“Just a little tired,” she said, and she reached for the butter.
“Well, it was a late night.”
“Indeed.”
She could have said more. Emma was one of her two best friends in all the world, and generally she confided everything to her.
Or nearly everything.
She’d kept her kissing trials to herself. Emma disapproved of the whole project, so she had thought it wise not to share in this instance. But what about Rupert? She could only imagine how that conversation might go.
“Oh, by the way, your brother caught me kissing Knightbridge last night.”
“What!”
“Yes, and then after reading me a lecture and trying to convince me I’m putting myself at serious risk, he kissed me himself.”
No, best friends or not, that just wasn’t a conversation she could have with Emma. And certainly not about her brother.
“But you don’t even like him!” she could hear Emma saying.
And she didn’t.
But galling as it might be to admit, she had liked his kisses. She could see now why women lined up to hop into his bed in spite of his unpleasant demeanor.
Fighting down an uncharacteristic blush, she busied herself by spooning strawberry preserves onto her toast. Rather than eat it, though, she took up her fork and moved a few rapidly cooling scrambled egg curds around on her china plate.
One of the footmen provided some much-needed distraction by approaching to refill her cup of hot tea before moving on to do the same for Emma.
A quiet knock came at the door and the butler entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver.
“This just arrived for you, Your Highness,” he said, stopping next to Emma.
She picked up the missive. “Thank you, Symms.”
He bowed and withdrew.
Emma studied the letter and smiled. “It is from Mercedes.”
Ariadne smiled back, not only because she was eager to hear news of her other best friend—which she was—but because it would help get her mind off Rupert.
“Well, how is Mercedes? What does she have to say? Will she and Daniel be coming down for the Season?”
Emma shook her head, which was still bent over the pages. “No, but for good cause. It seems she has happy news to share.”
“Oh?”
“She’s in the family way again.” Her smile grew even wider before it disappeared again. “But poor thing isn’t feeling up to the journey. She says she, and I quote, ‘cannot see much point in coming all the way to London just so I can sleep, swoon, and be too sick to keep down my breakfast every morning.’”
Ariadne chuckled and drank some tea.
“Apparently Daniel has forbidden her to travel,” Emma said as she continued scanning the letter. “You know how protective he is.”
“Well, that’s a Scotsman for you,” Ariadne observed. “Although as I recall you had quite a time talking Nick into letting you make the trip from Lynd Park after little Peter’s birth.”
“Nick was only concerned for my well-being. Luckily I had an easy pregnancy, easier by far than I did with Friedrich. Nick could hardly insist I remain in the country when I was out of bed and accepting congratulatory calls from half the county scarcely a week after my lying-in. As I told him a hundred times, I felt splendid.”
Pausing, she set the letter aside. “Besides, I couldn’t have sent you off for the Season on your own. You’ve no relations other than a few distant cousins on the Continent, and I wouldn’t hear of you being compelled to stay with some older woman willing to act as your sponsor, however socially acceptable she might be.”
“You are very good to me, you and Dominic both.”
Emma gave a small shake of her head, as if it were of no moment.
But Ariadne forestalled her with a light touch of her hand. “No, truly,” she said. “I’m not entirely sure what I would have done these past few years if not for you and Nick, and Mercedes and Daniel too. The four of you have all been so generous, opening your homes and your lives to me when I had no real right to intrude.”
Emma made a tsking sound under her breath. “You are not intruding and don’t let me ever hear you say such a thing again. You are as dear to me as a sister—dearer, actually, considering how Sigrid can be sometimes. We love having you with us and this is your home for as long as you like. You may grow quite old and gray here if you prefer.”
Ariadne smiled slightly, turning over the spoon on her saucer. “But still, it must grow tiresome having a permanent houseguest. Or semi-permanent, since I spend part of each year with Mercedes and Daniel.”
“We’ve dozens of rooms, so I cannot see how it is an issue. There’s plenty of space for us all. Anyway, who would persuade Friedrich to go to bed if not for his dear aunt Ariadne? He refuses to fall asleep if he hasn’t had a story from you, you know.”
She smiled again. “Oh, I’m sure you’d find a way to manage. He loves his mama best. And his papa. I know that for certain.”
For in spite of her great affection for the boy, she wasn’t really Friedrich’s aunt, however much she might wish she were. Neither was this her home, despite the undeniable warmth and love she felt in her friends’ company. They were all too kind for their own good as well as hers. But in only a few more months, on her twenty-fifth birthday, she would come into her inheritance and her independence. However easy and comforting it would be to continue living with her friends, she knew she could not. She needed to make her own way in the world on her own terms.
“So,” she said with forced brightness, “that will be three babies for Mercedes with this new one. You and Nick had better get busy catching up,” she teased.
Emma’s cheeks flushed a light pink and she laughed. “Arie, the things you say. It’s one of the reasons I love you so.”
“Well, just remember that the next time I say something that embarrasses you.”
Emma laughed again and sipped her tea.
Deciding that she really ought to eat something after all, Ariadne applied herself to her eggs and toast. As she did, her thoughts turned to the conversation she’d just had with Emma and the subject of babies.
