The gold filigree necklace had five amethysts mounted along the front, sitting at the top of her breasts.
The only place where the Illusion did not soften the golden silk was at her waist.
“It is better to be able to see your waist clearly,” Natasha had pointed out earlier that afternoon.
“And to be able hold it,” Sharla had added, as she draped the Illusion. “For waltzes,” she said hastily, when Annalies stared at her.
The sprays of tiny flowers in Bronwen’s hair were the same color as the amethysts and they seemed to make her eyes appear blue, instead of gray.
Bronwen stared at herself, not quite believing the transformation.
Her mother stepped up behind her and met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re in his world now, my darling.”
“Yes,” Bronwen agreed. Her voice shook.
“Remember, you belong here, too,” Annalies whispered. “You’ve merely taken your rightful place, instead of choosing to live beyond its borders.”
“I must keep reminding myself of that.”
Annalies held out Bronwen’s gloves. “Ready?”
Bronwen shook her head. “Why does this take more courage than walking away from society?”
“Because the prize is much bigger.” Annalies dropped her cape around her shoulders and Bronwen buttoned it at the neck. She bent and kissed Bronwen’s cheek. “No matter what happens, you are still my daughter and I am very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
They moved out to the sitting room of the hotel suite. Sharla was already there with Ben and Dane. Her head was against Ben’s shoulder, while Dane held both of them. It was a private moment and the three of them hastily separated as the women moved into the sitting room. Sharla wiped her eyes and sniffed.
Dane saw Bronwen and smiled. Then he put his heels together and bowed, his formal tails lifting behind him. “Miss Davies.”
Ben laughed. “I think I feel sorry for the man. I know what it’s like to watch beauty sway toward you and wonder what she is thinking.”
Sharla smiled at him. “Mother, we—Dane and Ben and I—will only stay at the ball for an hour. I hope you don’t mind?”
Elisa frowned. “There’s no reason not to stay longer,” she pointed out.
Dane shook his head. “Tomorrow, every train, every boat and every private conveyance will be commissioned to take everyone here for the coronation back home. We want to leave tonight. There is a train to Antwerp leaving at midnight and a boat to Gravesend tomorrow at noon. We want to return to London as soon as possible.”
“I thought we could travel together,” Elisa said.
“We want…” Dane began. He hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind, only…”
“I want to tell Father,” Ben said, looking at Annalies. “As soon as possible.”
Bronwen’s heart gave a little squeeze and hurried along.
Her mother’s eyes glittered. “Yes,” she said softy. “Yes, that would be the best Christmas present for him.” She hugged Ben and kissed him, then Sharla and Dane in turn.
Then Annalies turned and faced everyone. “I believe it is time to leave. The ball will be starting.”
* * * * *
When Bronwen saw the palace ahead, blazing with lights and with hundreds of coaches and carriages milling in front of the magnificent building, she shook in earnest.
Her mother picked up her hand. “You may not spot him there straight away, remember,” she murmured. “This is not his ball and there are many people here. Try to enjoy yourself, whether you see him or not.”
“I will see him,” Bronwen replied. “I know I will.”
It took long moments for their coach to ease between departing and arriving vehicles, to get close enough to the front entrance of the palace for the footmen to open the door and hand them out. The delay only heightened Bronwen’s nervousness.
By the time they were collected together upon the carpet, the ball was well underway. They could hear music coming from inside and the steady low murmur of conversations.
Dane held out both of his arms. “Sharla. Lady Elisa.”
Ben held out his. “Mother. Aunt Natasha.” He looked at Bronwen. “You should walk ahead of us.”
Bronwen clutched at her bodice. “No!”
Annalies looked at her and raised her brow.
Reluctantly, Bronwen moved in front of them and stepped up the two steps into the front hall of the palace. Over the heads of the attendees in front of her, she could see a series of arches, with red swags pulled to either side, inside their graceful curves. Beyond the arches, a room blazed with the light from dozens of chandeliers. The music came from that room.
