothed and straightened, he fixed an anxious expression on Jana.

Your Highness, every word we have related is true. We have come to restore you to your throne.

And don’t think I’m not grateful, Jana said. She put down her pad and started unscrewing the caps of the salt shakers she’d lined up in front of her. Hey, I’d go off with you guys in a minute except a flying saucer landed in my backyard last night and this alien prince offered me the throne of Mars. Frankly, boys, it’s a better offer. Sorry. The barons were obviously nut cases, but they were kind of cute, and talking to them helped pass a dull afternoon.

"Your Highness, you must believe us!"

Oh, I do. Jana smiled at them then began filling the salt shakers. And I’d love to fly off with you to some dot on the map called Boglandia, but the thing is, I just adore being a waitress. She tried to see the clock from where she was standing, wondering when she could go home and get off her feet. It’s a truly challenging and exciting job.

Boglandia is a small principality located between the borders of Romania and the Ukraine, Baron Kowal explained. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Jana’s blue eyes directly. Instead he sneaked peeks at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. They all looked at her with adoring puppy-dog eyes.

I’ll try to remember that...for the next time I play Trivial Pursuit. Actually their wild tale about Jana’s being their long-lost princess was something of a coincidence. Jana had grown up on Grandma Laskowski’s fairy-tale fantasies about royal blood and lost kingdoms. When she lifted her dark head again, she studied the three barons with a glint of curiosity.

All right, guys, we’ve had some fun and it’s helped pass a dull afternoon. But I don’t believe a word of this, okay?

All three barons seemed to become more agitated. They kept glancing over their shoulders at the restaurant door as if they expected the guys with the straitjackets to appear any minute.

Jana listened to them arguing in a language she didn’t understand but that sounded vaguely familiar. This was turning into an odd afternoon.

Jana frowned at the salt shakers for a long minute, recalling her beloved grandmother’s voice telling one fairy tale in particular. When she lifted her dark head again, she was no longer smiling. This time when she looked at the barons, she really looked at them, studying them intently through suddenly apprehensive eyes.

Exactly who are you guys?

We represent the Vosnia, the government of Boglandia.

So why are you so nervous? They were mopping their brows, pouring perspiration and they kept looking at the door.

His Grace, the Duke of Kazmania, will arrive at any moment, and he will expect that we have prepared the way, that we will have explained everything.

A duke? Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Jana sang, doing a dance step behind the counter and trying to coax a smile from them. This whole thing was so outrageous. But they stared at her with desperately serious expressions, not a smile in the bunch. Jana sighed.

She hated slow days like this. Now that ski season was over, the tourists had departed. There was no one in the restaurant except the three crazy barons who were expecting a duke to arrive any minute. What next? Maybe Elvis would wander in and order a cheeseburger.

Your Highness, please. We’re begging you to listen.

All right, fellas. You’ve got five minutes to run through this, then I’m out of here. I’ve got a big evening planned. She intended to soak her tootsies in a tub of Epsom salts and watch a Kevin Costner movie. It would be yet another glamorous and exciting evening in the life of Marijana Laskowski.

Baron Kowal fastened an anxious look on her face. After a long and eventful history, Boglandia was absorbed into Romania. Therefore, when Romania fell beneath the shadow of the iron curtain, we too were ground beneath the heel of the oppressors.

Our last prince and princess died in exile of broken hearts.

Too bad for them, Jana said, wondering if people could actually die of broken hearts.

Now that the iron curtain has been lifted, the principality has been restored. We begin the long triumphant task of rebuilding our land and our identity!

And now we have found our princess! Baron Fatma tried to grab Jana’s hand and kiss it, but she snatched back her fingers.

Hold it. What happened between the iron curtain lifting and you guys appearing in Breckenridge, Colorado, claiming I’m your long-lost princess? How do you know I’m your princess? Jana stared at them in fascination. Their earnestness and what they were saying were starting to make a crazy kind of sense. And, it was becoming increasingly clear that this was no joke to the barons, as Jana had originally believed. They were desperately serious.

