Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  “Give me that!” Henry dove over the desk, reaching for the letter, but his brother was quicker. It disappeared behind his back. “You’ll teach her no lesson. The poor girl is beside herself with grief.”

  Vicky was shaking her head in obvious confusion. “I don’t understand. What’s going on? What’s happened? Somebody please tell me! She’s my dearest aunt and I must know.”

  “Now, now, my precious, don’t be concerned until we discover what has transpired to so upset Bea and destroy my brother’s usual cheerful countenance.” Louis stepped further back from the desk, even as Henry sank disconsolately into the chair and let his head fall forward on folded arms.

  “Oh, dear,” Vicky murmured a few seconds later, and Henry guessed from the crinkling sound of paper that she was reading the note along with Louis. A moment later she let out a gasp. “Henry, you asked for her hand in marriage?”

  “I did.”

  “And she’s saying no?”

  “In effect, yes.”

  “But why?” Vicky asked.

  “Because,” her husband answered, saving Henry the painful trouble, “the queen refuses to let her marry my brother.”

  “But Henry is ever so perfect for Beatrice,” she objected.

  “You didn’t finish the letter. Here. She explains…albeit in perplexing detail.”

  Henry heard his brother’s steps approaching him but he didn’t look up. A hand rested on his shoulder. “The woman is a fool.”

  “Beatrice is not a fool.” Henry shot to his feet, ready to lash out physically in defense of his love. “You take that back, sir. Brother or not I’ll thrash you within an inch of—”

  “Not Bea, you idiot. The queen. She’s a fool if she thinks she can keep her last child to herself forever. Maybe that’s the way it used to be—hold back the youngest to care for the aging parents when there was no one else to do it. But she’s the queen of England, for God’s sake. She has hundreds of staff, servants, and the court, all loyal to her and ready to do her bidding. Why does she need to make an old maid of her daughter?”

  “She isn’t an old maid,” Henry grumbled, his protest weaker. All the fight had suddenly gone out of him. “But you’re right about one thing. It makes no sense.”

  “Listen to this,” Vicky whispered, “she says here, ‘Mama is so delicate in both health and spirit, so in need of my attentions.’”

  “Ha! Delicate?” Louis railed. “I should be so delicate. That woman is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “But she is getting along in age,” Henry said. “She may have few years left.” He could only hope.

  Louis laughed. “Victoria will live to be a hundred. If Bea waits until then to marry—if she herself lives that long—no man will have her. Not even you, Henry.”

  I would, he thought. I’d want her even in our old age. “But what can I do? Beatrice says it’s off. We’re done. She believes her mother will never change her mind.”

  “Oh, Henry, no-no-no.” Vicky, cheeks pink with excitement, rushed toward him waving the letter in his face. He grabbed it back from her. “You must persist! You really must. Beatrice may say it’s impossible, but if you love her as I love my sweet husband and he loves me, then you must soldier on. She may find the strength to stand up to her mother if you are there to support her.”

  “But if the queen says no—”

  “Vicky is right,” his brother said. “This is only the first mention of an engagement. If you prove yourself worthy to the queen as a husband for her daughter, and if Bea proclaims that she can never be happy without you in her life, how can the queen deny her last and favorite child? Victoria may be ruthlessly selfish, but if she fears Bea will withdraw her love from her, if she refuses to let her become engaged to you, she may come around.”

  “Not just engaged—married,” Henry said firmly. Yes, marry the girl, the sooner the better. A long engagement meant frustration, sexually and otherwise. He wanted Bea in his bed, not a long-term correspondence from hundreds of miles away and open-ended engagement.

  “Engaged first,” Vicky said. “Your brother is right. That’s the first step. It takes Grand-mere a long time to get used to the tiniest changes. If you make yourself part of Bea’s life, if you’re frequently in London and present in Court, then the queen can’t help but be won over.” Her eyes sparkled with encouragement. “Truly, patience will win her hand.”

