Seducing the Princess (3 page)

“Oh.” Beatrice sank in her chair, her insides twisting in agony though she tried to show no outward reaction. She turned over her dance card, took a deep breath and looked straight ahead. A pity dance. That’s what it had been.

Beatrice pressed a palm to her side, where
his
hand had been.

Prince Wilhelm II of Germany did not attend his cousin Vicky’s wedding. He’d been invited, of course. Wasn’t he next in line after his father to become king of Germany and emperor of Prussia? Hadn’t his mother been the Crown Princess of England? No royal bride on the Continent with any sense would dare snub him, with such a lineage.

In point of fact, he recalled with a smug smile, getting out of traveling to Darmstadt hadn’t been all that easy. His parents had nearly insisted he accompany them. But, supported by his mentor Otto von Bismarck, Wilhelm had wriggled out of the annoying obligation at the last moment on the excuse of not wishing to interrupt his studies.

In truth, he had more important trout to fry, here at home in Bonn. And they involved neither weddings nor books.

“Enough of this!” Wilhelm snapped the textbook closed and shoved it away across the table. It slid off the edge and fell to the floor with a dull thump. “I hate
das Englische
. Let the Brits learn German if they wish to communicate with me when I am emperor.”

Bismarck eyed Wilhelm over steepled fingertips. The steely glower that had terrified the prince as a child, these days provided a strong role model for Wilhelm’s own temperament. The old man had taught him
alles
. Everything. Even ways he could rise above his deformity—the birth gift of his incompetent English mother.

Wilhelm stared down at his left arm, withered, ugly, and nearly useless. It was
her
fault of course. His mother’s. If she hadn’t got him somehow turned around inside her, he’d not have been born in breech, his infant arm crushed, paralyzed for years, stunted forever. He’d have been normal.

Bismarck had shown him ways to camouflage the disgusting thing, to make the shortened arm barely discernible when he was clothed. A military jacket, expertly tailored so as not to hang long over his gloved left hand. The clever tactic of holding an object in the crippled hand—a pair of gloves or walking stick or even a pup from the royal kennel—distracted the viewer’s eye, making his arm appear longer. While meeting a person of importance he always kept the bad arm and hand tucked close to his body or clasped in a seemingly casual pose by the good one. The artists of his portraits understood that they too must use illusion to save the prince from ridicule—and protect themselves from his wrath.

Yes, Bismarck had taught him many things. But these days Wilhelm grew impatient with the old man.

“You must master the tools you need to rule your empire,” Bismarck now insisted, still speaking in that weak-sounding English tongue. “Great Britain may become an ally or an enemy to
das Reich
. And what of the Americans? If you know their language, you will understand the way they think, how they will react to your politics.” Bismarck’s gaze drilled into him as if hoping to turn his mind by the sheer force of his dominant will.

Wilhelm looked away. “I know enough of their ridiculous language. More than enough. I’m no longer a child. And haven’t I spoken it with my grandmother whenever we’ve visited London?”

“I’ve seen how you are with Queen Victoria. You mix a few German words into the conversation, then a few more, and soon she shifts to your mother tongue to appease you. After all, you were her first grandchild, her little ‘Willy’.” His tutor grimaced. “Clever of you to manipulate her. But avoiding knowledge of the finer points of her language will not serve our purposes.”

“
Our
?” Wilhelm’s eyes snapped back to the old man’s face.

“Your Highness.” Bismarck twisted his lips into a strained smile. “It is only a manner of speech.”

“In English perhaps, but not in German or to
my
ears.” Wilhelm flung himself against the back of his chair and slid down, kicking his boots up onto the table as if he were in a café with his school friends. How he longed for his college days. At university he’d enjoyed as much freedom as any young prince might hope for. “But tell me more about this
Allianz
you propose. Much as I detest the English people, if they prove useful…” He waved a careless hand.

“
Gut
.” Bismarck’s eyes brightened. “And so I will. Consider your future. Your grandfather, though we might wish him to live forever, will not. He is feeble and ill. On his death, your father will take up the double crown, King and Emperor of the German-Prussian states.”

“As will I on his death. We needn’t review the rules of accession. Go on.” Speaking of the men in his family dying never saddened Wilhelm. What did trouble him was that they might live too long for him to fully enjoy the benefits of ruling over a vast and (if he had anything to say about it) growing empire.

