Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  She managed a fair imitation of her usual teasing smile. "Are you very shocked? Fallenwood was taken aback, I think. I should have reminded him that his precious William the Conqueror was just as much a bastard as my great-grandmother."

  "Your grandfather the king redeemed you." He turned back to her, his head tilted to the side, and drew a ragged breath. "Tatiana, I can't bear this, seeing you. So don't look for me. I'll be in town for another fortnight. If you need me, send a note by my house. Fifteen Cavendish Square."

  She shook her head blindly, bewildered, hurt, her hand straying unconsciously to the gold braid on the front of his jacket. If she needed him—"But you're saying you won't be here."

  "I will, if you send for me." He caught her chin up so that she had to gaze into those cloudy eyes. There was a promise there, but she didn't know what it meant, or what it demanded in return.

  He glanced over his shoulder, alert to a sound she could not hear. "Someone is coming." Quickly he turned her hand and kissed the softness of her inner arm, just where the glove left off. The skin reddened under his caress, and she rubbed at the burn as he vanished around the corner.

  The countess cried, "Princess! I've been looking for you everywhere! The royal duke—"

  Tatiana balanced herself with one hand on the marble statue and let her breath escape silently. "I'm afraid I got lost coming back from the withdrawing room. So many doorways and mirrors! I'm very glad you found me, for I was so disoriented. Would it be too bad if we left soon?"

  The countess regarded her flushed face suspiciously. Then her eyes flickered to the corner where Devlyn had turned. An agonizing moment passed before the countess nodded coldly. "The prince prefers early nights, as a matter of fact. He was just hinting that he wanted to seek his bed soon. But no one can leave before the guest of honor, so I would suggest, Your Highness, that you return with me immediately."

  Within minutes they were making their farewells. As Tatiana nodded and smiled and made her way from the Blue Velvet Room, she was aware only that Michael, true to his word, was not there to see her off.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Michael continued true to his word. Tatiana saw nothing of him the next week, though at every social occasion her eyes never left off their restless search for his lean figure in the dashing cavalry uniform. "I can't bear this, seeing you," he'd said in that heartbreaking whisper. He might just have well have said, "I love you, and be damned to you," for all the joy and anguish that farewell gave her. Farewell.

  That was what it was, a farewell. He was forever kissing her and then pushing her away, seducing her and resisting her. But this time he had made it clear enough. Whatever he felt—whatever they felt—it was two painful, too tangled, too impossible to be borne.

  Caution, she warned herself again as she made her way through yet another receiving line. This one was at Blessington House, one of the immense town palaces built during the raucous Restoration era. When she retrieved her hand from the lascivious Lord Blessington's grasp, Tatiana looked out over a sea of faces, looking back at her with anticipation. It was a tribute to her success that so capacious a ballroom was swarming even in this first week of December, when men of sporting disposition were used to be foxhunting in the shires. Now the men had other sport in mind, for the whole country had heard about the Russian princess with her scandalous tongue and her unspecified but presumably exalted future.

  A little cynically, Tatiana knew she had given them what they had come for—a real princess in all her royal gold and finery. She wore the green velvet gown with its skirt caught up on each side over a flurry of cream silk petticoats. The magnificent Saraya Kalin diamonds in a Renaissance setting of gold filigree rested provocatively above her breasts. Matching armlets clung to her arms just below the gown's puffed sleeves. And teased into her red-gold curls was a diamond tiara that, with the dangling earbobs, completed the set of a king's ransom in jewels. And a king's ransom it was, she thought, remembering her grandfather's lost kingdom.

  She had only a moment to contemplate that admiring crowd before it encircled her. Then Lord Wellesley appeared out of nowhere to take her arm and hold off the ravening horde for a nonce. "Really, my lord," she said with a trace of irritation, "you are too kind to take such care of me. One would think the foreign secretary would have more important duties than walking me through my paces."

  Wellesley smiled through his fine white teeth. "None more pleasant, surely, Your Highness. I have the great honor of walking with the toast of the Little Season. Indeed, I think there would not have been a Little Season this year, had your popularity not drawn everyone back to town."