  “You really believe this?”

  “We’ll help,” Louis promised. “We’ll be your seconds, there to patch you up after each royal parry, after each cruel thrust from the queen. If you stand strong, you cannot fail, brother.”

  Henry sighed. It was good of Louis and his sister-in-law to be there for him. But when he thought about other examples of the queen’s determination—more like, her supreme pigheadedness!—he felt little real hope. Years ago, hadn’t she insisted on parading to her Accession Day celebration even after her Secret Service officers and Scotland Yard warned her of a plot against her life? And they’d been right. The day had been a disaster the likes of which London would never forget.

  But he would try. By God, he would try to convince the woman that her daughter should be his—for the sake of his own happiness and for his darling Beatrice.

  17

  Beatrice barely had time to breathe. In the days following the posting of her bitterly sad letter to Henry, her mother seemed to need her at every turn—from dawn until dusk, and often late into the evening. Even Ponsonby wasn’t able to keep up with the queen’s sudden burst of energy and demands on his time.

  In many ways, it was good to see her mother so busy. The gout that had returned to cause her such wretched pain in her foot didn’t stop the woman from attending official functions she normally would have refused. And she was more open to social occasions, all of which seemed to require her youngest daughter’s company. Victoria then decided it was time for the royal seamstress to fit her for two new dresses to replace the worn black gowns she most frequently wore. While the woman was at Buckingham Palace with her swatches and sketches, she also measured Beatrice for a new gown and a riding outfit. Bea became suspicious that all of this activity was intended to keep her so busy she wouldn’t have time to think about Henry.

  It didn’t work. Henry Battenberg’s image haunted her all the day long, and he flitted through her dreams at night.

  Falling into bed after a late night of theatre with her mother at the Royal Opera House, Beatrice waved off her lady’s offer of warm milk. “I’ll have no difficulty sleeping tonight, Marie.” She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the satin pillow. “I’ve never been so exhausted. Do you suppose she’s bribing me?”

  “Pardon? Who bribes you, Your Highness?”

  “The queen, my mother. First she nearly kills me by keeping me so occupied I hardly have time to think, then she buys me two new outfits of far more extravagant material and detail than she has allowed me in years.” Beatrice pushed herself up wearily onto one elbow. “And the riding suit is plum, Marie. Not black. Plum.”

  “Very dark. Not a red-plum or cardinal, like other ladies wear.”

  “No, but that’s not the point. It’s definitely a color. She knew how much that would please me. I could see it in her eyes when she chose the swatch from the seamstress’s samples.”

  “She wants you to be happy.” Marie winked at her.

  “No, she wants me to be content. There’s a huge difference.” If Beatrice was content, she imagined her mother reasoning, she would continue to do as Victoria commanded and forget about marriage. Forget Henry. That was clearly her mother’s intent.

  “Why is she so against my marriage? She and Papa were so happy. She must remember what it’s like to be in love. Why does she deny me the chance to be as happy as she once was?”

  Marie sat on the bed beside her and smoothed the hair out of her eyes. “Ma Cherie, after your father is gone, she feels such pain. Non?”

  “Of c
ourse she did. She still does. She mourns him every day.”

  “Just so. She feels the agony of his absence. And so, perhaps, she tries to save you from the greatest sadness. Oui? She is trying to protect you.”

  Beatrice rolled away to her side, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I think you’re giving her the benefit of your sweet nature, Marie. I might have believed Mama was acting in my best interest before Henry came along and we fell in love. But now…I’m not so sure. Maybe she believes she’s protecting me. But I think she’s just looking after herself.”

  Marie sighed. “What will you do, Your Highness?”

  Beatrice started to open her mouth to say what she’d been thinking all day. About her options. About following her heart. But, as loyal as she believed Marie to be to her, the woman also had pledged her allegiance to the queen. And Beatrice knew, in the mind of each and every member of her mother’s Court, a mental line had been drawn, past which they would never step. If it came to choosing sides between their monarch and one of her children—Victoria would always win.