If there was one thing that gave her pause about her plan to take a lover, it was the fear that she might find herself with child. An out-of-wedlock pregnancy would be a serious complication indeed, but from what she’d read and gleaned from a few carefully worded questions to Emma and Mercedes, there were methods that could be used to minimize the risk—herbal concoctions and timing and such. Not that either of her friends bothered with such precautions, since they were far too happily married and didn’t mind the prospect of increasing the size of their families. But for her, a baby would equal the complete destruction of her reputation—not that she particularly cared about preserving it. Still, while there might be hope of hiding an illicit affair, there would be no concealing a pregnancy and the addition of a child into her life.
Some might recommend going into seclusion during the pregnancy, then giving the child away to a worthy couple once it arrived. But she would never do that. She understood what it meant to be without the security of family; any child of hers would know its mother and the warmth of her love.
Of course, if all went as planned, there would be no baby—at least not until she decided it was time. Just as she had decided not to cut herself off from the pleasure of being with a man, she didn’t see why she had to cut herself off from the joy of being a mother. Clearly, it would be better if she were wed, but plenty of women had illegitimate children, including royal ones. Society was teeming with royal and aristocratic bastards; what would one more matter? Her child would have a good life—she would see to that—and no one would dare make him feel ashamed because of his parentage.
She would see to that as well.
But for this first time, with this first lover, she wanted it to be just the two of them. And so she would be careful. Her lover would naturally wish to do so as well.
Whoever h
e might turn out to be.
Thoughts of Rupert flashed through her mind and her mouth throbbed ever so faintly at the memory of his kisses.
The tea, she told herself. It was just that the tea was too hot. She was making far too much of last night’s encounter.
Undoubtedly, Rupert kissed well, giving credence to all the rumors of his prowess in the bedchamber. But she was sure there were other men who were equally as talented in such matters. She hadn’t found one yet, true, but she would. A man even more skilled than Prince Rupert.
Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. Could it?
She just needed to continue her search. The right lover for her was out there; it was only a matter of patience.
As for Rupert’s warning that she was putting herself in harm’s way by conducting her little project, he was simply overreacting. None of her gentlemen prospects had overstepped the bounds of proper conduct—well, not much anyway.
As she’d said, she could handle them.
Perhaps she would put her kissing tests on hold for a while, though. As Rupert had suggested, it wouldn’t do for her would-be lovers to start comparing notes and find out she was conducting trials.
“I thought we might visit the shops this afternoon,” Emma remarked, breaking into her reverie. “The guest bedrooms could all do with new linens and I should value your opinion.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Emma, I meant to tell you, but Lord Twyford has offered to show me his family’s art collection. They have two van Ruisdaels and a Rembrandt. He’s arranged everything, including nuncheon afterward in the garden. Or perhaps I should say his mother has made all the arrangements, but he will be conducting the tour of the galleries. You’re more than welcome to join us.”
The only son of a duke, Twyford was on her list of prospective lovers, but just barely. He was a nice man, and they shared a lively mutual interest in poetry and art, but he could be almost painfully shy at times. She honestly couldn’t imagine even broaching the idea of sharing a clandestine kiss, let alone getting to the point of them becoming lovers.
“No,” Emma said with a hint of irony in her voice, “you go ahead without me. The artwork is tempting, but Lady Twyford is a bit of an acquired taste. I believe I shall content myself with my shopping.”
Ariadne laughed. “She is an awful harridan, isn’t she? But nuncheon seems a small price to pay for a chance to see the duke’s collection.”
“I suppose. Still, I wouldn’t count on anything coming to fruition from that quarter.”
Emma, of course, meant marriage—a goal she still had not abandoned when it came to Ariadne. But Ariadne had long since learned to hold her tongue on the subject, since discussion of her taking a lover always made Emma scowl and grow cross with worry, a trait she apparently shared with her elder brother.
“From what I understand about Lord Twyford,” Emma continued, “his mother arranges most things in his life. But he’s a nice boy for all that.”
“Boy?” Ariadne laughed. “He’s older than either of us.”
“Perhaps so, but I suspect his mother doesn’t plan to let him grow up anytime before his fiftieth birthday, and maybe not even then.”
Considering, Ariadne feared her friend was right.
Mentally, she marked off another prospect and concealed a sigh in her tea.
• • •
Two days later, Rupert descended the staircase of Lyndhurst House. Voluble noise burst from the main-floor drawing room, laughter and voices—deep male voices—punctuated by a single lilting feminine strain.
Ariadne was receiving callers again.
He hadn’t seen much of her since the night of the ball—actually no more than a glimpse as she came and went from the town house. He could have sought her out, but what was there to say? He thought he’d made his point pretty clear. More than clear, actually.
What had he been thinking, taking hold of her like that? Kissing her the way he had? He’d meant to shock her, shake her out of her foolish complacency and make her see how ridiculous she was being.
Take a lover, indeed.
He’d never heard of anything so idiotic and foolhardy in his life. She was inexperienced and idealistic and had no idea that it wasn’t just her reputation she was putting at risk but herself as well.