“The English people,” Bismarck was saying, “including their Parliament, grow nervous of German power and the links through marriage between Prussian princes and English princesses. The marriage of their Princess Louise to a commoner was greeted with enthusiasm because he was a Scot and a subject of the queen. But more importantly, because he was
not
a foreigner,
not
German. It is a message that Your Highness can’t afford to ignore. They don’t want a German king.”

Wilhelm rolled his eyes. “As if I would want their ridiculous island. So what if I hate the English and they hate me.” He slammed the heel of his boot on the table top, making it shiver. “Why should I care?”

His mentor glared at him, but Wilhelm was no longer a boy to be so easily intimidated. He was twenty-five years old and, unless his grandfather somehow clung to life far longer than anyone expected—and someone discovered a way to cure his father’s recently diagnosed throat cancer—he, Wilhelm, would have his accession day within a few short years. Maybe even sooner, God willing.

“You should care because,” Bismarck’s voice lowered, his tone grave, “you may grow your empire by bullying, thereby having to fight for land, inch by bloody inch. But, if you are clever, you’ll form beneficial alliances with the English and your Continental cousins. Then, assured they will do nothing to stop you, your army can march in and take over the territory you covet with only the weakest of excuses.”

Wilhelm brooded over the old man’s words. Perhaps he was right. But this waiting was intolerable.

Bismarck leaned across the table and stabbed a finger at its surface for emphasis. “If the English are not on your side, and they step in to stop you the moment you cross a border—you have a very big problem, Your Highness. You don’t want a war with the British Empire. Believe me, you do not.”

Wilhelm tossed his head and laughed. “Why the hell not? We are strong and a far larger nation than their little island. There is no better army in all of—“

“
Dummkopf
!”

Wilhelm stared at the man, lowered his boots to the floor and sat up, his spine rigid. “Watch it,
mein Freund
. No one calls me a fool.” He reduced his voice to a warning growl. “Certainly not a glorified tutor.”

He had never spoken to Bismarck in such a way before. Never would he have dreamed of doing so in years past. But he felt his own strength emerging, his impatience surging even as he watched the generations before him weakening, withering like his arm. His father’s aging cronies had become a handicap to be overcome. He must seize his destiny.

For the first time, Wilhelm saw something in the old man’s eyes he’d never believed possible. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was doubt, an indecisiveness as to his protégé’s next move and his own countermove. As in a chess match, hesitation revealed an opponent’s weakness.

Wilhelm took a deep breath and boldly continued. “You say I must be aware of what my enemy thinks of me. I must learn their politics to protect my interests.”

“Precisely.”

“I can’t do that without spending time in cursed England, hanging about in the queen’s Court, pretending friendship with her ministers.”

“I’m sure your grandmother would welcome you.” Bismarck’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

They both knew Victoria disliked her eldest grandson because of his temper tantrums and his daring to stand up to her. As a child, he’d developed a mean temper. The queen never forgot the day he’d snatched one of his aunt’s muffs and threw it out the carriage window. Worse yet, while attending a family wedding, and blocked into the pew by two of his older uncles with the hope of containing his restlessness until the end of the service, he’d bitten one of the young men on the ankle. The queen was not amused.

“She might tolerate my company,” Wilhelm admitted, chuckling at the memory, “but I’m not sure how long I could tolerate hers.”

Besides, he hated the way she always stared at his arm, as if he were carrying a snake. Even in recent years, she’d persisted in embarrassing him, calling him “Willy” in public, scolding him for his temper as if he were still a child. “Your arrogance and willfulness will be your ruin!” she’d snapped at him in front of his parents on their last visit.

“Better that I send eyes and ears on my behalf, I think,” Wilhelm said.

“A spy?” The old man’s heavy brow smoothed—a sign of interest if not approval. Spies were one of his favorite tools. “Yes, a man in her court. That might work.”

“
Nein
,” Wilhelm said, “not just in her Court. In her
family
.”

Bismarck shook his head, his eyes darkening. “I doubt you’ll find any of her sons or daughters, even those related through marriage, willing to be disloyal to the queen.”

Wilhelm laughed out loud. “Have you no imagination, sir?” For the first time he was enjoying this conversation. “There is another princess to be married off. Another husband to be found.”

Bismarck frowned. “Beatrice? The old maid?”

