Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  She couldn’t recall much about her parents’ marital relations. She’d been so very young when Albert died—just four years old. But she had a hazy memory of warm exchanges between her parents, of standing between them as a toddler—the sandwich filling to their sturdy, loving bread slices—feeling the vibrancy of their affection pass through her. And she’d heard courtiers say that the queen and her prince consort had been totally devoted to each other.

  “I’m sorry if my mother has spoiled the day for you,” Beatrice murmured.

  The duke took her hands between his and patted them. “She hasn’t, Princess. I have seen my daughter married to a good man. And my mistress, she will forgive me when I make everything right very soon.”

  “How will you do that?” She really was curious. “Mama seems so set against her.”

  “In good time. In good time, you will see.” He smiled. “Now off you go to enjoy the banquet, Beatrice. And later, your mother will be distracted by all of the family happenings. Perhaps this will buy you a little time to spend on your own, in your own way.” He winked at her. “Maybe another ride through the woods?”

  Her eyes widened. He knew? Did they all know she’d been riding with Henry?

  No, not all of them. If her mother were aware she’d been alone with a man she would have burst her corset stays.

  That vivid image brought a sudden smile to her lips.

  7

  This is impossible! Henry Battenberg stared the length of the banquet table that stretched from one end to the other of the ornate dining salon. He’d hoped the seating arrangements would put him close to Beatrice, but as luck would have it there must have been fifty chairs between them. She might as well have been on another continent.

  Now he had no hope of conversing with her, or even swapping flirtatious glances, until after the meal. But by then her mother might well whisk her away to their chambers. The little queen was known to dislike lingering at table after a meal.

  He couldn’t say what it was about Beatrice that so fascinated him. When he told Louis he’d gone riding with the princess, his brother laughed and shook his head. “Surely you can do better than that dry old stick. There are plenty of pretty young things in Darmstadt.”

  Henry had shrugged and let it go. Maybe Louis was right on at least one point. Bea was a bit of an odd duck. But he sensed there was more to her than most people realized. He welcomed the challenge of discovering what lay beneath all of that dreadful black bombazine, forced upon Beatrice by the queen’s endless grief.

  Not physically beneath her gown, of course. One didn’t set out to deflower a princess. He’d have to be mad to even consider such a thing. No, he told himself, Beatrice was just interesting and surprisingly fun to be around.

  Added to that, something about her made him break out in a compassionate smile. She was like an orphaned kitten in need of protection. A charming stray he’d treat to a dish of cream, for the sheer pleasure of watching her lap it up. She’d laughed a few times in his presence, and he’d basked in the music of her joy. He wanted to hear more of her laughter. It made him feel good inside, as if he’d given her a precious gift.

  At the end of the meal, after the many toasts to the bride and groom, the queen stood. So did everyone else, producing a colorful wave of formal frock coats and gowns all the way down the long table. Henry stood with them and watched for his chance. As if fate had intervened on his behalf, the queen didn’t wave her daughter to her side. Instead, she accepted the arm of the Grand Duke and let him escort her from the room. Henry imagined himself bolting the length of the room and intercepting Beatrice before anyone else could take her away from him.

  He hastily excused himself from his dinner neighbors and worked his way up the room through the crowd, intent on the young woman in black who followed meekly behind the queen. Still at a distance, he lifted a hand and tried to signal Beatrice to wait for him, but she seemed unaware of anything in the room around her. His breath came quicker, his pulse sped up. He jostled aside two footmen blocking his way, frantic to reach her. He had no idea what to say to keep Beatrice in conversation but he felt compelled to talk with her again.

  At last, Henry pressed between glittering couples immediately following behind the royal party. Some were heading out to their carriages, others upstairs to suites reserved for guests who had traveled great distances. He was nearly on top of the royal family, Beatrice just an arm’s reach away. If she turned her head to the right she would see him. He stretched out his hand to tap her on the shoulder, his body electric with anticipation. But, at the very last moment, someone grabbed his arm and yanked him roughly to a stop.