Another footman took her cape, leaving Bronwen exposed, visible to everyone. She shivered.
“Go on,” Dane encouraged her, from behind.
Sharla pressed her fingers into the small of Bronwen’s back. “He won’t be there. He’s probably in a smoking room, drinking brandy. Go on.”
The sound of people dancing beneath the chandeliers was louder now. So was the music.
People were turning to look at her. Their expressions were speculative. Were they wondering who she was?
Their stares were unsettling and pushed her into taking another few steps forward, then easing around groups of people, making her way deeper into the ballroom.
The light brightened. In the way that a crowded room could ebb and flow like currents in a river, the people before her separated. She could at last see the ballroom itself, the circle of dancers on the beautiful parquet floor and the people edging the big room, watching the dancers.
Then people shifted, moved to speak to others or for a clearer look at the dancers and her view was blocked once more. Bronwen turned to face Dane, Sharla and her mother. “He’s not here,” she said, relief letting her breathe. “I couldn’t see him.”
Annalies was staring over her shoulder. Then she reached and turned Bronwen’s shoulders, making her spin around.
Tor was there. He stood on the edge of the dance floor, staring at her. He wore the same regal uniform he had been wearing at the coronation, although the great coat was gone and so was the helmet. The front of his tunic was covered in braid and medals and ribbons. His shoulders seemed wider than ever.
He came closer to them. His gaze did not lift away from Bronwen.
She froze, all thought, all sense evaporating. She could only watch him, her heart racing wildly.
Dane and Sharla, Ben and Natasha and Elisa bowed and curtsied. Only Annalies, who was of higher rank, stood upright.
Belatedly, Bronwen realized she must do the same. She sank down. Tor held out his hand. “No,” he said quickly.
She rose again, uncertainty gripping her.
Tor stepped closer. “It is you, isn’t it? You’re really here…” His blue eyes moved over her face.
Bronwen swallowed. “I know I look odd,” she began. Behind her, Sharla gave an exasperated sound.
Tor let out a heavy breath. “Dance with me.” He picked up her hand and without waiting for Bronwen to agree or not, led her out onto the floor.
Dancing was one society custom that Bronwen had never disagreed with. The dance was a sedate minuet which was just as well, for Tor did not seem to be able to look away from her and Bronwen could barely concentrate on the steps.
They came together, their hands raised. His eyes met hers.
Then apart.
The elegant circles were simple walking steps.
“I always find quieter rooms at these things,” Tor said.
“For the brandy?”
“For the peace and quiet,” he replied. “Tonight though, I just didn’t want to. It was as if I was waiting for you.”
Bronwen shuddered and turned away, following her own circle around and back to face him, as the other female dancers were doing.
“I heard there was an Englishwoman in Silkeborg,” Tor said. “They said she was a witch. Was it you?”
Bronwen gasped. “Oh! Tor! I almost forgot in all the fuss…” She put her hand on his chest, for emphasis. “I found out what is wrong with the town! Why the people are sick! It was simple deductive reasoning. Inductive testing will prove I’m right, that it really is the paper mill that is at fault, only Borgmester Østergård will resist the truth because he is afraid the mill will have to close and that will be the end of the town…what are you doing?”
Tor cupped her cheek. He was smiling. “There you are. There’s the woman from Yorkshire.”
He kissed her, stealing her breath and making her thoughts drowsy. She realized with a start they were standing in the middle of the dance floor, forcing dancers to move around them, and that Tor was publicly kissing her.
She gasped as he let her go and gripped the braid on his tunic and shook him. “Are you listening to me?” she demanded. “The paper mill is the problem! They’re putting something in the water.”
He gripped her wrists. “I’m listening,” he said. “Only, you must listen to me for a moment.”
Bronwen glanced around the room. “We should remove ourselves from the dance floor.”
“Hang them all,” Tor said roughly. He shook her wrists. “I didn’t come here tonight to dance with pretty ladies and trip over the most stunning beauty to ever cross my path.”
