Part 4 (1/2)
Sorcha flushed and pulled her hand free, sending an apologetic look at Bronwyn. ”Or Bronwyn.”
”Lud, no.” Bronwyn plucked another roll from the bowl and then reached for the b.u.t.ter. ”I can't imagine anything worse than having to constantly be on display like a museum exhibit, having to curtsy all day, forced to smile when you really feel like settling in with a good book-no, thank you.” She b.u.t.tered her roll. ”I'd rather own a subscription library than be a princess.”
”You can't mean that,” Mairi said.
”I do mean it. All of those people wis.h.i.+ng to gain your attention- Just think of all the articles we've read, where poor Princess Charlotte's carriage was mobbed. Madness.” She wrinkled her nose.
”I like people,” Mairi said stoutly. ”And it wouldn't bother me to curtsy all day.”
”I hadn't considered it,” Sorcha said thoughtfully, ”but I could see where that might become onerous.”
”Nonsense,” Mama said. ”You'd enjoy being a princess, my dear. It's what you've been raised for.”
”I wasn't raised to be a princess,” Sorcha protested.
”You were raised to be a wife to a powerful, well-bred man, which includes princes.” She beamed at Sorcha. ”I hear Oxenburg is lovely, too.”
”Oxenburg?”
Everyone looked at Bronwyn, and she realized she'd said the word much louder than necessary. ”I . . . I read about Oxenburg somewhere recently. The name seems familiar.” So the huntsman must be one of the prince's servants, and not employed by Selvach, after all. That explains many things, such as the fluffy dog. I daresay he was watching it for the prince. A smile tickled her lips. No doubt the man was as small and poofed as his pet.
Unaware of the unattractive image Bronwyn had of the prince, Mairi sighed dreamily. ”I think marrying a prince would be the best of all things. Coaches and eight, diamond tiaras, new gowns every day of the week, jeweled slippers, people to bring you whatever you want, whenever you want it-how could you hate being a princess?”
Bronwyn poured herself some tea. ”Perhaps I'm too particular for my own good. If you don't mind, I'll leave all princes to you and Sorcha.”
Sorcha shook her head. ”But Bronwyn, just think of all the books a princess might have.” She waved her hands. ”Rooms of books.”
”That might make it worthwhile.” Bronwyn pretended to consider it. ”But then again, I could also get a subscription to the library in Inverness and have access to their rooms of books, without having to stand in receiving lines until my feet and back ache.”
”Nonsense,” Mama said briskly. ”Being a princess would be lovely, and I won't hear anything otherwise. Sorcha, which gown will you wear? We've only five days until the ball and we've much to get ready between now and then.”
Instantly, Sorcha, Mairi, and Mama began to discuss gowns, shoes, hair ribbons, and other absorbing items. Bronwyn listened for a short while, then found her book and tried to read.
But somehow, her mind kept wandering to the huntsman from Oxenburg. Was the country as beautiful as the man? And why, oh why, was she still thinking about him, wondering about him, dreaming about him? Fortunately for her, there was very little chance she'd ever see him again. And yet . . . she wondered where he was now, and if he thought about that moment in the forest at all. For she did, far more than she wanted.
But all first kisses were like that, weren't they? she told herself, trying to reduce the memory into something that wouldn't disturb her sleep or her imagination quite so much. But her task was hopeless. The huntsman had possessed an unearthly skill that even her novice lips had recognized. Blast it, why couldn't he have been horrible at kissing? I might have stood a chance then. But she'd had no such luck.
With a resigned sigh, she forced her mind to the pages of her book and to the adventures of Roland, whose words now echoed in her mind with a distinct accent and a smoky-smooth tone.
Roland remembered the first time he'd laid eyes upon Lucinda, and how he'd been instantly taken by the innocence that shone from her face like a beacon on a misty sh.o.r.e.
What more could a man wish of a maid than purity of mind and heart?
-The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth Alexsey Vitaly Grigori Romanovin, Royal Prince Mens.h.i.+vkov of Oxenburg, and honored guest of Sir Henry Davidson, was bored. Here he was, a man of action forced by his position to don silks and stand in a ballroom filled with preening peahens.
Alexsey bit back a growl as he surveyed the women before him. There were redheads, brunettes, and blondes. Tall ones, short ones, and middling ones. There were plump ones, thin ones, and curved ones. Some were quite attractive, some were not, and at least three of them were beautiful. But what none of them was, was interesting.
