The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes)

by Karen Hawkins

  He stalked grimly through the hallways. He would not be put off another day. She knows I wish to see Bronwyn, though I don’t know how. That’s the only explanation for these ceaseless tasks.

  When he reached her suite, he dismissed the footman and knocked on the great oaken door. A faint call to enter followed.

  Tata was sitting up in her bed, dressed in an elaborate bed coat trimmed with bows and frills, a lacy cap perched atop her perfectly coiffed curls. On the bed before her sat a tray; her maid was just pouring the tea.

  “Humph. There you are.” Tata flashed a look at the maid. “Leave. I will speak with my grandson now.”

  The maid curtsied and, taking the covers from the plates, left.

  As soon as the door closed, Tata said, “It took you long enough to come.”

  “I came the second I was informed you wished to see me.”

  Tata’s brows rose.

  “Correction, I came the second I heard you might be dying, even though I didn’t believe it in the least.”

  A smug expression rested on her face. “I thought that might do it.”

  “You’ll cry wolf one time too many and—”

  “You won’t come? Please. You have your father’s quixotic propensities. All of his sons do. You can’t help yourself.”

  He gritted his teeth. “What do you want, Tata?”

  “Where were you when the footman delivered my message?“

  “In the foyer. In another two minutes, I’d have made good my escape.”

  Her brows rose. “Escape? It’s come to that, has it?”

  “Da. Again, what do you want, Tata?”

  She took a sip of tea. “First, I seem to have lost my dog. Again.”

  “Papillon is with Strath, who should be riding the south trail by now.”

  “She gets filthy when you take her to the fields.”

  He shrugged. “She needs exercise.”

  Tata didn’t look happy. “Bring her back when you return, but have her washed first.”

  “I shall. Now, what hugely important duties do you have for me today? Not more Olympian Dew or Gorland’s Lotion, I hope? I purchased all they had at the village apothecary’s yesterday.”

  “No, no. I have plenty now.” She pressed a hand to her heart and sighed. “It has been a great help already.”

  “Indeed. Last night at dinner I sat beside Miss MacInvers, who has some experience with medicines as her mother is quite elderly. I asked her what she thought of your two potions.”

  Tata Natasha dropped her hand from her chest, her gaze suddenly evasive.

  “She said she preferred Olympian Dew, as it made her skin the softest, while Gorland’s was better for those with freckles.”

  Tata took a hurried bite of ham.

  “You told me you needed those. Needed them, Tata.”

  She swallowed. “I do need them.”

  “You led me to believe your health was involved, that they were medicinal. They are not.”

  “At my age, beauty lotion is medicinal,” she replied crossly.

  He sighed. “Tata, for the last two days, you’ve kept me busy running errands. I’ve allowed it, but not today. Today, I will do as I wish to.”

  “And what is it that you wish to do that’s so important?”

  And there it is. “As I said, I’ll return Papillon to you this evening.”

  “Pah! Keep the dog. She prefers you, anyway.” She poured herself some tea and then regarded him over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes narrowed. “You are making a mistake, you know.”

  He’d turned toward the door, but at this, he sighed and turned back.

  She clacked her cup down on the saucer. “I am old, not stupid. I know what you’re doing, and I worry. Of all your brothers, you are the most restless.”

  “Me? What of Grisha? He hasn’t been in Oxenburg more than three days in a row for the last four years.”

  “He’s a soldier-prince. He must train the army.”

  “Even when the army is home, he finds reasons to stay gone. Don’t tell me Papa and Mama have not mentioned it; I know they have.”

  Her thin lips twitched. “He’s a problem for another time. This minute, you are the problem.” There was a sulky tone to her voice. “Nikolai and Wulf never cause such worry as you.”

  “Nikki is the heir, so he cannot afford to cause problems. And Wulf is now married, which means he’s no longer your concern. That leaves you far too free to bother me.”

  “I have concerned myself with you because you refuse to pay court to a woman who would make your family proud! Always, you find the ones who are unsuitable—singers and dancers and actresses, and now this little mouse— Pah!”