With a start, Bronwen realized he was speaking of her. Her cheeks heated.
“I must speak to people,” he continued, his voice low and urgent. “There are men here from far countries, people whom I will not have a chance to speak with again, if I do not grasp this chance. I must drink brandy and mingle… Why do you smile that way?”
“Politics,” Bronwen said. “You must shore up your allies and friendships.”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. You understand.”
“I do.” She pulled her hands from his fingers. “You should go.”
“Not yet. Not before I know I will find you later, or tomorrow. Where are you staying?”
“The Centralt,” she said. “Only, Tor, I want to leave early tonight to say farewell to my cousin. She and her husband and their…they are returning to England on the midnight train.”
“Meet me tomorrow,” he said, his tone still urgent. “Promise me.”
Her heart swelled to bursting. “Yes.”
His hand curled around the back of her neck, his fingertips making her skin tingle. He bent and kissed her once more. “Tomorrow,” he breathed against her cheek. Then he stepped back two paces and bowed low. His eyes were heated as he lifted his head once more. Then he turned and threaded his way through the dancers.
Bronwen watched until she could see him no more. Then she noticed the blond woman standing on the edge of the dancers, staring at Bronwen with an angry, bitter expression.
The woman in blue velvet.
Bronwen smiled at her, then went to find her family.
* * * * *
Annalies looked up from buttoning her own long coat over her day dress to run her gaze over Bronwen’s velvet walking suit and the short cape that matched it. She nodded. “Ready?”
“Are you sure you should come, too, Mother?” Bronwen asked. “He did not say anything about a companion.”
“You must trust me, darling daughter. You are not attending a social affair this morning. This is a negotiation and I will be there to represent you and protect your interests.”
“Negotiation for what?” Bronwen felt her lip curl down. “Me?”
Annalies patted her cheek. “You won that particular negotiation last night. I suspect your Archeduke must now convince his advisors.”
“Have I won?” Bronwen replied. “He has not asked me…anything. He has not said he loves me.”
“He will not, not until he is sure enough to stand by the implied promise such confessions make.” Annalies picked up her reticule and patted her hair.
“Fingertips, mother, remember?” Bronwen told her.
“Oh yes, thank you.” She slid the locks back into place and smiled at her. “Shall we?”
They moved out into the sitting room, where Natasha and Elisa were seated upon upright chairs, facing a third chair that Tor used. He got to his feet when Bronwen and her mother entered. He was wearing the plain black, elegant suit he had been wearing in Yorkshire. The military dress was gone.
His gaze drifted over Bronwen. His mouth turned up at the corner. “You look utterly delightful, Miss Davies.”
“Bronwen,” she insisted.
Tor bowed toward Annalies. “Princess Annalies, it is a pleasure. I have heard much about you.”
“The edification has been mutual, Edvard.”
“Please, call me Tor.”
Annalies shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Then, you are accompanying your daughter this morning?”
“Yes.”
Tor smiled. “Good. Very good. Yes. The carriage is waiting.” He bowed to Natasha and Elisa. “Ladies.”
They curtsied.
Natasha waved to Bronwen, her smile warm.
* * * * *
The carriage ride took mere minutes, for the streets of Brussels had emptied as suddenly as a tipped glass. Tor did not speak and for most of the journey he looked out the window, as if his mind was elsewhere.
His distance did not reassure Bronwen.
Their destination was a large, traditional inn, with empty corridors and silent rooms. Tor showed them into a private lounge. “Please wait here a moment, while I find my secretary.”
“Baumgärtner?” Bronwen asked.
“Yes.” His gaze met hers. “There is business we must deal with before…well, let us finish business, first.”
When he had shut the door, Annalies picked up her hand. “What comes next you may not enjoy, my darling. There will be harsh truths spoken—”
“I am not afraid of the truth,” Bronwen replied.
“You may resent being discussed in ways that make you feel uncomfortable,” her mother told her. “Remember that the only reason the discussion is being conducted is because the Archeduke wants the discussion, that he is forcing hands over you.”
