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Theodore’s heart thrummed a steady beat of loyalty to his name, but in the quiet space of the gallery, surrounded by the silent witnesses of art’s power, he felt the stirrings of a different allegiance—an allegiance to the emotions Nicole evoked within him. “Are you certain a ball at the palace is out of the question?”
Her eyes, reflecting the depths of an evening sky awaiting its first star, met his with a gentle firmness. “Prince Theodore, I’m flattered, truly. But I fear the spotlight that follows you might be too intense for my liking.”
He saw the resolve in her stance, the slight tilt of her chin that spoke volumes of her independence. It was part of what drew him to her, this strength that needed no crown to prove its worth.
“Understandable,” he conceded, the words careful, measured like the strokes of his brush. “But know that the night would shimmer all the brighter with your presence.”
Nicole’s lips curved into a smile. “I am but a keeper of art, Your Highness, not one who wishes to stand beside it, painted in the public eye.” However, if anyone were able to tempt her away from her world, it would be him. His strength and devotion to art drew her to him in a way no man ever had.
“Perhaps another time then,” he offered, every syllable laced with the quiet hope that such a time would come.
“Perhaps,” she echoed, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment longer than necessary before retreating to the sanctuary of the canvases.
As Theodore exited the gallery, the heavy door closing behind him felt like the sealing of a tome filled with unwritten chapters. Alone, his footsteps echoed in the emptying streets, rhythmic and contemplative. With each step, he wrestled with the two layers of his existence—the prince of their nation and the man who longed to exist beyond it.
His mind, a tempest of duty and desire, sought refuge in thoughts of how to be part of Nicole’s world without subjecting her to his.
Prince Theodore’s resolve deepened, a silent vow to find a path to her side that neither title nor expectation could tarnish. Now that he’d found her, there was no way he could possibly let her go. He would make a plan and go back to her. Perhaps offering to set up an exhibit with his “friend” Peter Thompson would work.
Chapter Four
The clang of the gallery door announced Prince Theodore’s arrival. Nicole glanced up from her careful study of a potential buyer’s query, her eyes finding the familiar form of Theodore striding toward her, his bearing unmistakably noble despite his casual attire.
For just a moment, Nicole thought about what it would be like to be the woman on his arm. The one he looked at with those soulful green eyes. The one he cherished. But then she shook her head, reminding herself of all the reasons she’d refused to date him in the first place.
“Nicole,” Theodore greeted. “I find myself unable to let our last conversation reach its untimely conclusion.”
“Prince Theodore,” she replied, setting aside her paperwork with a grace that mirrored his own. “What brings you back to my humble establishment?” Not that she was disappointed to see him. She could work everyday with a statue of him right in front of her to admire.
“Peter Thompson,” he said simply, watching as recognition and surprise danced across her delicate features. “You mentioned your interest in showcasing his work exclusively. I have decided to mediate on your behalf.”
“Truly?” Her lips parted slightly, and she resisted the urge to jump up and down and squeal like a schoolgirl. “But why? You hardly know me.”
“Because,” Theodore began, pausing to choose his words with the same precision he would use to select the perfect brushstroke, “I believe in the power of art to transcend. And I believe in your vision for this gallery.”
Nicole leaned against the cool marble of the display pedestal. “That’s incredibly generous of you. But Peter Thompson is notorious for being reclusive. How do you even know him?”
“Ah,” Theodore exhaled softly. “Let us say that Mr. Thompson and I have crossed paths in ways that art and life often intertwine. I assure you, he will be more than willing to discuss terms once I’ve spoken to him.”
“Then I am in your debt, Your Highness.” Nicole’s tone was light, teasing, yet her eyes held a glimmer of something deeper. “Thank you for your belief in me and my small gallery. I will not forget this.”
“Please, no debts between us,” Theodore insisted, his hand gesturing dismissively. “Consider it...a collaboration born of mutual appreciation for the arts.”
“Collaboration,” she echoed, testing the word and its implications. “Well then, I look forward to what this partnership might bring.”
“As do I,” he replied, the unspoken promise hanging in the air.
Theodore watched as Nicole returned to her desk. He noted the way her fingers lingered over the portfolios, the reverence with which she treated each piece—a curator not only by trade but by calling. It was a trait he found both admirable and dangerous, for it pulled at something within him he wasn’t quite ready to name.
“Shall we begin planning?” Nicole asked.
“By all means,” Theodore agreed. “Let us make this exhibit one for the annals of artistic achievement.”
As they delved into the details of themes and logistics, Theodore couldn’t help but observe how easily their thoughts aligned, how naturally conversation flowed.
“Perhaps a retrospective theme?” Theodore suggested. “Thompson’s evolution as an artist laid bare on these walls.”
“Chronological or thematic?” Nicole countered, turning to meet his gaze.
