“Colonel FitzPrince,” said the queen in her beautiful voice. “How do you find the weather today?”
“Agreeable, ma’am.”
Had the man lost his loquacious tongue? Perhaps, but he seemed focused on learning Victoria’s face, as if it would help him decipher her. Charlotte wondered what he saw in that plump, unlined, eighteen-year-old visage. Hints of their father? Of his brothers?
“We believe it is perishingly warm.”
“You prefer a cool room, ma’am?”
“We do. Better for health.”
He nodded. “Thank you for sending Her Serene Highness to me, madam. I apologize for missing our recent appointment and eagerly look forward to spending time with you soon.”
“We have great matters to attend to.” She glanced at the prime minister, who nodded with fatherly approval.
“I look forward to telling you about Canada,” he said. “I do not imagine you have too many people around you who are experts like myself. You will want to know about the living conditions of your people.”
The queen blinked. “We are sure that would be most illuminating.”
He inclined his head. “I eagerly look forward to the next missive from the princess as regards to our meeting.”
The queen nodded, looking faintly confused, took one quick glance at Charlotte, then swept toward the next gentleman.
Charlotte held back her grin until Victoria had passed out of earshot. “I did not think you had any subtlety in you, Colonel. You surpassed my expectations.”
Even this praise did not make him smile, but his expression relaxed somewhat. “I am an eager student, Princess.”
“Only when the subject matter is in your best interest, I expect.”
“I do not have much general education.”
He scrutinized her person, leaving her to wonder just what kind of education he recalled when his eyes looked at her. Her skin felt abraded, as if he had touched her with a rough cloth instead of merely his gaze.
Unable to stay still, she pointed her chin toward a small, unguarded door. “Come with me.”
He followed her. She imagined he expected she was ejecting him from the building, when it might be so valuable for him to stay and make contacts. If she were being honest with herself, she’d have to admit she didn’t know quite what she had planned.
The door opened into a small, airless corridor that led to a retiring room that had been set aside for the few ladies present. It was early yet and the room remained empty.
Charlotte shut the door behind the colonel and moved eagerly to a punch bowl filled with water dotted with slices of cucumber. She filled two glass cups, then handed one to him.
He held up his cup and saluted her with it, then drank every drop. His strong throat moving as he swallowed distracted her from her own thirst. She looked away, embarrassed, as he emptied his drink and refilled it while she sipped her own.
“Why did you bring me in here?” he asked after finishing his second cupful. “I don’t imagine this is a public part of the palace.”
“No,” she admitted, glancing around. “Oh, spare fans, I need one of those.” She moved toward the table, feeling languid in the heat now that she’d done what the queen asked of her. Her fingers touched a fan painted to look like feathers and she snapped it open.
Her eyes closed. “Heavenly.”
“You are heavenly.” His voice came from much closer than she expected.
Opening her eyes, she found him at her right shoulder. The table was on her left. He’d managed to trap her. Or did he think she’d done the trapping? The fan shook as she fluttered it close to her face.
He reached across her bosom and snatched up a fan of his own. She giggled.
“What?”
“That is far too dainty for those warrior’s paws of yours.”
He lifted a brow and snapped open his fan as elegantly as she had, then fluttered it at her.
“La, sir,” she said. “What a feminine air you have.”
“I am in a ladies’ retiring room,” he said. “I can feel it working against my masculinity.”
“I doubt that anything could damage your masculine spirit.” She hadn’t quite stopped laughing as she turned to face him, her back to the table.
He dropped the fan back onto the small pile. His right hand stayed against the table, blocking her in on one side. His left hand reached up to point at a dent, barely visible, on her forehead.
“A head injury, princess? Say it isn’t so.”
“It didn’t scramble my brains. One of my brothers threw a rock at me, ten years ago. Quite a wallop for being not much more than a baby.”
His fingers brushed against the small mark, the touch feather-light. “I didn’t think I remembered it.”
Before she could absorb the full impact of his words, he trailed his index finger between her brows, down the bridge of her nose. She forgot to breathe as he reached her upper lip, then skimmed the gap of her mouth until it settled in the center of her lower lip.
He didn’t stop moving. The finger slid to her chin. The rest of his fingers cradled her there, tilting her face up to his.
She still couldn’t breathe. Her lips were parted, unmoving, as his head inclined to hers. She closed her eyes when his beautiful mouth was an inch from hers. The touch of his lips to hers was as light as the breeze from her fan.
It clattered to the floor as her hands went to his arms. She had half an instinct to push him away, but instead she gripped him, making a noise like a cat as her hands tightened around his hard forearms, the embroidered cloth rough under her soft palms.
He traced her lower lip with his tongue. The feeling of his slightly damp warmth shocked her into breathing again. Her head moved back instinctively and he allowed her to break the kiss.
That space of a few inches between them shocked her into lifting her hands away from his arms.
“You do remember me,” she whispered.
Chapter Five
Turning away, Edward shook his head and refilled his cup. “I should not have done that, but you looked so fetching with your hair curling around your cheeks.”