“Only a few years my senior. Victoria was popping them out even as she was being given grandchildren by my parents.” Wilhelm scooped his English language text off the floor and dropped it on the table with a satisfying whack. “If living with my grandmother, day after grim day, is anything like I imagine—Auntie Beatrice will be ripe for a mate to free her from the old witch.”

“So you will turn matchmaker, Your Highness?” The idea appeared to amuse Bismarck. His eyes twinkled, a rare and remarkable thing to witness. “I’m not sure it’s a practical solution, but maybe…maybe… How do you imagine you’ll pull it off? Where would you find this man to sweep a mother-shackled princess off of her feet? He’ll also have to charm the queen, you know.”

Wilhelm rubbed his withered arm in thought. A moment later he smiled at his teacher. “I believe I already know the ideal suitor for my dear aunt.”

Beatrice expected to spend the morning helping her niece prepare for the wedding ceremony later that day. She and Vicky had grown close, even though most of their lives they’d lived in two different countries, hundreds of miles apart. Their correspondence started in childhood, playfully, and became intimate and warm over the years, their visits pleasurably anticipated. Beatrice had to admit, she often felt closer to her niece than to her real sisters, with the possible exception of Louise, since the others were separated from her by so many years.

And so, Beatrice thought nothing of it when Vicky asked her to come with her back to her bedchamber after the wedding breakfast.

As soon as they were in her room, the bride shooed off her attendants and ladies, and turned to Beatrice with an anguished expression. Tears glittering in her eyes, she flung herself into her aunt’s arms. “I’m so very afraid. What shall I do?”

“Afraid of what, my dear?” Beatrice asked, shocked at this unexpected outburst of emotion. She tried to disengage herself from the girl’s arms, but Vicky held firm.

“You always have calming words and intelligent advice for me, dear Auntie. I’m so very nervous.” Vicky’s voice lowered to a whisper as she looked up into Beatrice’s face, “About
tonight
.”

Beatrice felt her cheeks go hot. “Oh, well, yes, after the ceremony and reception, your wedding night.” She gripped Vicky by the shoulders and set the girl away from her a few paces to enable them both to breathe. “I’m told that Louis is a kind man. I’m sure he’ll be…gentle.”

Why did the girl assume she knew anything at all about the physical relations between a husband and wife? She wasn’t like her sister Louise, who had sought—well,
experiences
, as a very young woman. Beatrice had never been allowed alone in a room with a male, other than her father. Even in the company of her own brothers she’d been chaperoned by Nurse, or a trusted female tutor or servant.

As to the sexual education of any young woman of a socially elevated family, convention declared that the bride depend solely upon an elder female’s discreet instruction before her wedding day. What the details of that instruction might be, Beatrice didn’t have a clue. She’d heard, though, that some new brides learned absolutely nothing of what was expected of them, of their wifely duties in the marital bed that is, until their husband took them to said bed.

And if there was to be no marriage at all, ever? No wedding night?

Then there was no need for a woman to ever know of such things. At least, that was what her mother, the queen, had told her. Several times.

For desperate minutes Beatrice tried to calm her niece with vague reassurances that physical intimacy between husband and wife was completely natural. She dredged up every slyly murmured phrase she’d overheard between her sisters Louise and Helen, closest to her in age, both of whom were now married. She called up the whispered words of ladies of the court. Anything that had to do with the sexual union of a man and a woman.

She heard herself mumble frantically, “And I’m told that there is sometimes pleasure for the woman during the act of procreation. In addition to a sense of fulfillment of one’s wifely duties—” And at that fortuitous moment, the queen stepped through the door and into the bridal chamber.

Never had Beatrice been so glad to see her mother.

Her gratitude, however, was short lived.

Victoria, apparently having overheard enough of the conversation to ascertain its topic, and Beatrice’s hopelessness, dismissed her daughter with a peremptory, “I have everything in hand, Baby. You’ll only confuse the poor child.” The queen turned to Vicky, snapping open her black lace fan in front of her face, as if to hide her words from all but her granddaughter. “Your poor aunt knows nothing of these things. Come, dear little one, we’ll have a chat.” And she took the bride’s hand and tugged her across the room to the window seat, where they sat together whispering while Vicky stared wide-eyed at her grandmother.

