Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  Seducing the Princess

  Table of Contents

  Seducing the Princess

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  More from Mary Hart Perry

  Connect with Diversion Books

  Seducing the Princess

  by Mary Hart Perry

  Award winning author of The Wild Princess

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Kathryn Johnson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition March 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-626810-01-3

  Acknowledgments

  This is a novel meant solely for entertainment. It was never intended as a historical rendering of true events. Although some of the characters were inspired by the lives of real people, the story itself is an invention of the author’s imagination.

  However, an author needs more than imagination to create a book. I can’t begin to thank all of those who have invested their time, talents, and energy to help this novel be born. But here’s a start…

  Thanks to the amazing team at Diversion Books, particularly Mary Cummings and Sarah Masterson Hally, for their vision, their professionalism and enthusiastic support.

  Kudos, as always, to my brilliant literary agent, Kevan Lyon at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency, who always exceeds my expectations.

  My gratitude to members of the Columbia Critique Group, for their on-target solutions to fiction’s thornier problems. And to my soon-to-be-famous students at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland. They teach me far more than I teach them.

  And finally, my loving appreciation to Tempest, who purrs and cuddles and tries to climb up onto my keyboard whenever possible. (I think she has the soul of a writer in a cat body.) And to Miranda, whose job as a dedicated calico it is to make me stand up at least once every hour to stretch…and let her out onto or in from the porch.

  1

  Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany—April, 1884

  Cold, as cold as death itself. I might as well be in my tomb.

  Beatrice inched closer to the fire crackling in the castle’s immense black-granite fireplace. She extended icy fingertips toward the leaping flames and felt grateful for the precious warmth rising up through her frigid hands, along the velvet sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders. How glorious it must be to live in the tropics, where it never gets cold!

  She smiled at the mere thought of spending lazy afternoons basking under a Grecian sun or sailing aquamarine waters on the royal yacht between Caribbean islands. Instead of shut away in a drafty German castle that set her bones to aching.

  Beatrice sighed. Little chance of that for a daughter of Queen Victoria. Their mother rarely had granted any of them permission to travel, except with her. After the older girls married that had changed, of course. Her four sisters had found husbands to escort them on their travels. Unfortunately, marriage no longer seemed likely for her, at the advanced age of twenty-seven.

  Some days—like this one, caught up in the middle of a giggling, shrieking bridal party of younger, prettier girls—she felt utterly ancient. Most women her age were popping out babies, managing their own homes and servants. In this progressive age of modern medicine, steam engines, factory-made lace, and (the latest miracle of the age) electricity—she should be enjoying the productive prime of her life.

  Stop it! she scolded herself, feeling selfish for thinking of her own welfare on the eve of her dear niece’s wedding. Weddings were meant to be cheerful times, and Vicky was a delightful girl, really more like a sister to her they were so close in age. The bride deserved her affection and full attention.

  “Auntie! Oh, Auntie Bea, do you really think this gown will do?” her niece’s voice cut through the female chatter around Beatrice. “It isn’t too prissy with all these ruffles and flounces, is it?” Vicky spun on the tips of her toes, setting full skirts of petal-pink tulle and lush satin shimmering in a wide pool around her. Diamond clips pinched her earlobes. A stunning ruby-and-enamel locket hung about her neck. “I don’t want to look like a child on the night before my wedding.”

  Beatrice smiled, shaking her head as the ladies-in-waiting who had been attending the bride flew like a noisy flock of bright-winged birds from the room, gowns rustling. The wedding ball was less than an hour away. It was time they joined the rest of the Court.

  “My dear, you needn’t worry. So very grown up you look with that daring décolletage. Your gown is perfection, and you are truly a lovely sight.”

  Tomorrow Princess Victoria of Hesse, granddaughter to the queen of England, would marry Prince Louis of Battenberg. Beatrice was happy for her…for them. Really, she was. Although she had more than enough justification for the nugget of regret lodged in her throat, and perhaps even for a lingering bitterness. Secretly. Guiltily. Tucked away in her heart.

  Beatrice gave the girl her best smile, ignoring the twinge of envy that came with her words. “Louis is so very lucky to have you as his bride. Tomorrow when you marry, I shall look on with such pride.”

  Vicky beamed, holding out her tiny gloved hands. “You are an old sweetie to say such lovely things. And to think the first time I ever heard of Louis, his name was mentioned with—” The girl suddenly blushed, her blond eyelashes fluttering in agitation. “Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said.” She squeezed her aunt’s hands.

  Beatrice pulled stiff fingers free from her niece’s warm little paws. “Ah well, that was nonsense, yes? Court gossip. You know how they exaggerate.” Her smile, she feared, was a bit watery as she turned away and back toward the fire. She welcomed the blaze that heated her cheeks. The raised color would cover for her discomfort at Vicky’s mention of the stories about her and Louis.

