Seducing the Princess (19 page)

She was learning so much, and the young groom proved the most pleasant company. How freeing it was to venture out into the city
on her own
. She decided she must do this more often and continue learning about all of London and its people.

After they’d returned to Buckingham, and she’d arranged for all of her purchases to be brought to her room, she turned to see Greg moving off toward the stables. “Wait!” she cried.

He turned with a shy smile, still walking away from her but backward, hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Hope you had a good time, Princess.”

“I did. Thank you so very much. I’ve never really…you see—” She couldn’t seem to find the right words to express her gratitude. For the first time in weeks she hadn’t thought about Henry, hadn’t felt a pitiful sad lump of a girl.

“New experiences,” Greg said. “They’re always fun.”

“Not always. But this one was. I hope I can do it again sometime soon. Would you—I mean, if your duties allow—” “Be your escort again? Of course,” he said cheerfully. “I’m at your service. Good day to you, Princess.” He doffed his cap and walked off, whistling.

She watched him go. How she wished it had been Henry she’d just spent the afternoon with. How she wished and wished and wished. And yet, it seemed that might never be. She must be realistic. Her mother’s opposition had discouraged her suitor far more, it seemed, than it had her. Perhaps to the point of his giving up on their engagement entirely.

Henry paced the floor, flung open the balcony doors, strode outside into the cold then turned back into the gold-and-ivory salon of his family’s house.

“For God’s sake, son, will you stop this infernal pacing?” Prince Alexander of Hesse glared at him. “You’ll send us all to Bedlam.”

Although the asylum and London were a far stretch from Prussia, the phrase for driving a person mad had become just as popular on the Continent as it had in England.

Alexander turned to his other son, Louis, who, thankfully, was a good deal calmer than his younger brother. He felt that maturity must, in part, be due to his marriage to the queen’s granddaughter two months earlier. “What is wrong with him?”

“Little Liko’s in love.” Louis grinned.

“For all the bloody good it does,” Henry grumbled.

“With whom?” their father asked.

Henry didn’t answer, didn’t want to say her name when even thinking it brought heart ache.

Louis answered for him. “My wife’s aunt. Beatrice.”

The prince stared at Henry. “It can’t be. She’s a nice enough woman but—all this dramatic chest heaving over
her
? Bea is as plain as the day is long.”

“She isn’t plain, she’s just…refined, quiet. I like her. At least I did. Now that she refuses to answer my letters I’m not sure where her head is at, or mine for that matter.” Henry swung around to face his brother with a hopeful thought. “Maybe she’s ill. She can’t write because she’s taken to her bed.” But he wouldn’t have wanted her to be truly sick, seriously languishing. “If so, I must go to her immediately!”

“She’s not ill, Henry. And anyway, you know you can’t set foot in England, at least not as long as the queen feels about you as she does. Face it, you’ve been dumped. Beatrice did it to me years ago, now it’s your turn, dear brother. Time you moved on.”

Henry felt his face flush with heat. The mustache he’d recently grown, to make him look older, itched on his upper lip. He clenched his fists at his sides and lurched toward his brother. “You don’t know her. She isn’t like that at all. Take it back!”

Louis stiff armed him away. “I know her well enough to know she isn’t ill. Beatrice has twice written to my wife in the past month. Vicki read her letters to me…in bed.” He wriggled eyebrows at Henry, clearly gloating at the implication. “Believe me, Beatrice is hale and hearty. Been riding a good deal, I hear. Seems there’s a new groom in the Royal Mews who has become her regular escort—a Scot.”

Henry’s heart turned to stone. “No. She wouldn’t…she’s not like that.”

“What you see is what you get, dear boy. It’s her way, apparently. Tease and invite the attentions of a man, then back off as soon as he shows serious interest.”

Alexander harrumphed. “Have you ever thought, Henry, that Beatrice might be content in her spinsterhood? She’s been the queen’s constant companion since the age of four when Albert—”

“I know all of that.” Henry shook his head violently. “And, no, I don’t think she’s content. I think she is ready for marriage. And
I
want to be the one to marry the girl.”

Louis studied his younger brother, and it seemed to Henry it was with compassion, or else pity. “Henry. Think about this. HenIf the woman isn’t committed to you enough to write a few letters in her spare time, I can’t see that she’s ready to take on marriage or—”

“Or,” the prince broke in, “the breeding and raising of children. That particular young woman will always be distracted by her mother. The queen is everything to her. I doubt she’d agree to live anywhere but wherever Victoria chooses to be. Fighting an uphill battle, Henry, that’s what you’d be doing if you became engaged to Baby.”

