Clarisse Renaldi gazed out the private jet's window as night claimed the land below. Rupert slept beside her, but despite the late hour, she could not. The knowledge that Philippe would soon be leaving Genovia to study in a foreign land caused her more concern than she wished to admit.

The university was an excellent one and she knew he would receive a first-rate education, so it was not that. Genovia was opening a consulate in San Francisco, ostensibly to further trade with Western and Asian partners, so there would be an attaché nearby should there be need, another reason for her not to worry. Although she would prefer him to show a bit more maturity, Philippe had never given her or Rupert cause not to trust him. He would be fine, she told herself.

The question was, would she?

Clarisse dreaded the day her son left- not because of worries for him, but for herself. She feared she would find herself alone, close to no one. There were friends here and there about Europe, of course, but a friend was not the same as someone you loved with all your heart and loved you in return. In that sense, Philippe was all she had.

Her husband was polite and thoughtful, supportive and encouraging…her best friend. But, they did not share a passionate love between them. Clarisse did not regret her marriage, in the least; she knew twenty years ago what she was getting into. It gave her the opportunity to serve her people far more than she ever dreamed and for that, she was grateful.

Her marriage could have been, she was all too aware, much worse. With a sigh, she thought of her friend Bettina Addington, the late Duchess of Thornfield. Her death six months ago was a shock causing Clarisse great distress. Clarisse worried about her friend's daughters because their father, the duke, was not fit to care for them.

There was, at least, Bettina's family to see to the girls, as well as the Duke's sister, Margaret. Clarisse was not close to Margaret, but knew she disapproved of her brother's ways. Margaret had married very well- the Duke of Creshwell, a Briton who, from all accounts, had an excellent reputation. Margaret would keep an eye on her brother and his daughters as much as it was possible, Clarisse hoped.

It was fully night now, the cabin lit by only the glow of soft lights allowing safe movement. Clarisse shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. The attendant appeared and quietly asked if she might bring Her Majesty something and Clarisse declined. Two rows ahead of them, Philippe stretched then settled back, again asleep. At the front of the cabin, a security guard dozed.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what awaited her upon their return to Genovia. Rupert's mother, Matilda, now deceased two years, had been a supporter of many causes that Clarisse was determined to continue. Her personal favorite involved the establishment of botanical gardens to preserve and display the rich varieties of plant life Genovia enjoyed. She persuaded several other crowned heads and first ladies of Europe, to join in creating an association among the universities and gardens across the continent to encourage research into developing new varieties and to further conservation.

More close to home, she was eager to begin renovating the palace grounds and assist with planting her own personal rose garden. Other than horseback riding, getting her hands dirty in the soil was one of the few leisurely pursuits she found time to enjoy.

Another cause Clarisse was deeply involved in concerned improving health care to Genovia's citizens and she was currently supervising the establishment of clinics throughout the country. With Rupert's full support, she lobbied members of Parliament for an initiative to encourage more physicians and health personnel to settle in Genovia by offering incentives such as partial tuition reimbursements along with tax breaks when establishing a medical practice. The results, so far, were excellent.

In looking into the country's educational system, Clarisse was dismayed to find that Genovia was woefully behind in several areas of technology, communications being foremost. Theirs was a country steeped in tradition, valuing the old ways, but she knew that unless Genovia moved into the future, it would be lost in the past. Rupert, while agreeing to the need for a number of improvements, did not share her enthusiasm, in full. However, he did promise to speak with a telecommunications consultant in Paris during his upcoming conference.

The conference was in a month and Rupert was attending alone; would he be alone?

Clarisse tried to push the thought aside, but it returned. While she had her suspicions, she had no proof of his seeing other women. She never looked for any confirmation of this…nor would she.

It was the rarest of occasions that Rupert came to her bed, now, and, truthfully, Clarisse did not encourage him or feel any great desire for him. Intimacy, for the sake of intimacy and not born of love, or the need for an heir, held no appeal. For Rupert- for any man- perhaps it was different. Men, she'd decided long ago, plainly did not think like women. This difference was neither for the better nor for worse, but was simply a difference.

If Rupert needed and preferred an alternative arrangement, it did not have to make an alteration in their relationship, she decided. She was very fond of Rupert and knew he truly cared for her. They were well suited for each other in their roles as sovereignsand she found satisfaction in the knowledge.

It was enough.

Clarisse laid her head on Rupert's shoulder. Mumbling, he moved in his seat so that she rested more fully on his chest. In five minutes, Clarisse was asleep.

Colonel Joseph Coraza finished his drink then glanced at his watch as he placed the empty glass on a side table. As the commander, he could not leave just yet since the reception was for him and the other newly pinned colonels who had recently arrived. His command, the Security Forces Training Center, would look good on his record, he was told. As far as he was concerned, it had taken him from the field.