  “I say—” Henry protested, furious at the rude interruption. But when he turned to confront his attacker, he found himself facing the Prince of Wales. “Your Royal Highness!” Henry swallowed back harsher words. This was Albert Edward, the queen’s eldest son and the man who would become the king of England the day Victoria drew her last breath. All he had to do was outlive her.

  “Spare me a moment, will you, Liko?”

  Henry smiled at the Prince’s use of his nickname, which set them on casually friendly terms. But then, a terrible thought rushed through his mind: What if the heir to the English throne had read his mind and was about to publicly chastise him for chasing after his baby sister?

  “Of course, Bertie. What is it?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beatrice moving farther away. Soon she would reach the staircase to the rooms above. He ached to break away, but the prince still held his sleeve in an urgent grip.

  “I need your advice. I’m afraid I’m in a terrible fix.” The prince’s eyes darkened and flashed nervously around the room, as if he feared someone overhearing them.

  Henry let go of the breath he’d been holding. Sadly, there would be no chance of speaking with Beatrice tonight. He glanced her way, one last time. She and the queen were already ascending the elegant curving staircase with funereal pomp.

  Resigned to the change in plans, Henry gestured toward a door. “Let’s step into the duke’s study for privacy. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  Rather than reassure Bertie, this suggestion seemed to rattle him all the more. “No, no. Good lord, no, not in there.” The Prince looked around them, eyes tight with panic, then keeping his voice low said, “The terrace.”

  They slipped through a short passageway lined with statuary, armor, and ancestral coats-of-arms, then back into the dining salon, now deserted except for staff—rushing about, clearing the table of silver, pewter and crystal, rolling up miles of damask tablecloth. No one spared Henry a glance when he snatched a brandy decanter and two glasses off a tray. Out through glass doors and onto the dark terrace he rushed in the wake of the Prince of Wales.

  As soon as Henry had nudged shut the doors behind them, he turned to find Bertie lighting a cigar while pacing the stone pavers.

  “What is it, Your Highness? Not more trouble from the Fenians, I hope, or another workers’ revolt back home.” So far, England had avoided the violent political uprisings that had plagued France, Germany, and many other European countries in recent years. But Henry knew the queen feared a revolution of the poor in her own country. And the Fenians, Irish separatists with a penchant for dynamiting London to make their point, hadn’t given up their fight.

  “No, no, thank God. Not any of that at least.” The prince puffed on his cigar and strode up and down in front of Henry in agitation. “Listen, I would have gone to Louis for advice, but it’s his wedding day and he likely has no mind for anything other than his bride.”

  “Of course.” Henry despaired of having lost his chance to speak to Beatrice, but he felt flattered the prince had come to him for help. He set the two glasses on the stone wall, poured a brandy for himself and one for his royal companion. “Tell me what troubles you, my friend.”

  The Prince of Wales stood still long enough to accept a crystal snifter with a generous portion of the amber liquor. He
took three fast swallows and rolled his eyes. “Vicky’s father, the Grand Duke, is about to instigate a monumental social disaster.”

  Henry shook his head, at a loss. “He’s not going to withdraw his blessing is he?”

  “No, of course nothing like that. But in many ways, it’s worse.”

  “I can’t imagine—”

  “He intends to announce his engagement to his Polish mistress tomorrow.”

  “Oh Lord.” Now it was Henry’s turn to take a fortifying gulp. He let the warmth of the brandy flow through him and settle low in his stomach before he spoke again. “The man must be mad.”

  “My mother didn’t even know that he had a mistress until we came here. At least, I don’t think she knew.” Bertie chewed his bottom lip and turned abruptly to start pacing again, alternating worried cigar puffs with sips of his brandy. “The queen has this notion that my sister’s widower should never again marry. After all, wasn’t Alice the perfect mate? Isn’t she irreplaceable? Why should her husband ever want another woman in his life after having had a royal princess and fathered seven children with her?” Bertie laughed. “Mother!”