Feeling pathetic, useless, and ignored, Beatrice stood in the middle of the room, looking around her as servants burst into the room bringing articles of clothing, dishes of dried fruits and nuts, scented linens to place on the bed. The bride’s little sister Elle appeared and curled up in a blue slipper chair on the opposite side of the room from the queen, chattering at anyone who would listen. Vicky’s tutor and old nurse arrived, and suddenly the room was awash in crinolined skirts and happy female activity, none of it involving Beatrice.

She sidled meekly toward her mother when she sensed, from Vicky’s quivering smile and her mother’s reassuring pats on the girl’s cheek, that the critical information had been delivered. “How may I help, Mama?”

Victoria wrinkled her nose at her and huffed through her nose. “You will get out from under foot, Baby.”

Beatrice swallowed her disappointment. “But everyone else has something special to—”

“Fine then. Why do you not take a few of your rambunctious younger nieces and nephews for a ride? The stable master will provide mounts and escort. You’ll be doing the dear duke a favor by keeping the children occupied.”

“Yes, well, if you think… ” Beatrice stared longingly at Vicky as more and more of her attendants arrived to fuss over her.
To be pretty like her. To be loved…

At one time she would have given almost anything for a serious suitor. But she was past her prime now. She was
Auntie
. And it seemed she wasn’t any good at being even that.

“Go, go,” Victoria urged. “Stop dithering, Baby. You’re just getting in the way.” She stood up from the window seat and all but pushed her out the door.

Beatrice found herself standing in the empty hallway of the duke’s palace. She took three deep breaths, closed her eyes for a moment, soaked up the comparative silence. Such peacefulness, this rare moment of privacy, almost made rejection pleasant.

Beatrice stood for a few more minutes, listening to the muffled voices behind the heavy oak door. It was unlike her mother to let her out of her sight. Beatrice wondered if something more than the wedding was on the queen’s mind, distracting her.

No matter. She walked slowly down the long corridor with its vaulted ceiling, ivory walls and gilded cornices, then through a great crystal chandelier-draped foyer where two footmen in smart livery stood at attention. She strolled outside through glazed doors and into the sunshine.

Alone. Blessedly alone. An oh-so-rare treat.

So rare, in fact, that by the time she’d taken a short stroll around the grounds then returned to her room and changed into riding dress and, finally, reached the stables, she still hadn’t been able to locate the gaggle of nieces and nephews she’d intended to take for a ride. Not that she tried so very hard. Surrendering this golden personal time to play nursemaid to a rowdy crew of little royals appealed less and less with every passing minute.

Impulsively, she changed her plans.

I shall ignore Mama’s suggestion.
No, not suggestion—command. Every request from a queen was without doubt a command. But Beatrice chose today to be just a teeny bit reckless, daring, adventuresome. She’d ride out alone. Totally alone.
Delicious
!

And why not? She was an experienced horsewoman. Everyone else on the estate was busy with preparations for the wedding, although it was still hours away. She had nothing better to do. And anyway, she always felt physically stronger, less achy in the joints when she moved about. A touch of rheumatism, her mother’s doctors had said, and prescribed soothing heat and rest for the pain, laudanum if that didn’t work. But she knew her own body. A good, brisk ride without anyone telling her what to do—that seemed a far better cure.

She marched toward the duke’s stables, already looking forward to her adventure.

Her favorite mounts had always been her two ponies from the royal mews. Tarff and Wave, which had been bred at Hampton Court for riding. She also had Noon and Dawn both gentle, well-mannered bays that she drove as a pair. But she was unfamiliar with the temperaments of the duke’s horses. A few stalls were empty, so maybe someone else had already headed out, but she saw no sign of other riders as she scanned the meadows that stretched out and away from the castle.

She sent a stable boy to fetch the chief groom, who appeared quickly and recommended a beautiful mare with gentle eyes. “Genevieve’s got a bit of spirit in her though, so you watch she don’t take you for a ride, Your Highness. Let her know who’s boss.”

“I will,” Beatrice assured him then told him a mount for an escort wouldn’t be required.

He blinked at her, as if such a thing simply wasn’t done. She ignored his nervous suggestion that she ought not ride alone.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

Minutes later, Beatrice rode out through the paddock at a leisurely pace, seated side saddle as all Victoria’s girls had been taught. “The only lady-like way to ride,” the queen stated. After ten minutes or so Beatrice felt as though she and the horse had become sufficiently accustomed to each other. She cropped the horse into a comfortable canter and enjoyed the familiar rhythm and bounce of the horse’s stride. The air smelled sweetly of spring flowers and new grass. She followed a dirt path into woods lush with new growth. The perfume of damp moss, pungent pine needles, and feathery ferns pleased and soothed her, dissolving the tension she always felt when forced to converse with strangers or appear before a large group of people.
Lovely, this is absolutely perfect!

