And he also knew how to keep secrets.
He’d been a junior councilman for two years. And then after the bruhaha with Father he’d taken a hiatus from serving the public and spent the past two years working tirelessly with his brother Ernest’s foundation. Trying to right what Father had done. If things went perfectly, all his work was about to come to fruition. All he needed was one princess to cooperate for another week. Seven days, and the deal would be done.
He stood just inside the sparkling atrium with its glass walls. Waiting for her arrival along with several other people. He'd greeted the hospital director, Nancy, and schmoozed with a parliament member and a photographer who happened to be an old friend from college. A couple other members of the press had been hand-selected and would accompany them inside. More press were gathered on the sidewalk outside, visible through the sparkling glass.
He'd been supposed to meet with Tirith for coffee before this ribbon cutting. She'd texted him early this morning to cancel, and she hadn't said why. His several follow-up texts had been ignored.
And then the royal limo arrived, pulling up to the sidewalk outside. Relief. If she pulled out of the polo match or the gala, he would be doomed.
As usual, the small knot of reporters swarmed the limo door even as the princess's bodyguard shouldered through them to make room for her to exit the car.
And there was Tirith.
Except it wasn't her.
The doppleganger looked like Tirith, but Tirith would never allow herself to be manhandled between the two hulking bodyguards. She'd own the space, even if she were sandwiched between them.
There was something off about her gait. Not a limp, but she didn't walk exactly like Tirith.
And she wore flats. He'd never seen Tirith in flats. Not once.
Which meant this was... Princess Margaret?
He'd never met the reclusive princess who resided in America. Not once in the two years he and Tirith had made plans to be seen together at public events.
Where was Tirith? After she’d ignored his texts this morning, he’d been concerned. Now that he saw this imposter, he was worried. He glanced at the limo but it was already pulling away from the curb.
What was the reclusive princess doing here?
The press shoved microphones in her direction, shouting questions.
"Princess Tirith! Princess—"
The clamor of voices was cut off by the swoosh of the hospital doors closing. The reporters knew better than to follow her inside without an invitation.
The bodyguards faded away, and the Administrator Nancy moved forward to shake the princess's hand. "Princess Tirith, thank you for joining us."
Luc waited for her to correct the woman, but the princess shook her hand with a smile that looked nothing like Tirith's.
How did no one else notice? The truth was as plan as the warm tan on her face, the crinkles of her eyes.
Maybe they only saw what they’d expected to see.
A loud noise from down the hall—a cart spilling over? A metal bedpan hitting the tile floor?—and the princess went from smiling to complete panic.
Her face went chalk-white, and her posture changed as she went from a forced calm into fight-or-flight mode.
Based on the way her gaze was darting about, seeking an escape, he guessed flight was going to win.
He didn't know why she was posing as her sister. Didn't know anything other than he couldn't let anyone get wind that this wasn't Tirith. His brother's foundation depended on it.
So he did think only thing he could think of. He stepped forward, close enough to slide his arm around her waist.
He murmured, "Hello, darling."
And he kissed her.
He felt the infinitesimal stiffening of her spine, and then she was all softness in his arms. She smelled like lavender and sunshine and tasted faintly like strawberries.