“Could you find my fan for me, Edward?” Her voice came out rusty, unused, as if his kiss had stolen her voice.
“Certainly, Charlie.” He winked, then bent to retrieve it. He’d taken off his hat and left it sitting by the punch bowl, displaying thick, dark locks.
“Are your brothers as handsome as you?”
His head tilted up to hers before he straightened and handed the fan to her. “You don’t remember them? James is your age. Spencer is two years older.”
She bit her lip as she snapped the fan open and began to wave it frantically on her overheated face. Don’t look at his mouth, you silly goose. “A face can be the making of his fortune for a man as well as a woman.”
“Do you think me making love to you will get me what I want?” He drained his cup and set it down.
Those words, from his lips. How could she feel so ready for him? Was it sorcery? She forced herself to answer his question. “Not really. It is just my mother expects me to, well, use my face to bring money to my family.”
“Does she know of our marriage?”
Her eye twitched. “She told me to forget it.”
“Was it illegal for you to marry, under the laws of Scharnburg?”
“No.” She had researched that herself.
“Then we are wed. And with a witness, too. Murdo remembers.”
She put her hand to her temple. “Can he be persuaded to forget?”
He put his finger on the center of his lower lip. “He says no, and I have no lever against his memory.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. No more looking at his mouth. “If we denied it,” she suggested.
He fixed her with a clear-eyed stare. “You are somewhat hazy to me, Charlie, but not that much forgotten. Murdo will stand firm, in any case.”
The twitch wouldn’t go away. Her mother’s wishes and her
own attraction warred in her. “Why did you kiss me? What do you want?”
“I kissed you because I wanted to, and for no other reason.” He bowed to her and backed away. His fingers found his hat and he put it on at a rakish angle.
“Don’t make fun,” she said, feeling as young and confused as she had been when he first called her “Charlie” eleven years ago.
“By no means, Princess. It is a compliment when I say I kissed you because I wanted to. I will go now, because I cannot imagine I can be in here much longer before I am spotted. Good day to you, and I look forward to your next missive. If I do not receive it in the morning’s post, I shall come and find you.”
With that threat, he opened the door an inch, made a quick perusal of the hallway, then stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
She imagined it had only been about two minutes since he’d kissed her. And now she was alone, wondering how he thought he might hunt down a lady-in-waiting in Buckingham Palace. She fanned herself, wondering.
It might be good to know what he might do, were she to delay sending a letter. Even so, she’d ensure the queen wanted the appointment, and then make arrangements with a secretary that evening. Just for her own satisfaction. She would go mad wondering what his intentions were otherwise.
~
The next day, Edward set out for the bazaar at Moorfields to purchase Lemuel’s forbidden French book. The walk illuminated why the lad could not acquire the instruction manual on his own. His father was unlikely to let him off his leading strings long enough to go to the bookstall.
As he walked, he had plenty of time to consider his strategies with both the princess and Victoria. Charlie was in his clutches now. That kiss had astonished and aroused her. He would be surprised if she could think of anything else at the moment. No wonder they had wanted to marry, even all those years ago. They made each other burn. He felt a moment of pity, that a girl with so much passion to share had been left to a lonely bed.
Meanwhile, mentioning Canada would be his way to get another audience with Victoria, but then what? He didn’t want to be her pet storyteller. What he needed was her access to the prime minister and the Privy Council.
He reached the bookstall at the bazaar and saw the shopkeeper already had a customer, so he went to a coffee wagon at the edge of the street and drank a cup while waiting for the man to leave. As soon as he was gone, Edward strode into the stall and dropped Lemuel’s money on the counter.
The old shopkeeper, clean-shaven but for a patch of stiff white hairs under his chin, glanced at the coins with surprise.
“Package for Lemuel Bone,” Edward said.
The man smirked, showing how few teeth he had. “That lad,” he said, pulling a paper-wrapped package from under the counter. The money disappeared in the blink of an eye. “I could tell him stories that would put hair on his chest, but no, he’s got to read about it.”
“Not a doer, that one.”
“No confidence,” agreed the bookseller. “Wot’s he got on you to get you to come over here?”
Edward shrugged. “My business.”
The shopkeeper ran his fingers through his under-chin hair. “Fair enough, but I have plenty more in that line if you are interested.”
Edward shook his head. “Not for me. I have enough imagination.”
The old man’s phlegmy chuckles followed him all the way down the alley. When Edward reached the main thoroughfare, he tucked the package into his coat. He was tempted to drop into a coffeehouse and unwrap the paper to see what exactly Lemuel had wanted so badly, but not so tempted as to actually do such a thing.
He took the book to Lemuel, who was full of questions about the levee, reporting he’d heard about riotous behavior, none of which Edward had observed, but had nothing new to share about the princess. By that point, Edward resolved to go home and check the morning’s post after availing himself of his free paper.
At home, he was grateful to have Quintin help him off with his boots. His feet were aching. The boots needed resoling and while he had the money, what was he supposed to wear in the meantime? He’d have to use Murdo’s funds for new boots.
“Anything in the post?” he asked.
