Henry wondered: Had Beatrice’s grief so affected her she’d succumbed to a forever-sadness, taken up the role of a prudish old maid and shut herself away from the pleasures of society? Or had her spirit been broken? Ruthlessly crushed by her mother’s obsession with death.
Louis brushed Henry’s hands away. “Leave me be, brother. You’re fussing over me like an old nursemaid. Waistcoat, collar and tie are all perfectly fine.”
“Sorry.” Henry lowered his arms and stepped away, unaware within his dark thoughts that he’d annoyed his brother with his attentions.
Louis took out his pocket watch and winced. “We’re late. I’ll blame you if my bride complains. I shall tell her my little brother can’t get himself dressed without my supervision.”
Henry chuckled wickedly. “You do and I’ll tell her about that girl in Rotterdam.”
“At risk to your life, Liko!” Louis cuffed him on the back of his head. Henry suspected his punishment would have been far worse if the occasion hadn’t demanded they appear in spotless, un-bruised condition.
Henry Battenberg followed his elder brother out of the room. A lone footman waited outside in the hall, ostensibly to guide them. The halls of the bride’s family residence were familiar enough for Henry to have found his way on his own, but many tiresome rituals had to be honored this day and the next. The Battenbergs were sealing a dream alliance. The match would bring the family much-needed wealth and property, not to mention priceless esteem.
Henry was glad to see his brother so happy. That was a bonus. He’d like to find a girl for himself as sweet and lively as Vicky. Though one with a bit more of a head on her shoulders would suit him better. Still, as long as she was compliant in bed, gave him children, and let him run his life as he liked, he wouldn’t complain.
3
The orchestra that night leaned heavily toward waltzes by Strauss, Lanner, and von Weber. But the queen’s favorite mazurka–she always pointed out with a girlish giggle, she’d been taught it by the Grand Duke himself before she married her Albert—was not played at all, which put her into a sulk. Other than that mistake, the dance master kept the mix of music fresh and lively by ordering the occasional polka, one Schottische, two Polonaises, a quadrille, and a gavotte for variety.
Beatrice had sat out the Grand March at the ball’s opening, as this was reserved for couples who came together. Likewise, a gentleman always danced the first waltz with his lady. It was considered bad form to do otherwise. Since Beatrice’s first responsibility was to attend to her mother, she had come, as she almost always did, without a gentleman-escort.
In theory, though, she could fill her dance card with promised dances for the remainder of the evening.
She tapped her finger on the creamy vellum card, embossed in gold and vermillion with the duke’s family crest, and stared at the blank spaces. She’d been asked to reserve one dance for her brother Bertie, the Prince of Wales. Another dance belonged to the Grand Duke, and a third to the Earl of Kent. (If he survived that late into the evening. He seemed so frail these days.) But that was all she had to show for a very long night. It seemed word had got round that she carried some sort of deathly plague.
Beatrice sighed and looked around the room, ablaze with the light of crystal chandeliers. Her bored gaze slid from the gleam of jewels at pale throats to starched white cuffs secured with gold or diamond studs. Perhaps, if she danced well with Bertie, other gentlemen would see she was harmless and a pleasant enough partner. Unfortunately, her brother’s dance was halfway down her card. Pooh!
Beatrice had learned patience at her mother’s side. But sometimes it was hard to just sit while the music beckoned to her, setting her heart singing and feet itching for a spin across the vast floor.
She turned her attention to her right and the far end of the table. Just past her mother was her sister Alice’s widower, the Grand Duke, father of the bride. Next to him was an empty chair, where her sister-in-law Princess Alexandra had been sitting earlier in the evening, beside her husband Bertie. Alix, a Danish beauty, was in constant demand on the dance floor. Despite being the mother of three children, and unlike either the queen or her eldest daughters, Alix had kept her slim figure. Maybe it was all that dancing?
Beatrice looked down at her own still-trim waistline with concern; she feared it was just a matter of time before the family curse of fleshiness caught up with her. She wished she could dance more often, like Alix. The daringly swift Viennese waltzes and energetic polkas would offset the rich food to be served later in the evening. But if no one asked her to dance, what could she do but sit here like a lump?
Her mother seemed absorbed in watching the dancers. Beatrice turned over her card so she wouldn’t have to look at it. She flipped open her lace fan and pretended to cool her face as if from the exertion of a turn around the floor. She smiled pleasantly at couples whirling past. After another moment she snapped her fan closed then draped her shawl over the back of her chair and tried more earnestly to look available as a partner.
It was then that Beatrice became aware of the conversation at the far end of the table. The Grand Duke had moved into Alix’s empty seat and, head lowered close to Bertie’s, was speaking to him in an urgent whisper. She was unable to catch any of their words, but it seemed to her, from the tension in their voices and their sharp gestures, that they were arguing.