It was, however, not as bad as it could have been. At least it gave him the opportunity to make changes in the training system. After several years with Interpol, he was only too aware that the world was a different place now and the military needed to adjust with it. There would be, he knew, opposition to his ideas, but he was prepared to fight for them.

With his degree and master's finished several years prior, he had no other demands on him outside of his job. He could have retired, but he enjoyed the work too much; he only hoped that he could return to a position with Interpol or some other hands-on arrangement after this tour of duty.

Personally, he had no obligations, either. He dated occasionally, but seldom saw anyone more than handful of times. Yesterday evening was almost enough to make him reconsider never asking any woman out again.

His date was as brainless as she was beautiful. It was a challenge to discuss anything with her, much less carry on a conversation that resembled intelligence. Never one to enjoy a companion exposing herself with brazen attire, Coraza preferred women who dressed tastefully, with reserve, causing a man to wonder just exactly what delights lay hidden underneath the lace and silk garments, or even plain cotton shirt. The view across the table last night left nothing to his imagination. It was a marvel she had not come out of her dress every time she breathed.

Despite all that, or perhaps because of it,he reminded himself thathe'd taken her up on her offer to return to her apartment. Rarely did he ever regret doing so, but in this case, he did. It had been a purely selfish act born of loneliness for which he felt terrible.

He didn't even remember her name.

Coraza sighed and looked at his watch again- at least another thirty to forty-five minutes. His unrest began after visiting Marcus Helmar- no, Count Helmar. Coraza could not help but smile. Uncle Helmar had been the one to tell him, over a game of chess, who his father was saying it was best to know the dirt people might throw at you.

Why the Count held such a view, Coraza did not know. The count lived a quiet bachelor life of refined poverty in the family manor house, attended mass twice weekly, never drank more than two glasses of wine a night, and never involved himself in activities more raucous than a spirited game of Bridge. He'd keeled over occupied with exactly that, the winning cards in hand. He'd died happy.

Marcus, now the Count, fretted for months over the crumbling pile of stone that made up the manor and the absolutely worthless acreage he'd been left. In a totally unexpected turn of events, Marcus woke up one morning to find the troublesome, exorbitantly taxed land in northern France was uniquely suited geographically for the French Institute of Science's experimental energy site. Marcus unloaded it for a small fortune.

To celebrate, he'd gutted the manor and had it redone, creating beautiful vacation home for when he could escape his law practice in Parisor Maria's family visited from Switzerland. They invited him for the weekend and he'd enjoyed it very much. Marcus' boys were great fun, begging for stories about his military adventures. Maria's daughter, his godchild, was pure delight, when not sitting for an hour at a time in his lap, listening to him read her stories in different languages, she was pleading for him to teach her how to dance.

He'd left feeling more alone than ever.

It was still not too late to marry and have a family of his own… as Maria reminded him at every opportunity. He smiled and said that he'd yet to find a woman he couldn't live without. Maria replied that perhaps he should look for someone he could live with, instead. There was every reason to believe that Maria was already making a list of women for him to meet, the next time he visited.

"Well, there you are, Colonel!"

Coraza turned to see General Olson, one of his first commanders.

"Good evening, sir," he replied.

"It is, indeed! Congratulations, Joseph. Can't think of a better man for the job!"

"Thank you, sir." Olson, Coraza knew, was the one who'd pushed him for the job. "I hope I live up to your expectations."

The general laughed. "I have no doubt of that." He waved his glass toward Coraza and continued seriously. "Lot's of work to be done- changes to be made. We need someone who's not afraid to do what has to be done. You can count on my support, Joseph."

"I appreciate that, sir."

Olson sipped his drink, peering thoughtfully at someone across the way. "Now, there's a fellow who might be good to have on our side. Have you met Morely Addington, the Duke of Thornfield?"

"No, sir." Coraza felt the blood drain from his face.

"I'll introduce you."

"Sir, perhaps that would not be-"

"Nonsense! Addington can be a tremendous help to an aspiring officer…the devil of a hindrance, though, if he takes a turn against you, I must admit. You'll have no problem." Olson grabbed Coraza by the arm and began walking toward the stout, gray-haired man. "Your Grace!"

Morely Addington looked around, then, recognizing the general, nodded dismissively to the junior officer he had been grilling. The captain hurried away, glad to escape.

"Your Grace, I would like to present Colonel Joseph Coraza."

"Colonel Coraza-" The duke's eyes widened before abruptly narrowing. He emptied his glass and motioned to a passing waiter to take it and bring another.

"Good evening, sir," Coraza managed. The words burned in his throat. His father- the man who'd never once acknowledged his existence other than to pack him off to school under threat.

"You!- so, you are one of Lord Olson's new commanders?" Addington replied, catching himself. A waiter scurried over with the duke's drink and he took it, downing half in two gulps, never taking his eyes off Coraza.

"Yes, sir," Joseph managed.

"General, may I speak to the colonel alone…to offer some words of advice?"