  “Louis’s heart is all yours, my dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Anyone can see that by the way his eyes light up whenever you walk into a room.” It was true. And the two were a fine match both in humor and appearance, although he was a good deal older than she.

  Before Beatrice had a chance to fully recover her composure, the massive oak door to the bride’s bedchamber creaked open. Vicky’s gasp and squeal, “Grand-mere!” announced the arrival of Queen Victoria.

  Beatrice drew a breath to calm herself. The queen would no doubt insist Beatrice accompany her to the Grand Salon where the family gathered in preparation for the Lord Chamberlain announcing them to the bejeweled guests, already waiting in
the ballroom. Louis would be in the salon too, with his family. How awkward. But she resolved to confront the evening with equanimity, if not with enthusiasm. Balls were pleasant enough when a few of the more attractive gentlemen approached her for a dance. Then she could at least pretend to be admired and happy.

  Just the hope of whirling across the ballroom floor cheered her considerably. She loved to dance. Adored it, though she didn’t have much chance to practice these days.

  Family legend had it that, at a mere three years old—golden ringlets agleam beneath the crystal chandeliers, wearing tiny satin slippers to match her first ball gown—Beatrice had performed a perfect waltz across Buckingham Palace’s ballroom, partnered by her beaming father, Prince Albert. The entire Court had gazed on, enraptured. It was nearly the Prince’s last public appearance before his sudden and shocking death from typhoid fever. A loss from which the family had never truly recovered.

  Yes, dancing seemed almost enough to make the night bearable. Unfortunately, she knew not to expect her partners (at least the young, good looking ones) to return for a second waltz or polka or anything else. Beatrice suspected her mother was right—she wasn’t the type to entice men romantically, not pretty enough to encourage them to stay for more than one dance, and certainly not intelligent or witty or special enough to prompt a man to ask for her hand in marriage.

  Anxious at the thought of having to pretend she was enjoying herself in front of the critical gaze of Europe’s nobility, Beatrice smoothed her ebony taffeta skirts while the bride-to-be curtsied and kissed the queen’s hand, then rose to touch her lips to the plump older woman’s proffered cheek.

  “Oh my child, you do look precious,” Victoria cooed. “How pretty in this delicate pink you look. Thank goodness it’s not that unfortunate bold rose some girls are choosing this season. Your dear mama in heaven, my Alice, will be so proud of you tonight, and tomorrow of course in church.”

  Beatrice observed her mother from a distance. Victoria wore no color at all on her barely five-foot-tall figure, a choice of wardrobe that had become a habit over the past two decades. Not since the death of the Prince Consort could Beatrice remember her mother wearing anything but black-black-black. Although she now allowed members of her court a reprieve from deep mourning, she still insisted that her youngest daughter share her grim obsession with death. The queen preferred seeing her in true mourning garb but, on occasion, allowed the very deepest shades of blue or gray, almost indiscernible from black, relieved only by a narrow collar of white linen about the throat.

  Even their everyday jewelry had to be subdued—only jet stones allowed, all gold settings dulled with coal dust. No sparkle. No joy. Beatrice recalled her younger years—when her sisters or governess sometimes implored the queen to “permit Baby a bit of color.” She’d been granted a pretty dress for a few special occasions. But now, as Beatrice crept toward the disturbingly advanced age of 30, her mother flew into a rage if she saw even a scrap of brightness in her daughter’s wardrobe.

  Beatrice shrugged in surrender. God forbid there appear a glimmer of cheer in their lives. “You, my most precious and faithful child,” the queen was fond of saying to her, “shall be my constant and loyal companion until I am lowered into my grave and join your dear Papa.”

  Which apparently meant Beatrice must mirror her mother’s choice to remain unmarried.

  “Beatrice.” Her mother held out a gloved hand to her, startling Beatrice out of her grim musing. “Come, give me your arm. I’m having a terrible time with my limbs tonight. The pain is unbearable. A return of the cursed gout, I expect.”

  “Perhaps if you sit before the fire, Mama, you’ll be comforted by the warmth.” Lord knows she could use a little more time out of the castle’s damp drafts.

  “Nonsense. Cold air is bracing, healthy. They keep this place far too hot.” The queen cast a grave eye about the room and latched onto the roaring fire with a disapproving grimace. “Mr. Brown always said fresh air is good for me.” Even after the burly Scot’s death, her self-proclaimed body guard, John Brown, seemed to hold a mysterious power over his sovereign. Some said he had been more to the queen than a loyal gillie and escort. A few even suggested he’d taken over Albert’s most intimate duties to Victoria, in the bedchamber. But Beatrice believed their relationship had never gone that far.