  Tatiana followed his thoughts by watching his dissolute mouth, which was twisted now in rueful confusion. How could she be a success? He did not like her! But she was, in fact, a roaring success, coveted as a guest by eager hostesses, pursued by the most fashionable beaus, quoted slavishly by the scandal sheets.

  Now one side of his mouth quirked up. "I must admit the development has surprised me."

  Despite her loathing for him, Tatiana found Wellesley rather charming on the rare occasions he decided to be honest. So she rewarded him with a conspiratorial smile. "It is unfathomable to me also, my lord." They were walking along the edge of the dance floor, a trail of young men in their wake. "Do they forget my nation is at war with yours?"

  "Oh, that's but a technicality. There's never been an engagement of troops. And what is war, after all, against such a glittering display of regality? Most princesses, I regret to say, haven't the charm and beauty to compensate for such minor complications as wars and embargoes. But you—"

  Tatiana knew better, knew that her admirers were merely the bored inhabitants confined to a small island during a long war. She did not for an instant trust their appreciation, any more than she trusted Wellesley's silken smiles. But she was only human. Their admiration was at least momentarily soothing, a warm welcome to a girl who had always before felt unwelcome.

  Like a doting father, Wellesley turned to survey the swarm of young men, and nodded to the most harmless of them, a stammering young ensign. But before he released her hand, the foreign secretary remarked, ''Oh, the Duke of Cumberland asked me to convey his regards and his hope that you will make your visit with us an extended one."

  Automatically Tatiana let the ensign lead her out for the minuet. She had seen no more of Cumberland this week than of Michael, and had hoped that signified his flat refusal to go through with the marriage. That would have solved her dilemma efficaciously, for no blame could fall on Tatiana if she were the jilted one. But Wellesley was assuring her, as plainly as he ever spoke, that Cumberland was willing. If there was any jilting to be done, she would have to do it herself.

  With that realization, a part of her ripped away from the rest. Her smile, her teasing voice, her flirtatious eyes stayed with the body dancing with the ensign. But her spirit retreated into the shadows of the vast room, seeking a sanctuary. Her hope was shattered, and try as she might, she couldn't fit the pieces back together.

  She couldn't marry Cumberland, not that monstrous man who looked every inch the murderer he was said to be. But she couldn't not marry him. Not if the reports Wellesley kept sending her were true: that Napoleon would soon march on his disobedient ally Russia. Her country's survival might depend on an alliance with Britain—and that might depend on her cooperation.

  If she didn't cooperate . . . She tried to tell herself that a royal marriage was, as Michael termed it, only a metaphor. Surely Britain wouldn't break off relations with Russia just because a princess proved difficult. But the tsar--

  Even as her feet traced the mincing steps of the minuet, she felt the numbness of despair creep through her. She could be stateless if she refused this marriage, for she could never return to Russia and her vengeful cousin Alexander. Her homeland had just emerged from a century in which, by her count, more than two dozen members of the royal family had lost their lives in palace struggles, including three tsars, a tsarevi
ch, and her own parents. If Tatiana was sent back to Russia, she might be dead before anyone noticed she had come home.

  You don't have to go home, she reminded herself. You can stay here in Britain, in Michael's homeland. You can be near him. You can have the power to do good. You can even strike a blow against Napoleon. You have only to marry Cumberland.

  The Count d'Annaud sauntered up and claimed her for the next dance. He was dressed in another exquisite wine-colored coat, tonight a rich claret with rubies winking in his ornate cravat. "Might I style you cousin, as the regent does?" he asked in his peculiar throaty whisper. "The lovely Queen Marie was my cousin, and yours also."

  "My grandmother's, actually," Tatiana said absently, looking over his shoulder at the other dancers. "Yes, call me cousin if you like."

  "I should like to call you something infinitely more precious, my beauty. But I speak too soon, and you are shocked. That gown, I admire it. It must be of French design. Only a Frenchman would love the womanly form enough to enhance it so.Tell me I am true, en effet?"