The longer they spoke and the more details they revealed, the louder the memory of Grandma L.’s voice became in Jana’s memory. Boglandia’s tale of woe was familiar. Jana had learned the story in her childhood.

After our sovereignty was restored, there was general rejoicing, then His Grace, the Duke of Kazmania, began the task of tracing the heirs of the Cyznik and Laskowski families.

Were there claimants to the Boglandian throne before me? Jana could not believe she was asking such an irrelevant question. It was like asking if ghosts really existed.

Oh yes, yes indeed, Your Highness. But the previous claimants are either dead or incapacitated. Your claim is legitimate.

Whew, that’s a relief, Jana said. They still wouldn’t smile. Grandmother Laskowski—was she one of the claimants?

Indeed. All three heads nodded vigorously. Your grandmother’s grandmother was a Cyznik and her grandfather was a Laskowski. Her claim to the throne was strong.

Jana stared at a point in space, remembering Grandma L.’s stories. A sense of unreality was beginning to cloud her thoughts. How did they know about her grandmother’s lineage?

She shook her head and blinked at the barons. Tell me about this duke you keep mentioning. Who is he?

The barons exchanged nervous glances, and a collective shudder ran down their spines. They all shot expectant looks toward the restaurant door.

Baron Kowal twisted his hands together. Ordinarily His Grace would sit at the head of the Vosnia as your prime minister, acting as liaison between your governing body and yourself, Highness. At present he serves as titular head of the kingdom, ruling in your stead.

Jana studied them curiously. What kind of guy is he? Frankly, you all seem scared to death of him.

The skinny baron exchanged long looks with the others. How shall I state this? His Grace is a demanding taskmaster, a man who does not suffer fools gladly. He is a man driven by purpose, a man determined to restore the kingdom of Boglandia to its former glory.

Some might suggest His Grace is consumed by ambition, Baron Fatma offered, cutting a cautious glance toward the door.

One might even say His Grace is a ruthless opponent, a man unwise to cross.

He sounds like a swell guy. Jana sighed. The barons showed no signs of leaving. Before this craziness was over, she suspected she would have to deal with the formidable duke. Already he reminded her of a dozen petty tyrants whom she’d had to finesse during the bad old days when she’d worked in New York City.

Breckenridge was so different from New York City that it might have existed in another universe. It was a good place for someone who was taking a little time out from pressure and disappointment.

So, Jana said when the silence became weighty, what do you want from me?

The barons seemed surprised. Three sets of fuzzy eyebrows soared toward three bald pates. You will return with us to Boglandia, they said in unison.

Jana sighed again. She set aside her coffee cup and smoothed down her silly pink apron. I was afraid you were going to say that. Lifting her head, she looked at each of them. Maybe if she played along, she could end this.

Look, I’m flattered that you want me to be your princess. Who wouldn’t be? But, fellas, you’ve got the wrong girl. The truth is, I’d make a lousy princess.

Your Highness—

No, hear me out. She drew a long breath. When my parents died, I was seventeen. That’s pretty young to suddenly be responsible for yourself and an aging grandmother. She thought for a moment, remembering. I didn’t handle the responsibility very well. I wound up placing Grandma L. in a retirement home, which she hated, so I could go to college. As it turned out, I quit college in my senior year, so you can see how I failed Grandma L. It was still painful to talk about. College and the retirement home depleted the money I inherited from my parents. After graduation and after Grandma L. died, I took a job in a high-pressure marketing firm. They eventually fired me. I was fired from a few other jobs, too, before I ended up in a job with the social-services department in New York City.

We are aware of your background, Baron Kowal said gently.

I thought I was responsible for taking care of the whole world. I wanted to right all the wrongs. It sounds funny now, but I really thought I could make a difference. She ran a hand through her unruly black hair then looked at them again. Well, I didn’t. Gentlemen, the New York City social-services department chewed me up and spit me out. By the time I understood that nothing was going to change and no one cared, I was practically a basket case. So eight months ago I walked away. Ran away is a better description. I came here looking for some time out to think about my life.