  “Oh dear.” Henry took another, longer swallow of his brandy. Victoria terrified him even on her mildest days. And he wasn’t alone. He’d come upon her own family members literally tiptoeing away through the garden at Windsor or hastily ducking out back doors when the queen was in a temper. Often, her most vile moods had been brought on by nothing more than a casual remark. The current situation was far more serious.

  “I take it your mother will be furious at the very idea of the duke’s involvement with the lady?”

  “Mother will explode. She will take his behavior as a personal affront and betrayal of the family.” Bertie knocked back the rest of his brandy and reached out a hand toward the decanter. Henry gave it to him. “The problem is this engagement. Alexandrine has been his mistress, I suspect, for many years, and she’s here in Darmstadt now. The duke’s besotted with her. He invited the woman to his daughter’s wedding and intends, foolish man, to use the occasion to announce his betrothal to her.”

  Henry found it imperative to sit on the stone wall for support. He stared up at the full moon in the chill, black April sky. Anyone who had ever witnessed Victoria’s ire or, worse yet, been the object of her temper, would know that tomorrow was bound to be a nightmare if the duke persisted in his plans.

  “Have you spoken to the duke? Have you told him how poor his timing is?”

  “I have, last night at the ball. And he won’t listen to me. I told him, best to wait until the English contingent has returned to London. He says he is not ashamed to choose another wife and will do so despite anyone’s disapproval—even the queen’s.”

  “Then tomorrow will be a bloody awful day.” Henry shook his head in despair. He had hoped for a peaceful few days following the wedding, when he could seek out Beatrice and spend more time with her.

  “What do I do?” the Prince pleaded. “Can you think of anything at all I might do or say to lessen the scandal? You’re such a sensible fellow, Liko.”

  Though flattered, Henry felt ill-suited to the job. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps all you can do is try to reduce the impact of the announcement.”

  “But how?”

  Henry thought for a moment. “You must go to the queen tonight and tell her what the duke intends to do.”

  “Good God, no!” The prince leaned heavily on the wall, as if he’d collapse to the ground without its support. “Please, anything but that.”

  “All right then…what can you say about the woman, his mistress, to make her seem worthy of taking Alice’s place?”

  The prince laughed. “Liko, you must be kidding. She was married to a Russian before she took up with the duke. And you know how suspicious my mother is of them. On top of that, she’s not royalty, and she’s a divorced woman, and her reputation is, to say the least, highly questionable. It appears she’s had a string of lovers.” He shook his head. “I’ll admit that Alexandrine is exquisite and charming, but that’s likely to be held against her by my mother. In Victoria’s mind, no one can ever replace Alice as the mother of her grandchildren.”

  “Then there’s nothing more you can do other than warn your mother of what’s to come, with the hope that foreknowledge will reduce the fireworks.”

  Bertie groaned.

  “Listen, Your Highness, my brother’s wedding, indeed the entire town of Darmstadt will be left in shambles if you allow events take their own course. If you can’t stop the duke from publicly announcing his engagement and marrying the woman, all we can hope is to either postpone the announcement, at least until the queen has returned home, or prepare her for the inevitable. Those, as I see it, are your only two options.”

  Bertie tossed down his cigar and crushed its glowing end with the heel of his boot. “You honestly think that will do any good?”

  “It must. Coming from you, her eldest son and heir to the throne, it will cushion the blow for her.”

  “But who will protect me from her blows? As the messenger, I’ll be in direct line of fire.” The prince’s face turned an even lighter shade of pale. “You have no idea of the power of my mother’s fury. No bloody idea!”

  Another possibility suddenly struck Henry. Before he’d thought it through, he blurted out, “Enlist the aid of your sister, Beatrice.”