  She herself had been very fond of the man and missed his powerful masculine presence at Court, and his calming effect on her mother. In many ways, he had made her life easier.

  Beatrice left the fire with reluctance and obediently crossed the room. She offered her arm to her mother, lowering her gaze in submission to the parquet floor. Slowly, they paraded with the rest of the party out the door and down the long hallway lined with the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt’s ancestral portraits. The paintings’ arrogant countenances seemed to glower down at her, challenging her right to be in their home.

  Beatrice took a deep breath, raised her chin and gazed straight ahead. I am the daughter of a queen, she thought. Don’t dismiss me yet.

  2

  Henry of Battenberg, third of four brothers known across the continent for their striking good looks and fine physique, stepped back a pace to inspect his brother Louis. “I don’t know,” he said. “Somehow you look far too cheerful to be the condemned man. Can’t you adopt a more serious and resigned attitude?”

  Louis laughed. “But I’m delighted to be marrying, and Vicky is a delightful girl.”

  “All of this delight has nothing to do, I suppose, with your bride being a granddaughter to the Queen of England?” Henry teased. He knew his brother better than anyone. Just like their father, Louis didn’t give up easily once he had a goal in mind. Even if fate initially seemed pitted against him.

  Hadn’t he, Henry, sat at the same table that infamous night, years ago at Buckingham Palace, when his older brother had been so cruelly snubbed by one of the queen’s daughters? Hadn’t he seen the stricken look on his brother’s face? Princess Beatrice might just as well have slapped his cheek in front of the entire assemblage.

  “If you’re implying that I’ve been trying to worm my way into that family all these years, I am highly insulted.”

  “Did I say that?” Henry put on an innocent face as he held out lavender gloves to Louis. “I just wonder what others may think. You have to admit, it’s a bit curious you’ve chosen a wife from that odd family, after—“

  “After that appalling scene six years ago?”

  “Exactly.”

  Louis grinned. “I am nothing if not persistent, brother. And I tell you, I don’t give a damn what others think. There was never really anything started with Beatrice. That was Father’s idea. My word, I’d barely spoken to the woman before she cut me off at the knees.”

  “What did she say to you that night at dinner? You never told me.” Henry frowned at the tilt of his brother’s tie and stepped forward to straighten it. Their footmen and dressers had left moments earlier, having been recruited for service in the dining room and ballroom. Now it was just the two of them alone in the suite.

  Louis shrugged. “That’s just it. She wouldn’t speak to me, not a word.”

  “You must have said something to offend.”

  “I swear I did not!” Louis laughed. “Pleasant, harmless conversation. That’s all I offered. The woman looked straight on, avoiding my eye, and refused to respond to anything I said.”

  “Weird old bird.”

  “Not so old. She’s your age, sir.” Henry was ready to argue the point but his brother continued. “Though I have to say in that drab mourning garb and a coiffure appropriate to a dowager twice her age, she certainly looks the part of an old maid.”

  Henry thought about the younger Princess Beatrice he’d known only through short visits his family had made to the English royal properties—Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, Windsor Castle, and Balmoral in Scotland…and, of course, Buckingham Palace. “Come to think of it, I don’t belie
ve she and I have exchanged a single word in years.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s either dull-witted, a shrew, or just painfully shy. And—” Louis held up a finger to make another point. “—awkward as hell in good company, I dare say.”

  Henry shook his head, puzzled. He was accustomed to the young daughters of nobility being sheltered and unaccustomed to the company of men other than those in their own family. But he remembered a yellow-haired sprite, the Prince Consort’s joy and youngest of his nine children. Henry had actually played with Beatrice in Buckingham’s gardens one afternoon when a flock of royal cousins, and children of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen, had been invited by Victoria to a children’s tea party. It was a distant memory though. Perhaps he was confusing her with another little girl?

  He’d seen Beatrice again when he was around twelve years old, and she would have been about the same age, if his brother was right. She was still pretty but sadness shadowed her eyes. While around him, though, her bounce returned. Her teasing sense of humor and the way she took his hand to make him run with her made him feel bashful and excited all at once.

  And then, years later, when he’d seen her at that disaster of a banquet at Buckingham, he’d been shocked by the change in the young woman. She never left her mother’s side, wore unrelieved black and no jewelry, and seemed unable to meet anyone’s eyes when they tried to converse with her. He’d spent as little time around her as possible, and he noticed others seemed to avoid her, finding her poor company.

  Thinking about this now, he puzzled over what mysterious happenings might have changed the exuberant imp he’d once known into this somber, prematurely aging woman.

  “My Albert’s death has struck Baby the cruelest blow of all,” he seemed to recall the queen explaining her daughter’s lack of social graces to his own mother. “She has never been the same, poor child.”