Quintin coughed. “Another missive from Sir John Conroy. A letter from Scotland. Nothing else.”
Edward frowned. Nothing from the princess? He’d have to attempt to reach Charlie at the palace. He saw no point in sitting around waiting for a response from her.
“Find someone who can resole my boots in a day,” he ordered. “And buy me some shoes on the way back from Murdo’s house.”
Quintin nodded. “Shall I take your boots now?”
“No. I’m going out again.”
When Quintin had scuttled away, Edward bypassed the letter from Sir John and snatched up the Scottish missive. Posted from Inverurie, the market town closest to Linsee Castle, the letter looked as if it had traveled long distances, which it had.
Lady Abigail McChase, his aunt, acted as the doyenne of Linsee Castle while Murdo was away. Never married, she devoted herself equally to sharp-eyed management and kind-hearted good works. Edward remembered her as a handsome gray-eyed woman and as unlikely as ever to wed, despite having a fortune of her own. When his brothers discussed their futures late at night, the possibility of an inheritance from her was one thing they considered. She’d never been ill a day in her life, however, and was less than a generation older than them.
When he opened the four-page missive, one obviously separate leaf dropped to his writing desk. He could scarcely contain himself when he saw what it was. A letter of credit on Lady Abigail’s bank for two hundred pounds. His financial troubles were solved—for now.
He bared his teeth and began to read. His aunt asked him to visit, suggesting he might like to sort through his mother’s possessions. She asked for news about his brothers and mentioned a couple of other relatives who lived in the area in Scotland.
Might he have been able to guess who ”A Friend” was if he knew his family better? He cursed his inattention to family matters now. As a bastard he had not particularly prescribed to the sense of belonging to a clan. His loyalty was to his clan of three: himself, Spencer, and James. Would he need to add Charlie?
He set the letter aside unfinished, promising himself that he’d pen a long and satisfying response to the kind woman who’d gifted him with funds. And he’d thought Murdo had generous impulses. His extended family took care of their own, even when they didn’t ask for help, and he needed to remember it was the Highland way to be generous with whatever they possessed.
While he’d been away from Linsee far too long, he would not see his childhood home anytime soon, unless he bent the prime minister’s ear in the near future.
With that thought fueling him, he perused his limited wardrobe and changed into a newer shirt and better-tailored coat, then headed for the Buckingham Palace gardens. A lieutenant in his regiment had grown up near the palace and claimed it was easy to access it through the rear gardens. He claimed to have spied on the king at his dinner early in his reign. Edward decided to test the access.
He found his way into the gardens, which, while not open to the public, had places to enter that were not guarded, allowing him to walk along gravel paths. But just in case, he ducked behind trees twice when he saw gardeners working. He knew Victoria had moved into the north wing of the palace so he moved in that direction, keeping a sharp eye out for courtiers, servants, or guards.
All he could do was gather intelligence. The princess could be inside embroidering for all he knew, or in a carriage with Victoria. She was unlikely to be walking alongside the balustrade on the terrace with her handful of other ladies.
His eyes narrowed and he almost laughed. Almost. For there up on the balustrade, as if ordained by God himself, was Charlie, talking with the sharp-nosed Baroness Lehzen and another woman he recognized as the beautiful Mistress of Robes, a duchess in her own right.
Forgetting his precarious position he st
opped dead, not ten feet from the little party of women. There were parts of the world where he might be shot for such stupidity, but since his military service had been only in Ireland and Canada, his skills of self-preservation might not be so finely honed as they ought to be.
The Duchess of Sutherland, a brunette a few years older than he was, saw him first. Her smile held promise, but he suspected she had no idea who he was. The princess spotted him next. She smiled too, in a cool, self-satisfied way. He bowed deeply as she turned her head and said something to the baroness. The older woman and the duchess wandered away, their long skirts swishing against the gray stone.
After checking quickly to make sure no one else was about, he vaulted over the balustrade in front of his wife. She put her hand to her chest, but she held her ground. He bowed again and pushed unruly tendrils of hair off of his sweaty brow.
“Leave it to you to find a way in here without being arrested.”
“My ancestral blood must have called me home,” he quipped.
“Silly man,” she said in German. “The queen is the first royal to live here since George III. It’s been under reconstruction ever since.”
“I suspect I am in trouble if you go to the effort of speaking German to me, since I only have limited knowledge of your native tongue.”
She smiled slyly. “Mon vieux.”
“But I’m not even thirty yet,” he protested. French he knew. “You may call me silly, but not old.”
“You have two years on me,” she said with a coquettish tilt of her head. “Positively ancient.”
“I may be a battle-scarred old soldier, but you cannot fault me for ingenuity. However, Princess, I trusted you and I see I made a mistake.”
“How?” Her dark eyes narrowed.
“I did not hear from you today.”
“You thought you could find me here?” Her accent, never strong, seemed to intensify.
He lowered his chin. “I am as surprised as you that my ploy worked.”
“It is too nice a day to remain indoors if one can possibly avoid it,” she admitted.
The Princess Dilemma: A Victorian Royal Romance Page 7