  Bertie choked on a laugh. “How is Baby going to help? My sister is the most helpless little soul. She does and says only what our mother commands.”

  “I expect she has more influence over the queen than you think.” Henry remembered Beatrice’s intelligent eyes and the spirit she’d revealed to him as they rode. “Let me go to your sister tonight. I will enlist Beatrice’s help in this matter.”

  “Better I go, given the late hour.” The prince lifted a heavy brow, meaningfully. “I doubt she’ll even see you. I know her women would never let you in.”

  “No, no. You must return to the duke and try one more time to dissuade him from this madness. I will find a way to get word to Beatrice. Besides, coming from outside of the family, the news may be taken more seriously.” He gripped the prince’s arm in what he hoped was an encouraging way. “Between the three of us—you, me, and Beatrice—we may yet prevent disaster.”

  Bertie took another splash of brandy in his glass and raised it to his friend. “May God grant us the strength to endure this trial.”

  “Here, here.” Henry drank with him, feeling an optimism their mission didn’t merit. But all that really mattered to him was one jewel-bright thing—the Prince of Wales had given him an excuse and permission to see Beatrice.

  8

  Lady Marie Devereaux, Beatrice’s lady-in-waiting, loosened the laces at the back of the princess’s gown as they chatted about the day’s exciting events. Beatrice had shared news of her secret ride with Henry, and Marie gasped at her daring, properly shocked and concerned for her safety. Which pleased Beatrice all the more. The idea of shocking anyone by her behavior was delicious.

  At the unexpected knock on the door of her room, they looked at each other.

  “Oh this is just too much.” Beatrice sighed. “What can it be now?” It had taken her nearly an hour to settle her mother in her own bedchamber. Victoria had been so overexcited and stressed by the events of the day that her attending ladies—exhausted from dealing with her—had begged Beatrice to remain at her bedside and read the queen into a less agitated, drowsy state.

  Marie frowned. “If it is your mother’s lady-of-the-bedchamber come to fetch you, shall I tell her you are already asleep?”

  It was a tempting lie. Just make herself not available to her mother’s whims. But years of serving as the dutiful daughter proved a hard habit to break.

  “No, it’s all right. Get me out of this corset and into my dressing gown then see what she needs. At least I will be more comfortable for as long as the queen requires me.”
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br />   Minutes later, a hushed conversation transpired between her lady and whoever was on the other side of the door. Beatrice sensed something out of the ordinary. Instead of allowing her mother’s lady to step inside, Marie physically blocked the doorway with her body. Beatrice caught a smattering of increasingly urgent and breathy words: “Quite inappropriate…no, surely another time…but Her Highness, elle est déshabillée!”

  Beatrice scowled at the door. Why was the girl making such a fuss about her not being fully dressed?

  Her lady firmly closed the door, leaned her back to it and turned to face the middle of the room. “C’est un monsieur, Your Highness. I have told him it is non possible for you to see him at this late hour as you have retired for the night.”

  “A gentleman?” If it had been one of her brothers Marie still might not have let him in, but her response certainly wouldn’t have been as staunchly protective. And she would have mentioned his name. “Who was it?”

  “One of the groom’s brothers, I believe. The strangely named one: Liko. At least that is what I thought he said.” The French woman’s lips pinched in disapproval.

  “Oh!” Beatrice’s hand flew to her mouth to cover a wide smile. “But I wonder what he wants. It must be terribly important for him to come here at this hour, don’t you think?”

  Marie looked skeptical. “C’est très mauvais pour votre réputation.”

  “Yes, very bad for my reputation, coming at night to my private chamber. You’re absolutely right. But I’m sure Henry would never have come if it weren’t an emergency.” Beatrice slipped her arms into a silk dressing gown and hastily tied the satin ribbon around her waist. “However, I’m sure you’ll agree that I can’t greet him in the salon where anyone might wander through. Not at this hour. Do let him in.”