“Hello, hold up there!” a shout came from behind her.

Beatrice tensed at the sound of another set of horse’s hooves. Her first thought was that she had strayed off the duke’s land and offended a neighbor by trespassing. But was that really possible? She’d ridden less than a mile; the estate covered hundreds of acres. She turned her mount to face the oncoming rider.

With a jolt she saw it was a lone man. He rode a gleaming black Arabian that seemed as spirited as her mare was calm. The approach of the other horse made her own mount anxious. Genevieve danced in place apprehensively. Beatrice checked her with the reins.

“Sssshhh, it’s all right, my pretty,” Beatrice soothed, stroking the horse’s silky neck. “It’s one of your pals.” She recognized the Arabian as a horse the groom had passed over when choosing hers, no doubt having assumed the powerful animal would be too much for her to handle.

The rider came closer and, at last, she recognized him. “Liko! Henry, hello.”

“Are you escaping the madness too?” he asked cheerfully, stopping close to her. “Wise woman. The palace is crammed to the gills with guests. Louis is a mad man he’s so nervous. And Sandro claims he’s in love with a girl whose Russian mother despises Germans. I told them both they’d be better off not falling in love at all. Find a girl with money who offends no one. Marry her, if you must marry at all.”

“Oh, do you really believ—“ she started to object, but then saw he was laughing at her. “You’re trying to get a rise out of old Auntie, aren’t you?”

He looked perplexed. “Old—? Who is that?” He turned in his saddle to look around the woods. “Oh, you mean
you
? How can you think of yourself as old? You are no more aged than I?”

It was true, she now remembered. They were the same age. And yet he seemed so very young to her—utterly dashing in his military uniform and on that magnificent steed that looked as though it wanted to bolt down a hill in a cavalry charge.

“Why are you out here on your own?” he asked. “You could have sent someone for me. I’d have been happy to accompany you.”

“
You
rode out alone. Why did you not send for
me
?” She swallowed, shocked by her boldness.

“You’re right, Your Highness.” He laughed and turned his horse as if to go. “There’s no reason you can’t seek solitude. If that was your intent, then I’m intruding.” Smiling, he gave her a jaunty salute. “I shall leave you in peace.” “No!” she cried out, but immediately controlled her impulse to plead with him to stay. More calmly she said, “It was nice for a bit, riding alone, but I’d enjoy your company. That is, if you’re not wanting solitude.”

“The company of a lovely lady suits me just fine.” He flashed her another smile, and this one melted her down to her toes. He’s teasing me, she thought, but decided she didn’t mind. Perhaps she’d just pretend right along with him. Pretend that he meant what he said. Play the part of a worldly, attractive woman. Flirt!

They rode further into the woods, side by side for as long as the path accommodated two horses. When it narrowed, he let her take the lead while they chatted about their families and swapped Court gossip until they emerged into an open field dotted with red and white poppies.

“Do you have any idea how much you surprise me?” Henry said as they cut through tall grasses whose feathery tips brushed her stirrups.

“Surprise you. How?”

“Louis told me you were quite the cold fish.”

She cringed. It wasn’t the first time she’d overheard such comments. “I don’t see how he’d know,” she said with a brusqueness she hadn’t intended. “We’ve barely ever spoken.”

Henry brought his horse up alongside hers. The animals seemed to have calmed down in each other’s presence and walked along amicably. “I think that’s the point.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Louis tried to start a conversation with you, once, a long time ago.”

Oh,
that
, she thought and grimaced. “If you’re referring to that awful dinner several years ago.”

“He was very upset, you know, that you wouldn’t speak to him.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to shut out the memory. “I
couldn’t
speak to him.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“Because my mother forbade it.”

She sensed his horse coming to a stop; she reined in her mount as well. When she turned to look at him, his long face was no longer smooth. His dazzling eyes had darkened to a stormy gray-blue, and his smile seemed to have never been. “On what grounds did she swear you to silence?”

Beatrice pursed her lips. Was it disloyal to question the queen’s decisions? Hadn’t her rules been made with her daughter’s safety and happiness in mind?