  The count's flirtation was far more sophisticated than she liked, with his outrageous allusions to her womanly form and beauty. But with him she could speak French, her true first language, a language conducive to poetry and coquetry and not to the sort of endless contemplation she had been engaging in. So she did not protest when the orchestra quieted and the count took her arm in an imperious grip. "Let us continue our conversation over some of this inferior champagne. How I long for the great champagne of France! Drinking champagne then was like drinking joy."

  Tatiana caught herself before boasting to him of the coachful of champagne Napoleon had sent back with the rejected Russian princesses. As d'Annaud led her to a secluded corner, still in the ballroom but blocked from view by a trellis of roses, she glanced around for Lady Sherbourne or Buntin or anyone else likely to scold her or rescue her. But no one was about, and her feet were weary from dancing, and the low chaise longue looked so inviting. She was absorbed in the task of arranging her full velvet skirts gracefully on the seat around her when d'Annaud suddenly dropped to his knees and seized her hand.

  "Your Highness! Cousin! Mon coeur!"

  Tatina squeaked, but that was response enough for the frenzied count. He went on impetuously, "You feel it, too, don't you, the magnetism, the bond between us! And the bond between our families! And our nations! Yes, my poor homeland, so brutalized by that chien Bonaparte! Bah, even to speak his name defiles my lips!" Impassionedly he pressed kisses on Tatiana's gloved hand. "And to touch your sweet skin purifies them again! Oh, say you will give me back my hope, give my country back its hope, dash the hope of that bastard whose name will no more cross my lips. Be mine, cousin!"

  Tatiana was ashamed to find herself evaluating this burst of passion more critically than kindly. Even as the count—what was his first name?—knelt in supplication, clinging to her hand as if it were a life rope, raising feverish dark eyes to hers, she decided this was a very odd proposal. Oh, the endearments were very nice, and the frenzy was entirely appropriate for a proposal, but all those references to France and Napoleon were a trifle misplaced. Unless, of course, he was proposing what the Prince Regent proposed—a political marriage more for the benefit of two nations than two people. D'Annaud, being French, could not help coating the business proposition in romantic gilding. But, d'Annaud also being a Bourbon, his family's fortunes must needs be paramount in his ambitions.

  Tatiana felt a little sad, and not just because she had to turn down the proposal. But this was her first real proposal—Peter Korsakov's whispered "I shall speak to your uncle about our future" was sweet but inconclusive, and Wellesley's oblique comment about Cumberland hoping her stay would be an extended one was secondhand and rather too indirect to count. Instead of being beloved and loving, the first man to ask for her hand was a fraud. Oh, d'Annaud was regarding her as any anxious lover would, pressing her hand to his pulsing heart, his eyes begging for her answer. He was very good at this business, but there was no doubt that business was exactly what it was. She knew that this Bourbon might have liked her very well, even were she not a princess. But he would never have thought to link his fortunes with hers if that would not further his family's scheme to regain the French throne.

  So it was this issue she addressed when she refused him. "You are very kind," she said gently, only a hint of anger edging her voice. She removed her hand from his and put it safely out of reach in the folds of her skirt. "But I think you should be made aware that the regent would not be pleased with any—alliance between us. He has other plans for me. And since he has offered both of us such hospitality, it would not be polite, or politic, to offend him."

  D'Annaud, to his credit, seemed rather cast down, though he did not attempt to argue with her. "But I had been dreaming of taking you to my chateau in Provence, of rearing our children there—the rumors are true, then, that you are meant for one of the princes. Such a waste," he murmured with real regret. "Wouldn't you prefer me to those mountebanks?"

  "You know I cannot answer that."

  "Ah, but I can read your eyes, ma cousine. I can read those brilliant eyes of yours, and I see a passion for living that would be wasted on a Hanover! Ah, to take you to my beloved Paris—Perhaps afterward, after this marriage of yours, after the war, we might still have our moment. A royal duchess needs must have her cher ami, her innamorato, and I—yes, I know, my lovely, you cannot speak of such now. But the thought gives me hope of a brighter day soon."