”Well?” Tata Natasha asked from where she stood at his elbow, her voice impatient. ”Which do you wish to meet?”
Alexsey's gaze swept the room again, lingering on this woman, then that, searching their faces for something . . . intriguing. Finally, he shrugged. ”None of them.”
”Pah!” Tata Natasha pinned him with a black gaze, disapproval an almost tangible cloak on her small shoulders. ”There are more than fifty well-born, beautiful women here tonight. Sir Henry a.s.sured me they were all gently raised and are well suited as potential brides. You have your pick, durahk. So pick!”
”Your concern for my happiness overwhelms me,” he said in a dry tone.
”You will be happy once you are married. Talk to one. Ask her to dance. You won't know if you'll enjoy her company until you speak with her.” When he didn't answer, she added, ”Sir Henry promised that all the women here possess a proper, genteel education, and are well bred-”
”So you've said ten times now. Please stop your infernal matchmaking. I escorted you to Tulloch Castle because you asked me to; I did not come to find a wife.”
Her eyes narrowed. ”What if one finds you? What then?”
For some reason, an instant image of the fresh-faced brunette he'd met in the forest a week ago flashed through his mind. Which was a pity, for no amount of questioning had yielded her name. Though it was obvious the servants knew who she was, none of them had admitted to knowing her. It had been maddening.
Realizing his grandmother was still watching him, he gestured to the refreshment table. ”Shall I procure you a gla.s.s of orgeat?”
Her expression soured. ”You won't talk about marriage.”
”Nyet. Not here. And not to you.”
”The day will come when you can no longer avoid the subject. You are a prince, and a prince must wed.”
”True, but that day is not today.” When that day did come, Alexsey could only hope he'd have his father's good fortune in finding a mate. With just one glance at a lovely Gypsy maid, his father had fallen deeply, madly in love. The laws of Oxenburg hadn't allowed marriage between the member of the royal family and a commoner, but that hadn't stopped Alexsey's father. Ignoring the outraged gasps and furious warnings of his advisors, he'd issued a decree allowing members of the royal family to marry anyone they wished, and then proceeded to parade his lady love before the people of his country. His plan had worked; the people of Oxenburg had fallen just as wildly in love with his beautiful, charming bride-to-be as he had. They'd welcomed the new queen with celebrations of such enthusiasm that his advisors were silenced, and the laws of Oxenburg changed forever.
One might a.s.sume that such a change would mean that the king's sons could follow their hearts on the path to true love. One might also a.s.sume that the Grand d.u.c.h.ess Nikolaevna, the mother of the Gypsy-turned-queen, would encourage her grandsons to marry for love as her daughter had done.
But no.
No one was more critical of bloodlines than his Tata Natasha. A tiny woman with a fierce pride, she was more conscious of her new t.i.tle, and those of others, than anyone born to the velvet. Worse, she acted more queenly than any born-to-the-throne queen Alexsey had ever met. And he'd met them all.
Tata Natasha pinched his arm.
He flicked a glance her way. ”Stop that.”
”You were not listening. I was pointing out the beauties in this crowd and you were staring at the opposite wall as if you were in h.e.l.l.”
”Is there whiskey in this h.e.l.l? If so, I'd gladly- Tata, stop that. Pinching my arm will not encourage me to listen. In fact, it has quite the opposite effect.”
”You are fortunate to be here. Otherwise, you would still be in Oxenburg with that-”
”Don't!” Alexsey scowled. ”It's always the same with you: you spend too much time trying to order my life, and I need no such help. I know what I want.” And at the moment what I want is a few hours under a tree with a certain bespectacled, round-cheeked housemaid. He'd visited her reading spot every day but she'd never reappeared; she had disappeared like the morning mist. He could find another woman, he supposed, but he doubted he would find one as tempting.
Tata Natasha clicked her tongue, a contrite look in her gaze. ”Come, Alexsey. Do not look so troubled.”
He didn't trust her for one moment, and just lifted a brow in her direction.
She scowled. ”You have an affinity for the most unsuitable women. Why will you never select a woman of n.o.ble birth?”
”I enjoy women who challenge me, who do not whine when they get damp or must sit in the dirt.”
”And that is why you like the Romany women so much? Because they do not 'whine'?”