What might they be quarrelling about tonight, of all nights?
Bertie’s face flushed as he gripped the duke’s arm. He looked so agitated, she was tempted to leave her seat and go to stand beside her brother to calm him, or ask if she might help in any way. But before she could move, a hand lightly touched her shoulder. She looked up and behind her, into startlingly blue eyes and a smooth-shaven, smiling face that looked only vaguely but agreeably familiar.
“May I have the honor of your next available dance, Your Royal Highness?” the young man asked.
She swallowed, looked away quickly then reached for a water glass, forgetting that all refreshments were kept out of the ballroom, in the adjoining salon. The man was waiting for her response. Her throat felt horribly parched. She tried to think what to say. Yes? No? A no would require an excuse of the vapors. But she didn’t want to lie. Didn’t even want to say no, did she? She wished she could remember his name. Of course they must have been formally introduced at some time. Otherwise he would never have dared approach her.
How embarrassing.
She sensed him straightening up, taking a step back from her chair. “If you’d rather not,” he said softly.
“No, no! I mean—” What was the matter with her? Why did she always feel so inept in society? “I’d love to dance. Yes, of course.”
She gathered her skirts, dismayed by how odd she’d look on the dance floor, like a widow in her weeds among all the pretty young things in their floaty white and pastel tulle. A raven among peacocks. A toad among flitting rainbow damsel flies.
He drew back her chair for her as she stood, giving her room to step away from the table and ease her full skirts clear of the furniture, and offered his arm. She took it, her mind whirring with a long list of names, none of them fitting the tall, elegant, beautiful young man beside her.
Oh, God…oh, God, who are you?
His hair was dark, his eyes mesmerizing when he looked down at her. They seemed bright with curiosity, or amusement. What did he see when he observed her with such intensity? She feared it was unpleasant. She hoped she wasn’t repulsive to him.
The music had faded from the previous gavotte by the time they reached the edge of the dance floor. Ladies were being escorted back to their seats, new partners located, couples sorted out. The orchestra tuned up again, and lively chatter filled the ballroom.
“I believe it’s to be a Viennese,” her partner said. “Does an aggressive waltz please you, Princess?”
She was momentarily terrified that she’d lost her voice but, miraculously, sounds crackled out. “Oh…wh
y yes. Viennese. Lovely.”
“Battenberg! Liko, how goes it, old man?” A man in a black swallow-tail coat passed by, clapping Beatrice’s dance partner on the back.
Ah. Now she had it. One of bridegroom’s brothers. The youngest? No, there were four, she recalled, and she’d never met the youngest. But she had met the eldest, Alexander—Sandro to his friends and family. And the second son was Louis. Then came Henry, who also had a quirky family nickname, Liko. Henry. Henry. Henry. Yes, now she remembered. She recalled having played with him when they were very young. She should say something to show she was pleased to see him again.
Beatrice cleared her throat and straightened up as tall and slim as she could. “Henry,” she said, to let him know she really did recognize him.
“Yes?” He was still smiling but with a touch of restraint, perhaps even concern that he was now obliged to a dance with a woman incapable of expressing her simplest thoughts.
“It’s been a very long time,” the words burst from her lips all at once, “since you were last in England.”
“Yes, it has, Princess. I should like to visit again, soon.”
Violins broke into the opening strains of The Blue Danube, one of her favorites by Strauss. Beatrice felt her partner’s palm settle gently yet firmly at her waist. His other hand opened, palm up, inviting her fingertips. She timidly rested her gloved hand in his. As soon as they were in proper position, he stepped bravely into the whirl of dancers. Off they flew, as if on a hawk’s wings. Beatrice tensed, suddenly aware of the speed at which her feet must continue moving to avoid tripping herself up.
“It’s all right,” Henry whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Relax, let me guide you.”
It was the strangest thing. Just his saying those words made every taut muscle in her spine and shoulders loosen a notch. It hadn’t sounded like an order, the way her mother would have made it seem, but her body obeyed instantly.
Beatrice tilted her head and gave him a shy smile. “You dance very well, Henry.” She meant it. Her partner wasn’t a hobbling octogenarian or, just as bad, a brother or cousin with a stiff gait and sweaty shirt front.
“Thank you. As do you.” He executed a clever heel turn at the end of the room and brought them back into the swirling crowd with a roguish twinkle in his eyes. “I ought to, after all the damned lessons Mother and Father forced upon the lot of us.”
“I love to dance,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Do you? I’ll have to ask you more often. If you like, that is.”