  “Leave it, Tata. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She gave him a grim look. “I know more than you give me credit for.”

  Because she wasn’t above bribing footmen, no doubt. Footmen always seemed to know which way the wind blew. “You wished me to court a woman of quality.”

  “Not one like this. Bronwyn Murdoch has no manners, no grace—nothing a princess will need. She would not know how to welcome a foreign dignitary and make him feel at ease, or how to speak to fellow guests at a royal dinner. She dances like a performing bear and says the most outrageous things—Sir Henry tried to make genteel conversation with her at the last dinner, and she blurted out that she didn’t like talking to people she didn’t know. What sort of princess is that?”

  Alexsey had to hide a smile. “I dislike talking to most people, myself.”

  “But you do not announce it. You can make polite conversation when you need to; she cannot.”

  “That’s your only objection?”

  “That and she is too old to have children.”

  “You had a child at her age.”

  Natasha paused. She’d hoped he wouldn’t remember that. “I have the strength of the Romany. She would be useless as a princess.”

  “You are exaggerating. And I’ve said nothing about making her, or anyone else, a princess.”

  Not yet, she thought. “I doubt any man has ever paid her the slightest attention before. She will be desperate to win you, and will trick you if she must.”

  “Enough.” His voice was pure ice, and he turned for the door.

  “For your family’s sake, and if you wish to ever hold the kaltso, you will not pursue her. You will shame us all.”

  “I shame no one by sharing my time with a woman of intelligence.”

  “Intelligence?” Natasha favored him with a narrow look. “You love her, then?”

  Surprise crossed his face. “I don’t know what I feel, but today I wish to be with her. That is enough.”

  She scowled. “If you must have a Murdoch, then marry her sister. I’ve spoken to Sorcha, and her manners are beautiful and charming. She speaks three languages fluently and her mother assures me she can play the pianoforte with talent. She converses with knowledge and grace. Court Sorcha instead, and keep the older sister for a mistress.”

  Alexsey’s mouth was white with anger. “I’ve no interest in Sorcha, or anyone else but Bronwyn.”

  She hid a faint flash of hope behind a shrug. “For now. It will pass. It always does. You told me so yourself.”

  “Perhaps. Tata, if you knew Bronwyn, you would not feel as you do. She is honest and cares for her family and her sisters. She is thoughtful and imaginative and . . .” He paused and drew in his breath. “She is more royal in nature than I will ever be.”

  “So you say. But we both know what you want of this girl. Don’t deny you’ve set out to seduce her. I know you, Alexsey. But it is dangerous to play with a virtuous woman of genteel birth. Things are not the same here as they are in Oxenburg. If there is a scandal, there is no paying your way out of it. You will pay with your freedom.”

  He turned and stalked to the door.

  “Wait! I’m not finished speaking. Where are you going?”

  He offered her a black smile as he opened the door. �
�According to you, I’m going to ruin my life and destroy my future.”

  “Nyet!” She threw back the covers. “Alexsey, if you’d wished to prove that you’re no longer the irresponsible rakehell you once were, this is not the way to do it.” She reached for the kaltso, pulling it from under her robes, and held it aloft. “This is not for a man who would throw away his inheritance for a mere dalliance with a nobody.”

  His eyes narrowed, his back so straight, he looked more like his soldier-brother than she’d ever seen him. “I wish to be the voivode, yes. But not at the cost of my pride. I will choose my own way, Tata. With you, without you. With the kaltso, without it.”

  “So you would give up your hopes for this woman.”

  “I give up nothing. Not to you, not to fate, not to her.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed. “Alexsey, you must think! You cannot—”

  But she spoke to an empty room, the door slamming ominously. This will not do. She tugged the bellpull, and then hurried to the gilt desk and scribbled a note. A footman arrived seconds later, just as she was folding the note. She handed it to him. “Take this to Lady Malvinea at Ackinnoull and wait for a reply.”

  “Yes, Yer Grace.”

  “Take it now and ride like the wind.” She pulled a gold coin from a silk bag on the desk. “Do you see this?”