  And so, Beatrice kept silent, pretending to drift off to sleep.

  After Marie turned down the gaslights and left the room in darkness, Beatrice sat up in bed. Her heart beating wildly, she puzzled over her future.

  Dare she defy the queen? Dare she even consider the impossible? If she ran away to be with her lover—that is, the man she wished could be her lover, because she and Henry had only ever kissed and shyly touched. Hands. Faces. His fingertips trailing through her hair. Not making love, of course. Just tender gestures and words. But she could imagine more. And those thoughts thrilled her. If she ran off to be with Henry, it wouldn’t be the first time a princess had escaped to marry the man she loved. If he’d still have her after receiving her letter, knowing they’d both be defying the queen—a dangerous thing to do.

  She bit down on her bottom lip at this thought. Having read what she’d written, Henry might think her so immature and naïve, still tied to her mother’s apron strings (As if Victoria ever would wear an apron!) that she no longer interested him. But if he did still want her—could she really turn her back on the queen and her own country, run away to the Continent and into Henry’s arms? Was she brave enough, impulsive and daring enough to do that?

  Tears seeped from beneath her eyelashes. Maybe not. Years of grief imposed on the entire family by their father’s premature death and their mother’s obsession with mourning rituals had crushed all the life out of her. It was a miracle Henry had seen anything of interest in her.

  Even if she had tricked him into caring for her—for a few hours, days, or even weeks—it was only a matter of time before he recognized her for what she was. A drab, bashful, awkward, boring female who was past her prime.

  What man could possibly find a woman like that appealing—let alone loveable?

  The next morning Beatrice woke from the deepest sleep she’d experienced since leaving Darmstadt. Her cheeks and eyelashes were crusty with salt from her tears, but her head felt clear. She rose from bed before Marie appeared to draw open the draperies of her bedchamber. She felt a different sort of energy than she’d ever felt before, something akin to—courage.

  She also sensed an urge toward mischief that she hadn’t indulged in since her very earliest childhood when she’d tried Nurse’s patience with her pranks.

  Louise, of course, had been the truly naughty one. The defiant child who refused to be controlled by their parents or nurses or tutors. Lenchen was the peacemaker, and Alice always seemed caught in the middle of sisterly intrigues. Crown Princess Vicky had been the haughty one, who took on airs and always, always got what she wanted just because she was the eldest and her father’s protégé. Albert had been determined that his eldest daughter would rule a grand nation, even if it was through the man she would one day marry.

  But she, Beatrice, had been the entertainer. The little girl who charmed everyone with her dances and silly rhymes and songs, making them smile and laugh and praise her cleverness. All of this before she turned four years of age. She truly was the blonde, blue-eyed darling of the English Court.

  How times had changed.

  Now, for the first time, Beatrice wondered if it was partly her own fault that all the joy had disappeared from her life. What would have happened if she’d been more assertive like Louise, more demanding like the Crown Princess…and resisted her mother’s insistence on gloom, black garments, dull mourning jewelry, and solemnity?

  Louise had counseled her to stand firm, to not give up on having Henry, even in the face of disapproval from their mother. But Louise herself had married a man chosen by the queen. Beatrice was certain her sister didn’t love Lorne, now the Duke of Argyll. She’d never understood their relationship but, of course, had never asked Louise why she had agreed to marry Lorne when her sister seemed capable of withstanding their mother’s bossiness in every other situation. Someday maybe she’d uncover Louise’s secret heart. But for now, it was all she could do to work on her own problems.

  Stand firm, she thought. And again came that urge to do something just a little daring, a little wild.

  If she, Beatrice, was to do battle with her mother for the right to marry the man she loved, she’d have to become a stronger, more independent woman. Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed and wondered how one went about changing one’s life. How could she become a different, better sort of woman? She tingled with excitement. Yes, she must analyze this process of redesigning oneself.