Henry cringed at the family pet name. The woman he’d ridden with at Darmstadt, who’d greeted him so passionately in London, she wasn’t childish or selfish. She’d lit up when he was around her. And when he’d kissed her, she’d responded tenderly, inviting more. He just didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Had more vicious rumors about him reached her? Rumors she’d been unable to ignore?

There was, of course, no truth to them, if any still floated around. He’d broken off all attachments to other women. He’d stayed away from the brothels too. Maybe she thought him not exciting enough.

Alexander was speaking as he poured himself a brandy. “The fact is, whether or not Beatrice is prepared for marriage, the queen isn’t. I seriously doubt she will ever change her mind where Bea is concerned. She wants to hold onto her last daughter, her last child. In a way, it’s natural and understandable.”

“It is
not
!” Henry shouted, causing his brother and father to exchanged shocked glances. “It is most definitely selfish. She is robbing Beatrice of a life of her own.”

His father’s voice turned gentle. “My dear boy, Beatrice has always lived in a pampered, astonishingly wealthy world. Maybe she has had second thoughts and doesn’t want to lose the prestige, glamour, and many benefits that a life in Court entails.”

He hadn’t thought about it like that, and now his father’s words made him sad. It was true, he could never offer Beatrice all that her mother could, in terms of wealth and social connections. Their marriage would be a step up the social ladder for him. Did she consider it a step down for her? Was she holding out for marriage to a king or crown prince? She had every right to do so. But if she wanted to be loved and have a family of her own, as he’d believed she did, he could happily give her those things.

Henry sank into the blackest of moods. He couldn’t have said how much time passed as he sat there immobile before the rustling of his father’s newspaper roused him. “Awful situation that,” the prince muttered.

Henry sensed the comment was meant to apply to a situation other than his. “What is that, Father?”

“The Sudan of course. Victoria must be out of her mind with concern.”

He had thought of nothing but the queen’s daughter in months. Why would a faraway African nation concern him? Then he recalled. General Gordon, hero of the British expeditions to China, had been sent to negotiate the evacuation of British citizens after a dangerous uprising in northeastern Africa. Gordon had kept a modest military contingent with him and a civilian staff sufficient to aid his mission. He had negotiated with the Caliph for months, trying to convert him to Christianity even as the Caliph attempted to convert Gordon to Islam. Relations had been tense and grew even more explosive when the Caliph’s men kidnapped and beheaded a number of British citizens.

“What has happened now?” Henry asked, his heart not yet invested in the conversation.

“Gordon’s people are still under siege in Khartoum. The rebels have surrounded the city, and no supplies can get through.”

Despite his preoccupation with his own future, Henry’s blood fired up. “Then reinforcements must be sent to break through the barricade.”

His father shook his head. “Gordon is one of Victoria’s favorites. She’s been fighting with Parliament for weeks to get the government to authorize a rescue expedition.”

“Good for her. I’d volunteer to serve.” Maybe that would impress the queen. He could imagine himself slashing away at infidels with his saber, arriving victorious at the walls of Khartoum to rescue Gordon, bringing the general and his grateful people home to England.

Louis laughed and pushed a glass of brandy into his hands. “Henry, drink up and forget about it. You’re such a romantic. Do you think an old military veteran like Gordon incapable of getting himself out of this fix?”

The prince sighed and folded his newspaper closed. “The English think they are all-powerful. That attitude will be their downfall. And Gordon’s too, I fear.”

“I can’t fathom it,” Henry said. “Why not send in troops?”

“Prime Minister Gladstone is as set against intervention as the queen is for it. Nothing will happen without Parliament’s blessing.”

“But if a voluntary expedition crossed through Egypt to the interior…” Henry felt his father’s eyes boring into him. “No, seriously, if I let it be known I was mounting a rescue mission—”

“Henry, don’t be ridiculous.” Louis said.

“What? It would prove to the queen I am of value and deserve her daughter.”

“It would get you killed, son.” Alexander gave him a stern look. “You have no idea what you’d be up against. The Caliph’s men are without mercy. They will defend their country and punish without mercy anyone who tries to take it from them.”

“But surely, if Gordon and his people surrender—”

His father looked grim. “No one will leave Khartoum alive. Take my word for it. It’s too late for them. Don’t do it, Henry. It’s a suicide mission.”