“Oh yes,” Beatrice said, “this is ever so much fun.” Then she laughed because she sounded like a child, pleased to be taken out to play on the swings. Push me higher…higher!
He chuckled. “What’s so funny?”
“Just that, I don’t know, I feel years younger when dancing, don’t you? Sitting all night and making polite conversation becomes so very dull.”
His eyes fixed on her face, and she thought she saw his mind working. “It does, doesn’t it?” he agreed. “All the silly gossip, the forced chit-chat. I’d rather be doing something too. I guess tonight we’ll have to settle for dancing. Though a carriage ride would be brilliant, on a full-moon night like this.”
She gasped in delight at the thought. “Oh, it would—wouldn’t it just be too perfect?” The music swelled, the tempo raced, pulling her pulse along with it. She tried not to think about her feet, letting them do the work for her. It was better that way. If she thought too hard about the intricate steps, she’d flub it up and they’d end in a sprawl on the floor.
“Do you ride?” he asked. “Horseback, that is.”
She gave him a sideways look that said, Are you joking? “Remember who my mother is?”
He blushed. “Of course. The queen is a dedicated horsewoman so certainly her daughter must be too. I understand you’re inseparable, the two of you. Mother and daughter. ” Was there a question behind his words? Or teasing? She wasn’t sure.
“I love to ride,” was all she could think to say at first but then plunged on. “Riding fast is the best. Faster than she ever does. At a canter at the least, better at a gallop. Mother says running a horse is far too dangerous, but I think racing across a field is rather like dancing the Viennese.”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “Funny. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so keen on speed.”
No, of course not, she brooded. You’d think me dull and clumsy and uninteresting, like the rest of them do. She ducked her head and lowered her eyes, feeling chastened and reminded of her many inadequacies.
Too late, Beatrice realized her mistake.
How many times had she been scolded by her dance master for peeking at her feet while dancing? It threw off the body’s posture, disturbed the fragile balance between partners, and courted disaster.
Then, she missed a step. And another.
Before she could recover she felt herself falling forward, out of control, the toe of her slipper catching the hem of her gown, making everything impossibly worse. She imagined herself dragging Henry Battenberg down with her to the floor, other couples coming upon them at speed, so suddenly they would be unable to avoid the fallen pair beneath their feet. Dozens of dancers would plummet to the floor, creating a messy, embarrassing pileup.
All because of her clumsiness.
Before she could cry out in alarm, Henry’s arm at her waist hauled her firmly upright and into his hard chest. The soles of her slippers lifted ever so slightly off the treacherous floor. Then, magically, they were all right again—an elegant couple skimming down the length of the ballroom as if nothing at all had happened.
Henry adjusted the distance between their bodies to a more decorous space and smiled down at her. “That was a close one, yes?”
She laughed. Laughed out loud for the sheer relief she felt. “Oh, yes. Very close, I’m sure. I’m sorry. I can be such a clumsy ninny.”
“Don’t apologize. It happens. I doubt anyone even noticed.”
“You think not?”
He shrugged. “And what if they did? It’s not the end of the world. Now is it, Princess?”
He’s right, she thought. It’s not.
And suddenly her world seemed a happier place. Except…now the dance was over, couples bowing and taking leave of each other, and Henry was walking her back toward the long table from which her mother’s narrowed eyes were following her with somber concentration. And the last thing in the world Beatrice wanted to do was to sit at that damn table for the rest of the night.
“Thank you,” Henry said, pulling out her chair for her and helping her sit. “May I ask that you reserve another waltz for me, later in the evening?”
Her heart sang. “Oh, yes, Henry. Of course.”
“Call me Liko. All my friends and family do.”
“Liko.” How strange but sweet. “Yes, I’d love another waltz.” She checked her card; six more dances before the next waltz. “Number fourteen then, if you’re free?”
“Until then.” He gave her a parting bow.
She closed her eyes for a moment to hold the shimmering image in her mind of his eyes—his startlingly azure eyes—lingering on hers as he backed away. He was so perfect, so kind and intelligent. And didn’t he dance like a dream? Oh, how he made her feel as they flew, light as air, down the polished floor with—
“Did you have a good time, Baby?” Victoria’s voice intruded on her dream.
Beatrice opened her eyes and took a steadying breath. Back to reality. “Yes, it was a delightful waltz.” She flipped over her card and moved the tiny pencil attached with a gold silk cord down to line 14 and wrote: Prince Henry Battenberg.
“I’m so glad,” her mother said. “I asked the boy at luncheon if he wouldn’t give up just one dance for my Baby. You always look so lonely sitting through the evening. I’m glad he didn’t mind.”
“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.
4
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.
Seducing the Princess Page 2