  His eyes were as wide as saucers. “Aye, Yer Grace.”

  “You shall have it if you return with the reply in less than a half hour. But if you are a second longer than that, you’ll get nothing. Now go!”

  He practically ran from the room.

  Lady Bartram sighed deeply. “Lucinda is to be pitied as much as she is to be admired. There is something about a girl who’s lost her mother—a tragic set of her lips, a tender expression in her eyes, a softness of spirit . . .”

  —The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth

  Later that afternoon, Bronwyn held up the fashion plate from La Belle Assemblée ladies’ magazine beside the mirror, looking from it to her hair. The print featured a lady in a lovely pale-blue pelisse, her gloved hands warmed by a large white fur muff. The lady’s hair was dressed in a style known as à la Sappho, which Bronwyn had tried to re-create.

  She turned to Walter and Scott, who were stretched before the fire. “What do you two think?” She held up the magazine. “Is it close enough?”

  Both dogs wagged their tails, although neither with enthusiasm.

  She sighed and tossed the magazine to her dressing table. “I was afraid of that. I thought to do something different, but this wasn’t a wise choice.”

  She looked back at the mirror and tugged on some of the curls, trying to rearrange them. The trouble was that her hair was too thick to hold a proper curl. Instead of the delicate circlets from the picture, her curls looked more like thick sausages.

  She sighed and adjusted a pin, hoping for a miracle. She’d been trying to stay busy since her last meeting with Alexsey. Their time had been so sweetly passionate, so . . . exciting. Better than any novel.

  But she hadn’t seen him since that day, a fact that was causing her greater and greater unease. She’d expected a visit, or at least a note. But there was that horrible storm. That would have kept him away; only a fool would risk his horse in such. Still, there was no reason why he couldn’t have written a note. A few words would have calmed her fears to no end.

  But so far, no note had arrived. She swallowed a lump in her throat. Did it mean so little to you, Alexsey?

  She didn’t know, and wouldn’t until she spoke with him again.

  Scott lifted his head and glared at the door. Walter followed suit.

  A firm knock sounded upon the wooden panel.

  Bronwyn opened it, blinking in astonishment when Mama smiled back at her, though her gaze widened when she saw Bronwyn’s hair.

  “Mama—what a surprise.” Suddenly remembering the dogs, she threw herself into the doorway.

  Mama brushed her aside. “Bronwyn, please. I’ve known since the day you moved into these rooms that the dogs would be coming with you.”

  “Oh.” Bronwyn closed the door behind her mother.

  Mama sent her a flat look. “A good mother knows everything about her children.”

  Good God, I hope not. Bronwyn gestured to the chairs before the small fireplace. “Won’t you have a seat? This is the first time you’ve visited me here.”

  Mama sat in the nearest chair, eyeing Bronwyn’s hair and gown. “You are dressed. I wasn’t aware we’d anywhere to go until tomorrow’s dinner and talent performance at Tulloch.”

  Bronwyn sat opposite Mama. “I was thinking of wearing this tomorrow.” It was a gown from her long-ago season. She’d found it in the back of her wardrobe, forgotten and sadly wrinkled. At the time, the pale-blue silk with white netting had been all the rage, but no more. Still, it was better than her usual gowns.

  Once Mrs. Pitcairn had done some magic with her iron and had removed several rows of faded silk flowers, Bronwyn thought the gown suited her well. Though not fashionable, it was at least pretty. And if, perchance, a certain handsome prince happened to see one wearing it . . . well, it couldn’t hurt to be properly gowned for once.

  Ever since her meeting with Alexsey, she’d felt bolder somehow. The world seemed brighter, the sun shinier, noises softer—and she was ready for more adventures. More caresses. More Alexsey.

  But why, then, hasn’t he visited? Her pleasure dimmed. Perhaps he was waiting to invite her to a secret tryst, somewhere they could be alone once again. It was breathtaking to think of sneaking out to meet Alexsey. Breathtaking and bold and perhaps wrong. He’d said they were making memories. When he was gone, she’d need a lot of memories to keep her company in the years ahead. The thought didn’t cheer her as it ought to have. Indeed, it made her eyes water in a most annoying way.