Later that day, Henry thought about his ruined relationship with the queen. He’d approached her from a social angle, as a good man, as a reliable husband for her daughter. But what he should have done was to first make of himself a man after Victoria’s own heart. If a man didn’t appeal to her, she wouldn’t find him deserving of her daughter. And Victoria clearly respected military men. Strong men. Daring men. He could be all of those things for her. Then he would return to ask again for Beatrice.

His only worry was not knowing why Beatrice had stopped writing to him. Maybe it was her way of letting him down gently, without final words of farewell that would be painful to both of them. Whatever her motive for silence, he had to find out.

But first things first. He had an invasion to plan.

Beatrice studied her reflection in the cheval glass before heading outside to the royal mews. Her new plum riding dress fit beautifully, emphasizing her womanly curves—perhaps more pleasingly than her mother would have preferred. But, so far, the queen hadn’t remarked on the addition to her daughter’s wardrobe. Months had passed since the queen started her silent treatment—refusing to speak to Beatrice about even the most mundane matters. They sat at meals in silence. They walked out into the garden in silence. If one or more of the ladies of the Court, a visiting dignitary, or Ponsonby was in the room, Victoria carried on a light-hearted conversation with them as if nothing at all was wrong. She just didn’t include Beatrice in their dialogue.

Beatrice tried to coax her mother into a chat by bringing up her favorite topics. Sometimes she intentionally antagonized her by mentioning Gladstone, commenting on the desperate situation in the Sudan, or pointing out the blighted blooms in the garden. Nothing persuaded the queen to speak a word to her.

Having lost that battle with her mother, Beatrice threw up her hands and spent her time where she pleased—mostly in the riding academy, a long, narrow building that was part of the royal mews, and out riding with her usual escort, Greg. By staying busy, she kept her mind off of Henry’s desertion, as best she could. But the sting of his rejection was difficult to ignore.

After weeks spent in and around the stables, she began to sense that something wasn’t quite right there. Occasionally, she glimpsed strangers, as she had once before, in small groups of two or four—some well-dressed and obviously of high social standing, others quite clearly of the middle class. They seemed to come and go, quite mysteriously, without any obvious reason for their being inside the palace gates.

She asked Greg about them one day while she was brushing Lady Jane’s smooth russet coat. He shrugged, looking uncharacteristically petulant. “Not my responsibility, now is it, Your Highness?”

She stared at him, confused, and was about to demand an explanation when he changed the subject. “Her Majesty informed Mr. Jackson she would be traveling to Osborne House in two weeks, accompanied by—” he looked pointedly at her “—
the princess
and a reduced Court.”

“Really.” She quirked a brow at him. This was the first she’d heard of the trip. True, they traveled annually to the family estate on the Isle of Wight. But she and her mother usually discussed dates and made plans together. Apparently the queen took for granted that her daughter would meekly follow along, even if abused and ignored.

“You didn’t know, Princess?” Greg asked.

“No,” she admitted, more than a little embarrassed. When he’d gone off to his other work, she pressed her cheek along the curve of Lady Jane’s long, smooth neck, trying not to think about how hurt she felt. “When you love someone,” she whispered to the mare, “you show it with tender, respectful gestures.”
By letting the person you love make their own decisions
.
Or, by writing promised letters.

She felt desperately unloved.

Beatrice spent another hour in the stables, relishing the pungent musky-sweet smell of the place, comforted by the contented whinnies and snuffles of the animals. She could hear Gregory and the younger lads working here and there in the stalls, caring for the horses. Eventually Gregory came back to check on her.

“Sorry, ma’am, I shouldn’t have said.”

“Said what?”

“About Osborne House.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s all right, Greg. Better that I know the queen’s plans, however the news comes to me. My mother has become forgetful at times.” She wondered if Marie also had been informed, so that she might start the process of packing for both of them. But wouldn’t her lady have said something to her?

On the other hand, Marie’s moods had been unpredictable of late. The young woman kept to herself whenever Beatrice didn’t need her. She rarely smiled these days. Perhaps she was ill and trying not to let on? She’d have to insist upon an explanation. Beatrice picked up the curry brush to give Lady Jane a few more strokes before leaving the mews for the day.

“The queen,” Greg said in a low voice, “doesn’t appreciate you as she should, ma’am.”

Beatrice’s eyes flashed to him in disapproval.

“Another thing I shouldn’t have said?” He stepped closer and looked down at his hands when she didn’t answer. “Pardon me, Princess, but it’s true. You give your mother everything, all of yourself, holding nothing back. She should treat you with more respect.”