As for her “kissing trials,” he’d never heard the like. He was well aware that on occasion young unmarried men and women stole a chaste kiss or two behind a garden bush, but to deliberately court the attentions of random men in order to find out how well or ill they kissed . . .
His hands turned to fists at his sides at the very thought.
Not that he was jealous, not in the least, he assured himself. As he’d told her, she was his sister’s friend and he didn’t want to see her hurt. That and that alone was the extent of his interest.
Obviously, he’d always known that Ariadne was headstrong and impulsive, but he’d never thought her lacking in basic common sense. When he’d heard her ludicrous plan, he really had thought she was jesting. He could only imagine how his face must have looked when he’d realized she was not.
When he’d grabbed hold of her, he really had meant to do nothing more than teach her a well-deserved lesson. So how had it ended up going so wrong?
Or perhaps the correct term was so right?
At some point not long after he’d started kissing her, he’d forgotten all about teaching lessons and lost himself in their kiss.
Unlike Ariadne, he couldn’t use inexperience as an excuse. He’d been kissing women since he was a boy of fourteen, when one of the royal housemaids decided he needed more than the sheets on his bed tended to. Not that he’d ever minded. He enjoyed women, found them soft and inviting and pleasurable to be with both in bed and out.
But Princess Ariadne?
She’d always been his young sister’s friend, a bit of an annoyance but easily enough dismissed. Lovely as she might be, he’d never really seen her in a sexual light before.
With one kiss, all that had changed.
In fact, since that night he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He’d even dreamed about her, awakening with an arousal as strong as the one she’d left him with when she’d fled the study. To his consternation, he’d had to stay behind in that blasted study for an additional fifteen minutes before he’d felt presentable enough to return to the festivities.
Yet whatever may have happened between them two nights ago, it made no difference. They would continue on as before, their indiscretion forgotten and buried in the past where it belonged.
All that remained now was to hope that Ariadne had actually learned something from their encounter and had decided to put an end to her ill-conceived scheme to take a lover.
Yet here she was, entertaining again.
Perhaps they were just ordinary suitors come to call. Certainly, in spite of her declaration that she did not plan to wed, she had never lacked for suitors or marriage proposals over the course of her many London Seasons.
At last count, he believed she had turned down seven—or was it eight?—perfectly reasonable offers of marriage. Although to be honest, only one had been from a fellow royal—a man so boorish and lacking in intellect that Rupert would have advised her to refuse him even if he’d been her last hope to be a wife and mother.
The round, mellow tones of her laughter drifted once more from the room, followed by a chorus of enthusiastic male replies.
He supposed he ought to continue on to the library, where he had planned to relax with a glass of wine and a good book. But even as he headed off in that direction, he couldn’t resist the temptation to find out exactly who was in the room with her and what she was doing.
Striding along the corridor, he took a detour into the drawing room.
There she sat, holding court like a queen, with a retinue of courtiers scattered around her. Emma, he noted, was nowhere to be seen; likely she had gone up to the nursery to visit the boys. Instead, an older lady’s maid sat in one corner with h
er head bent over some needlework, there to maintain some semblance of propriety.
Ariadne smiled at a remark made by one of the gentlemen, her green eyes alight, while the other men sought new ways to draw her attention.
Abruptly the laughter and talk halted, heads turning as one in his direction. The men rose to their feet and bowed. “Your Royal Highness,” several of them said in greeting.
He nodded, then gestured for them to resume their seats. “Carry on,” he said as he moved deeper into the room. “I merely stopped by for a sandwich and a libation. Please, pay me no mind.”
Ariadne’s smile disappeared, her gaze meeting his for a brief but significant moment. “Why, Your Highness, good afternoon. You have no need to trouble yourself making a plate here. I am sure Symms would be more than happy to send down to the kitchen for whatever you wish.”
Her voice, he noticed, was so sweet that bees could have sated themselves on its honeyed tones. “Why do I not ring for him now and he can bring you something. In the archduke’s study perhaps?”
He nearly laughed at her thinly veiled attempt to shoo him out of the room. “My thanks, Princess, but I am more than content to sample the fare I see before me.”
And truthfully, he was a bit peckish, having eaten only a late breakfast and no nuncheon that day.
He crossed to the tea tray and began to prepare a selection for himself. As he did so, he took a moment to note the identities of the other men in the room. Among them were a duke’s heir apparent, a marquess who at thirty was already losing his hair, and a distant—very distant—cousin of King George who had teeth like a horse and who ranked no higher than an ordinary mister.
As for the rest, five more in all, he was not familiar with their names, although he believed he’d seen them at various Ton functions. One in particular that he did remember was the dark-haired gentleman who had interrupted his conversation with Ariadne that night at the ball in order to claim a dance. He focused on the man for a long moment, knowing he’d seen him somewhere else as well.
Then it came to him. It had been at a gaming hell, an establishment he had visited strictly as a favor to a friend. As he recalled, the dark-haired lord hadn’t looked terribly happy at the time, seeing as he had been in the process of losing a rather substantial sum of money.
The Trouble With Princesses Page 4