  Louise made independence seem so easy. She opened herself to the world, traveling with or without Lorne as the mood moved her. She went out among commoners, attended women’s suffrage rallies, visited hospitals and women’s shelters. She had even opened a consignment shop where women with no other means of supporting themselves could sell their handmade items; for many it was just enough to keep them off the streets. Louise seemed afraid of nothing—not even Irish separatists who, years earlier, launched a violent plot against the royal family.

  Beatrice thought for another moment. If only she could recall just one time in her life, as an adult, when she hadn’t felt timid and hopelessly awkward. Then she might be able to repeat that moment. She’d practice being brave.

  It came to her all at once, the memory so poignant and vivid she laughed out loud with joy.

  Yes! She’d felt strong, in control, even bold and playful when she’d ridden with Henry at Darmstadt.

  Well, she couldn’t have Henry, at least not just yet. But she could go for a ride. The royal stables had horses aplenty.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and Marie peeked around the corner before stepping inside. “Ah, Your Highness is awake. Bon. The queen, she is asking for you.”

  “Please tell her that—” Beatrice took a deep breath. “—that I am busy.”

  Marie stopped in the middle of the room and looked at her as if she had grown an extra head. “You are busy?”

  “Yes. I will be engaged for the next two hours, at least. It’s been a while since I rode out into the park.” She pushed up off the bed and strode toward her wardrobe closet. “It’s too bad I don’t have the plum outfit yet. The old one will have to do. But at least it fits. And, in black, I won’t stand out among the other riders on Rotten Row.”

  Marie reached out, as if to touch fingertips to the royal forehead to test for fever, but Beatrice stepped away. “Your Highness, is well?”

  “Am I?” Beatrice laughed again. “I don’t know if I am yet, but I’m working on it. I’m working on a lot of things.” She looked at the young woman who was as close to her as any friend she’d ever had. “Will you go now and tell the queen? Then I’ll need your help dressing. I’ll be back in time for lunch and available after that to help my mother however she requires.”

  “Oui, Your Highness.”

  Beatrice watched Marie go and felt a trifle cruel. Her lady would likely be on the receiving end of the queen’s anger once she learned Beatrice wouldn’t be j
oining her for the morning. She’d find a way to make it up to the girl later.

  18

  “My apologies, Princess, but I don’t think it’s wise.”

  Beatrice looked up at Elton Jackson and tried to remember exactly what Louise always said to members of their mother’s staff when they balked at giving her what she wanted.

  She straightened her back, whacked her riding crop smartly against the palm of her gloved hand and narrowed her eyes at the man, trying to project an image of royal indignation. “I intend,” she said, “to ride out each day from now on, for healthful exercise. Will you bring my horse out to me, Mr. Jackson? Or do I need to go fetch her myself?”

  “But, Your Highness, your mother will be—”

  “Her wishes aren’t, at the moment, your most pressing concern. Your job is to see that one of your grooms saddles my mount and delivers her to me as quickly as possible. Any setback will delay my return to the palace. Which means I shall be late to join my mother. And you know how irritated the queen becomes when she’s kept waiting.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment as if weighing the consequences then glanced back at the stables. “Right, Your Highness. I’ll get to it. Do you prefer Tarff?”

  “No, I’ll take my new pony, Lady Jane.” “I’ll do it,” a voice called from the shadows inside the barn.

  Beatrice squinted against the sunlight to see which of the grooms had volunteered to bring her horse to her. A young man stepped out from the building with bridle in hand. “Leave it to me, Your Highness.” As quickly as he’d appeared, he dissolved back into the shadows of the mews.

  She tipped her head to one side, surprised at his accent, a pronounced Scottish brogue. Although he was wearing the livery of a stable groom, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of chain and tassel, such as the Scots wore about their hips.