  Mama pursed her lips. “The style suits you, but it’s dreadfully out of fashion. The waistline is too low and those sleeves—” She shook her head.

  Bronwyn managed a smile. “Such praise! I hardly know how to respond.”

  Mama instantly looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I said that quite poorly.”

  “You said what you think, which I value. By the way, your gown is quite lovely.”

  “Thank you. It’s one of those we ordered from the modiste in Edinburgh for Sorcha’s season. The ones ordered for me fit perfectly, but the two we ordered for Sorcha don’t fit at all.”

  “Oh dear. How did they get them wrong? They measured Sorcha in the shop.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” Mama folded her hands on her lap. “Your father was livid, thinking we’d have to pay for the alterations, but I assured him that the modiste will fix them and at no extra charge. But that means I must take Sorcha back to Edinburgh to have new measurements taken.”

  “What a coil!”

  “It’s a pity, for I especially wished Sorcha to wear the pale-blue crepe gown tomorrow evening. It’s the perfect thing for a young lady just coming out.” She sighed. “Now we’ll have to settle for one of her older gowns.”

  “Fortunately, she’s been out so little that no one will realize they’re her older gowns.”

  “I hope so.” Mama leaned back in her chair, her gaze flickering over Bronwyn in a searching manner. “It’s been a mad, crazed few weeks, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s been a very mad few weeks—though I know that’s not why you are here.”

  Mama flushed. “Yes.” She paused a long moment and then took a deep breath. “You know I love you as if you were one of my own daughters. I hope you realize I would only say something critical if I thought it in your best interest.”

  Bronwyn waited, a flash of dread making her nod rather than reply.

  “I want to ask . . . Oh dear, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . have you been meeting with Prince Menshivkov in secret?”

  Bronwyn blinked. Of all the things she’d expected her stepmother to ask, that was the last one. Feeling the older woman’s gaze u
pon her, she wet her lips, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I wouldn’t say we’ve met in secret.” That was true, for anyone could have walked in on them.

  “I thought as much.” Mama folded her hands in her lap. “He paid a visit not an hour ago.”

  Bronwyn started. “What! Did he ask for me?” She couldn’t keep the breathlessness from her voice.

  Mama’s eyes darkened. “He asked for you, but I told him you were on an errand in Dingwall.”

  “Why did you tell him that? I wish to see him.” She needed to see him.

  “Which is exactly why I told him you weren’t here.” Mama sighed. “Bronwyn, please . . . this must stop before someone gets hurt.”

  “No one is going to get hurt.” Bronwyn couldn’t keep the stubborn note from her voice.

  Mama’s eyes suddenly seemed very wise. “My dear, I fear you already have.”

  Tears unexpectedly burned Bronwyn’s eyes. “No.”

  “Really?” Mama’s voice was unexpectedly gentle. “I must tell you that when I told him you weren’t available, he spent a good twenty minutes talking to Sorcha. And he was very attentive.”

  Bronwyn’s heart panged. “I’m sure he was just being pleasant. He . . . he’s very polite and . . .” But was he really? He didn’t mind leaving a ball in the middle of it merely because he was bored, and he thought nothing of ordering people about without so much as a by-your-leave. And Sorcha was so very lovely.

  Not that Alexsey had promised Bronwyn anything. In fact, neither of them had placed boundaries on what had started as a flirtation, turned into a challenge, and then became . . . what was it now? She didn’t even know.

  It was suddenly hard to swallow. Had she been mistaken in him?

  No. It wasn’t possible. If he was speaking to Sorcha, it was because it was the only thing to do in the situation.

  Mama patted her hand. “Oh, Bronwyn. I wish I’d realized what was happening. I’ve been remiss and I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m not sure. Earlier today, I had tea with the grand duchess. She believes you might be developing certain feelings for Prince Menshivkov.” Mama paused, her color high. “Feelings that are not returned in the way you might wish.”