Your Highness—

The point is, if I can’t manage my own life, it should be clear to you guys that I sure can’t run a whole kingdom.

A principality, Highness.

Whatever. I’m flattered and all that, but I’ll have to take a pass. I don’t know yet what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I don’t think being the princess of a little dink-butt European principality is high on the list. For one thing, I don’t speak your language.

Baron Kowal leaned forward with an earnest expression. The aristocracy speaks English, Your Highness. And His Grace has offered free English classes to the peasants and tradespeople.

Peasants? Jana stared at him a moment. Look, guys. I belong here in America, the land of apathy and instant gratification. I don’t know anything about peasants. Or about your Vosnia or about princess stuff or about ruling a kingdom. And I don’t want the responsibility. I don’t have a pet, I don’t even have houseplants. What does that tell you about me and responsibility?

It is a small principality, Your Highness.

Fellas, I’m not the princess type, okay? Move on down your list and install the next person as your prince or princess. She smiled at their horrified expressions. Thank you, though. You’ll never know what this afternoon has meant to me. Once in her life every woman dreams of being Cinderella. But when it comes to actually moving into the palace, well, that’s a different thing altogether, isn’t it? But you’ve provided a last chapter to a puzzling family story and I thank you for that.

But you cannot refuse!

If you’re saying I’ll regret this decision someday, you may be right. She smiled again, wondering if she believed that. But believe me, Boglandia will be better off if you pick someone else.

Compared to marketing and advertising, waiting tables was like being in a walking coma, and for now that suited Jana just fine. As for the social-services job, the job that had nearly driven her bonkers, anything was better than the string of failures she had piled up there.

She had learned her lesson. Jana Laskowski could not assume responsibility for the well-being of the world. And these guys wanted her to take on a whole kingdom? No way.

The barons listened to her speech with growing distress and agitation. Deeply disturbed, Baron Skinalas stepped forward and started to speak, but before he could say more than a few words, the door to the restaurant flew open and they all swiveled to see who had ignored the Closed sign.

It was the damnedest thing. Jana’s first thought was that she had wandered into a scene from an erotic gothic movie.

A tall figure paused dramatically in the doorway, silhouetted by the blaze of afternoon sun behind him. A wild mane of dark hair flowed to the man’s shoulders, framing aristocratically sharp features. Even as he stood motionless, there was an air of magnetic sensuality about him. Something arrogant and romantic and perhaps even cruel glowed in the expectant black eyes he turned toward the barons. Jana stared at him and her pulse beat accelerated in her ears. What stunned her as much as his haughtiness and classic male beauty was the cloak swirling about his knees. The man was wearing a cloak, for heaven’s sake! And he carried a walking stick.

Given the dark silhouette, the swirling black cloak and the baron’s cowed expressions, Jana decided all that was needed was twilight and a little mist and she could almost believe she had been catapulted into a sexy vampire movie.

The barons had said Boglandia was situated on the border shared by Romania and the Ukraine. Hadn’t that area once been Transylvania? Jana felt a headache building behind her temples. No wonder the barons had flashed through the recitation of Boglandia’s history.

Baron Kowal was the first to find his tongue. Your Highness, he stammered, it is my pleasure and my honor to present Nicolas Rondo, 7th Duke of Kazmania.

The barons’ anxiety must have been contagious because Jana felt a thrill of apprehension travel down her spine. She nervously wet her lips. She wondered what her hair looked like and if she was still wearing lipstick. Whatever else might be said about the Duke of Kazmania, the guy sure knew how to make an entrance.

Once he stepped out of the blaze of sunlight and strode toward her, Jana had a better view of him.

Even without the swirling silk-lined cloak and the walking stick, this man would have attracted considerable attention. Nicolas Rondo was one fabulous-looking man. A heart stopper.

His black hair, softened by an auburn glow, was shoulder length, the ends curling against the collar of his cloak. Thick dark brows slashed across a high forehead. His mouth was full and firm with purpose, sensual in shape and promise. He had a square jaw and cleft chin that reflected stubborn masculinity.