“It’s not for you to say,” Beatrice said, although she of course agreed.

“Nay, it’s not. But sometimes, the way I feel about a person, it just comes out.”

What was the Scot saying—the way he
felt
? About her? She turned and looked up into his gray-green eyes, no longer averted as appropriate for a member of the queen’s staff. His hand came to rest over hers where she held the curry brush against her horse’s flank.

Pull away
, she told herself.

It was unthinkable that a commoner should touch royal flesh. But wasn’t Gregory MacAlister also the son of a lord? Wasn’t he more than a mere stable hand?

“Greg,” she said.

He lifted his hand but didn’t move it away. Ever so lightly, he traced around each of her fingers with one of his own, like a child drawing his own handprint. “I hate seeing you so sad, Princess. Because of your mother. Because of that ungrateful Battenberg. If I can cheer you in any way…” He looked deeper into her eyes. She wanted to look away. She couldn’t.

Her heart beat wildly at his touch, at his words. What was he suggesting? Was he offering comfort only—a simple expression of compassion? Or was there something more ardent, more physical suggested by his touch?

She slid her hand out from under his. The brush dropped into the straw at her feet. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “But I’m fine.”

Suddenly disoriented, awash in emotion, Beatrice turned and walked quickly away. Her knees wobbled. She felt the straw under foot shift, the floor tilt. Around her, the plank walls shivered as if electric.

“Princess?” he called out from behind her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—yes, I’m fine.” Don’t stop, she told herself. Keep on walking.

Gregory watched the queen’s daughter weave down the alley of the dim barn and out into the sunshine. He laughed to himself. Girl didn’t know it but she was his.

He had seen it in her eyes. They had dilated nearly all-black at his touch. She’d trembled and reacted to him with unmistakable sensual awareness. He’d waited patiently for such signs these months as they’d ridden together, as he’d gently urged her to open up to him.

At first he’d worried that she might cling to her hope of Battenberg coming for her, but the missing letters did the trick. She no longer seemed to believe the Prussian loved her. He just hoped his agent had destroyed their correspondence as they’d discussed. Without the princess’s letters ever leaving London, and Battenberg’s missives intercepted before they could reach Beatrice, communication had been completely severed between the two. Moreover, his spies assured him that, whatever had transpired between the pair in Darmstadt, or later in London, their relationship hadn’t yet progressed to the bedchamber. Kisses and hand holding maybe, but Beatrice was still a virgin.

Which meant she knew almost nothing about sex.

Which meant he could use her naiveté to his advantage.

And now? He’d wait and let today’s little encounter sink in. Let Beatrice think about touching hands, about how much she missed Henry’s kisses and how nice it would be to be kissed again—by someone conveniently close by, someone she’d learned to feel safe with, and who knew how to please a woman.

In the meantime, there was this bloody job in the mews to get rid of. He needed to move up in the world, and fast, if he was to woo a princess, the task set for him by Wilhelm. That’s where he needed the help of the queen.

“Letter for you.” It was one of the youngest pages at Buckingham.

Gregory snatched it from him on seeing the familiar wheat-colored vellum Willy favored for their correspondence. No royal seal, of course, but distinctive enough to attract the curiosity of mischievous pages.

Before the lad could move away, Gregory pinched him on the ear, hauling him back. He scowled down at the sod. “Haven’t been taking a peek, have you, boy?”

“No, sir. Not a bit.”

Gregory studied the simple blob of wax that had not yet come free.

“I better not catch you tamperin’.”

“Wouldn’t do that, sir.” The boy looked honestly frightened. “Got it up at the palace and brought it straight down to you, sir, as the butler directed. I wouldn’t be peekin’.”

Gregory released his grip, giving the brat a rough shove meant to be remembered. “Better for your health if you don’t,” he called after the boy as he scurried off across the yard.

He peeled open the flap, unfolded the page. Just four words, in German: IS THE DEED DONE?

The emperor-to-be was growing impatient.

Gregory cursed and stuffed the letter inside his pants waist. This was the third time Wilhelm had asked for a report, each request briefer and more urgent in tone. He knew from experience how dangerous his old school friend could become if kept waiting.

But winning the heart and trust of a virgin princess required subtlety, perfect timing. Surely Wilhelm didn’t expect him to slam her down on the ground and take her! Still, it appeared he’d have to speed up the process, if he didn’t want to risk Wilhelm sending one of his brutal envoys to reinforce his message.