"Certainly, Your Grace," Olson answered, pleased the duke was taking an interest in his friend and protégé. He'd known Joseph nearly eighteen years and respected him as a soldier and man. He'd see a star on Coraza's shoulder if he had anything to do with it.

Alone, neither man spoke, but studied one another. Coraza saw a sallow-skinned, aging man whose jowls had begun to sag. It was, however, the eyes staring back at him that were the most noticeable- they were just like his own, but full of loathing.

"It is unwise to cross me," the duke declared.

"I have never crossed you," Coraza replied evenly, trying to control his anger. "I have never sought you out or made demands of any sort against you."

"Nor will you!"

"Nor will I."

As a boy, Coraza dreamed that one day his father would come for him saying it had all been a mistake, and that he loved him and had searched after him for years. It had been a foolish dream.

Since that time, Coraza lived his life as if his father were dead, giving no thought to the duke.

"You will not come near me again and will betray to no one that we are…connected in any way," Addington ground out, his face perfectly calm to anyone watching.

"I assure you, I have no desire to do so!" Coraza replied vehemently.

Morely Addington stared at Coraza.

"You may think you have nothing to lose," the duke began, shrewdly. "But, you would be mistaken. I have great influence." He smiled smugly then continued slowly. "You have two sisters…"

Coraza took a breath. Sisters…he had family.

"…who will be of marriageable age in a number of years." Addington shrugged and looked away as if unconcerned. "I have not decided if I should arrange something suitable. They are, of course, completely dependent upon me- now that their mother is dead."

For a long moment, Coraza was silent, unable to speak. The realization struck that it was not just him- the duke disliked his own legitimate daughters.

"Sir…" he began, but his voice trailed off. All the questions thathe buried away all those years ago hadvanished. Finally, he simply asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" The duke regarded him with contempt.

"Why do you hate…me so?" Coraza felt like a lost, orphaned eight-year old again, and detested it, having fought so hard to rid himself of the pain.

The duke drew himself up as straight as his slumped frame would allow, then spat, "Because you exist."

Morely Addington turned on his heel and marched away without another word.

Lieutenant Kent Howe leaned against the cool marble pillar and watched his uncle with great interest. His mother was nothing like her brother, Morely Addington- thank God. His father, Everett Howe, the Duke of Creshwell, could barely abide being in the same room with the man. Family functions to which his uncle required an invitation were tense affairs and everyone heaved a sigh of relief when the duke left, usually in a rage.

Morely Addington was without a conscience- he was a cross, vindictive man who was cruel for the simple reason that he could be. Now that his uncle drank heavily, his behavior was even more unpredictable. He listened to no one; heeded no advice.

Kent felt sorry for his cousins Lady Lucinda and Lady Cassandra. Cassie was ten and Luci was eight years old, and they were charming girls- their late mother's influence, unquestionably. His own mother tried to look after them and was successful in convincing her brother to change their boarding school to one closer to their home, in England. The girl's holidays were spent with either his family or with the family of the girls' mother. Kent looked upon them more as sisters, than as cousins.

There was talk that Duke of Thornfield's vast land holdings and wealth throughout several European countries were suffering from neglect and years of poor management. Nonetheless, the duke's title carried immense weight; it was an old one, originating centuries past. The king of Cerneland, where his uncle held his title, was ineffective in forcing the duke to take responsibility. Even King Rupert, who ran a tight ship, complained to no avail about the clear cutting the duke ordered for the small portion of his lands that lay in northern Genovia.

There was also talk, only in the lowest of voices and behind closed doors in the family's parlors, that the Duke of Thornfield had an illegitimate son prior to his first marriage. No one spoke of it to his uncle, of course, but several close members of the immediate family knew.

The man talking with Morely Addington was that son- Joseph Coraza.

The duke spoke, his face darkening, then pivoted on his heel quickly, albeit unsteadily, and left.

Indirectly, his parents tried to help Coraza. When they learned that Uncle Morely had stopped paying tuition at the poor excuse of a boarding school he'd hidden his son away in, they arranged for Coraza to receive a "scholarship" to a military academy.

It wasn't one of Europe's finest- that would have caught the duke's attention and perhaps placed their nephew in a sticky situation should someone have paid close attention to Coraza's birth certificate. The school was, however, one of good reputation and Coraza apparently had excelled.

Despite the obstacles of his birth and parentage, his cousin was doing very well for himself. Kent heard nothing but praise and respect in response to his quiet inquiries about Colonel Coraza. He attended his cousin's promotion ceremony a week ago, sitting at the back, and was very impressed by the colonel's service record.

Kent very much wanted to meet his cousin, but his parents had warned him against contacting Coraza. Morely Addington would not be beyond ruining the colonel's career, and Joseph Coraza's career was all that his cousin possessed in the world.

For that reason only, Kent Howe forced himself not to follow, but watched as his cousin walked slowly from the room.