Taken as a whole, Rondo’s features were classically sculpted, the nose and cheekbones sharply defined. Generations of aristocratic breeding reflected in his patrician profile and his confident stride.

Unlike the little barons, Nicolas Rondo stood taller even than Jana, soaring to an intimidating six feet three inches. What Jana could glimpse beneath the swinging folds of his cloak suggested a powerful but elegant physique.

He was altogether breathtaking. A magnificent man. Despite his outlandish costume, this was a man she could fall for...hard.

Finally Jana released a breath that was almost a sigh and allowed herself to meet his eyes. A tiny shiver zinged down her spine. Nicolas Rondo’s eyes, framed by thick black lashes, were intense and arresting, beautiful in fact, but so black that Jana could distinguish no demarcation between pupil and iris. A half dozen comparisons flitted through her mind: black as coal; black as midnight; black as her grandmother’s jet beads.

Black as winter ice best described those intense dark eyes right now, Jana decided. She didn’t need to look at the anxiously silent barons to perceive that the Duke of Kazmania’s mood bordered on hostile. At once she sensed His Grace had formed an unfavorable opinion of her long before now. He didn’t like her, and everyone, including herself, felt the chill intensity of his distaste.

Count Dracula, I presume? she murmured, raising an eyebrow at the swirling folds of his cloak.

She had hoped to lighten the moment, but her bad joke fell flat. Nicolas Rondo stared at her coldly, then his upper lip twitched in an expression bordering on contempt. He chose to ignore her remark.

Before she understood what he meant to do, he lifted her hand and brought her fingertips to his mouth. His lips were warm and dry on the backs of her fingers, his hand large and firm against her suddenly tingling palm.

Your Highness.

Jana stared at her hand when he released it, wondering if her fingers smelled like cheeseburgers and onions. She hadn’t the foggiest idea how one responded to a hand kiss. Should she apologize for the possible scent of Cheeseburger No. 5? Should she discreetly blot any germs on her apron? Sniff her palm to see if he had imprinted the scent of his musky cologne? She resisted this last impulse by clasping her hands together against her apron front. And she wished to high heaven that she could take back the idiotic remark about Count Dracula.

She also wondered how on earth she could be having such a heated and tingly reaction to a man who so obviously disliked her. But she was. Something deep inside had started vibrating the instant he touched her hand.

Her Highness has been informed of her restoration to the throne, His Grace said briskly, shifting his dark stare to Baron Skinalas. It was not a question but was received as such. The barons raised a chorus of assurances. The duke’s black eyes swept again to Jana, inspecting her waitress uniform with a look of disdain that made her feel about as classy as a gravy dish. He tucked his walking stick beneath his arm, then pushed back his snowy cuff to examine a gold watch. Naturally one would not criticize Your Highness’s attire, but perhaps you have something more suitable to wear to the reception.

The Duke of Kazmania was going to be a problem.

What reception? Jana asked, feeling circles of angry pink rise on her cheeks. A speech formed in her mind, defending the worthy profession of waiting tables. It was an old and honest occupation, nothing to be ashamed of.

His Grace turned on one heel and glared coldly at the barons. Her Highness has not been informed of the reception and the press conference?

The barons visibly cringed. There wasn’t an opportunity—that is, you see, we were just getting to that, Your Grace, when you honored us with your arrival.

Hoping to rectify the oversight, the skinny baron cleared his throat, then dashed forward and fastened pleading eyes on Jana’s frown. A reception in your honor, Highness, is scheduled at Bell Tower in forty-five minutes. There will be champagne and strudel. His Grace will announce to the world press that our long search has ended. We have found our beloved Princess Marijana.

The duke snapped his fingers. Kowal, fetch the limousine for Her Highness. You will accompany Her Serene Highness to her flat, wait while she dresses for the reception, then hand her back into the limousine. You will remain at Her Highness’s flat to coordinate the packing of her belongings. Fatma, you will return to the Bell Tower with me and oversee the arrangements for the reception. Skinalas, you will confirm our flight and our transportation to the airport in Denver.

Fatma and Skinalas watched Kowal escape