  D'Annaud was apparently an old hand at trysts in ballrooms. He suggested Tatiana slip out into the corridor and return, as if she had merely been to a withdrawing room. "I shall wait here for a time to begin the healing of my broken heart," he proclaimed impassionedly. You won't forget my suggestion, will you, my beauty?"

  Tatiana escaped into the corridor, shivering a bit after the oppressive heat of the crowded ballroom. What a future lay ahead for her—Cumberland for a husband and d'Annaud for a cher ami. But she could not think of that now. To distract herself she plunged back into the melee of the ball. She had hardly accepted the arm of the Duke of Fallenwood for the cotillion when her eye was caught by a familiar uniform. Dark blue, with elaborate braiding across the front, a high collar piped in scarlet—he was alone, and his gaze found her immediately. But he made no attempt to approach her. Of course, she thought bitterly, the British soldiers were much more skillful in retreat than advance. No doubt that was why Michael was so valued by Wellington, for no one won ground then fell back as well as he.

  But she was done with storming his citadel, she decided. Deliberately she turned to Fallenwood, laughing and flirting with a desperation that totally escaped the duke, who thought it very fitting indeed that he had won the heart of a princess.

  ***

  The princess's desperation was not, however, lost on Major Lord Devlyn, who stood near the stairs on the periphery of the dance floor. He had not intended to come to this ball in honor of the Russian princess, though he, along with half of London, had received an invitation. And for several hours he had resisted. But by eleven o'clock the temptation to see her again had overcome his newly tenuous control. So there he was, watching her again from a distance. Surrounded by admirers, Lord Wellesley hovering protectively nearby, she was entirely unattainable.

  "Michael! I never thought to see you here!"

  With a twinge of guilt he turned to regard Sarah Harburton, serenely lovely in a low-cut gown of ice blue, her dark hair fashionably disarrayed. He had heard the reproach in her determinedly cheerful greeting and apologized sincerely for not coming to see her in the time he had been back in London.

  "Oh, I do understand, dearest." Sarah being Sarah, he knew she really did. What a good friend she had always been. "What with your estate and business matters and meetings at the Horse Guards, it's a wonder you have time to turn around."

  "Nevertheless, I should have found the time to call on you."

  "Yes, you should have, because I am excessively
intrigued by your secret cruise. Oh, if you had only dropped a hint before you left that you would be engaging in such dramatic feats of derring-do—and with Johnny Manning, of all people! Of course, you always were friends with him. My mother is just up from the village and informs me Mr. Manning is actually boasting about his son now, after years of snapping off the head of any customer who happened to ask about John. She said a letter with a cabinet frank addressed to John Dryden arrived at the apothecary shop and quite did in Mr. Manning. He has the frank displayed at the counter. It has dramatically improved his business, as you can imagine!"

  Sarah, bless her, was as cozy as ever, chattering about home, begging for details about his trip, teasing him about joining Prinny's set. Finally, however, as they left the refreshment table with glasses of champagne, she turned serious again. "Now Michael, I hope you put that long sea voyage to good advantage and considered what we talked about before you left town."

  Tatiana had left the dance floor for what appeared to be a confrontation with Lady Sherbourne. "What was that?"

  "About your finding a bride. Michael, do pay attention. Now have you thought about that at all?"

  "Endlessly." Hopelessly.

  "You really shouldn't have to think endlessly about it, for it is only the logical step for you. And absurd as it is that I have to be the one to suggest it, no one else appears to have your best interests at heart—Michael. You're not attending."

  "You have my best interests at heart," he echoed. "I know that."

  Sarah regarded him with some exasperation, tapping his arm gently with her ivory fan. "So have you thought of favoring any girl with your suit? Really, for a cavalry officer, you don't seem interested in charging at all. Has any girl even caught your eye?"

  "Yes," he murmured. Tatiana was angry, her little shoulders thrown back proudly, her enchanting mouth set in sulky lines. He smiled, remembering that she had looked just as piqued when he suggested a dictionary of cant phrases was not what she needed to become a London success. And he was right: she hadn't needed it at all.