Bronwen shuddered. “Is this the way marriage is arranged with your people?”
Her mother smiled. “Now you know why I ran away and married your father.” Annalies shook her hand. “Remember you are my daughter.” She let her hand go as the door opened.
Baumgärtner followed Tor into the room. He was older and frailer than Bronwen remembered. He stopped short when he saw her and Annalies and took off his spectacles. “Well, my…” He coughed and replaced the spectacles.
“Your Highness,” Tor said, “may I present to you my secretary and trusted advisor, Herr Aldous Baumgärtner? Baumgärtner, this is the Princess Annalies Benedickta Davies, daughter of the royal house Saxe-Coburg-Weiden and of the former Principality of Saxe-Weiden.”
Baumgärtner bowed low, his pointed beard jutting. “Your Highness.”
Annalies inclined her head. “Baumgärtner.”
“And this is Miss Bronwen Davies, the Princess’ daughter, whom you may remember from Yorkshire.”
“Indeed,” Baumgärtner said, taking her hand and bowing over it. “You are…changed, Miss Davies.”
“The change is purely superficial, I assure you,” Bronwen said. Her eyes widened at her own temerity. What had made her say that? “I mean,” she added hastily, “It is only polite to adopt the customs and habits of those one mingles with, to put them at their ease, is it not?”
Baumgärtner tilted his head. “Quite,” he said. “You are a commoner, Miss Davies?”
“My mother is a princess,” she pointed out.
“Your father is a bastard.”
“He is the unacknowledged son of Baron Monroe,” Tor said. “Perhaps we should sit?”
Annalies unbuttoned her coat and put it on the chair that Tor was indicating. “Not right now, thank you.” She was looking at Baumgärtner.
Baumgärtner was forced to remain standing—as were they
all—because the highest ranked person in the room refused to sit. He cleared his throat. “The mother of your husband, your Highness?”
“A Welsh woman of common ancestry,” Annalies replied.
“I heard she was an actress,” Baumgärtner said.
“An opera singer,” Annalies replied. “She gave royal command performances many times. That is how Rhys’ father met her—at Kensington Palace.”
Baumgärtner’s brow lifted. “That is not public knowledge, is it?”
“No,” Annalies replied coolly.
Bronwen removed her cape as heat prickled its way up her neck. Indirectly, they were doing exactly what her mother had warned her they would do. They were turning her antecedents inside out, examining the minutiae and inspecting her teeth.
The discussion went on, as Baumgärtner and her mother tore apart her family tree, including grandparents on both sides and Annalies’ own branch of the royal family.
“Is it true that your father and your uncle both suffered the family madness?” Baumgärtner asked her.
Annalies hesitated for the first time. “Your sources of information are excellent, Baumgärtner. I must congratulate you on your thoroughness. Yes, it is true. The madness was inherited.”
Baumgärtner’s gaze flickered toward Bronwen.
“It manifests only in males, Baumgärtner,” Annalies said, with a touch of impatience. “Besides, Edvard’s grandfather was as mad as March bees. He would ride his prize stallion naked through Silkeborg, waving his cutlass and calling the villagers to arm against invading Vikings.”
Tor laughed, while Baumgärtner cleaned his glasses once more and replaced them. “I see I am not the only one to have investigated.”
Annalies inclined her head. “Thank you. Shall we finish this?”
Only, the discussion did not end. It continued for another hour, while Bronwen tried to ignore that it was her future they were determining. Her gaze met Tor’s. He was studying her from across the room, while Annalies and Baumgärtner argued between them. His smile was small—the little one that lifted the corner of his mouth.
Her heart hurt. For a small moment, it felt as it had back in the library at Northallerton. Tor was just Tor Besogende and she had been simple Bronwen Davies. None of this silly formality had got in the way. She had been free to touch him, to speak as she wished.
Mask of Nobility (Scandalous Scions Book 4) Page 15
