The Princess Plan. Julia London
thrust her arm forward. “Perhaps you might do the honor for me, Caroline. I would so very much hate to make a mistake.” If Caroline noticed her sarcasm, she gave no hint of it. She quickly wrote Mr. Howard’s name. “There you are, off you go!” She smiled brightly, as if sending a child off to the schoolroom.
So Eliza trotted off to dance with Mr. Howard. After him, she danced with another gentleman, a friend of Mr. Howard’s. And then, the dreaded Alucian set with an Alucian whose English was so heavily accented that she could hardly understand him as she concentrated on the intricate steps. She danced a quadrille—Caroline was right, she performed passably at the quadrille. And finally, a waltz with a gentleman who reeked of tobacco and liquor.
At this point in the evening, the masks had begun to come off, as people were perspiring behind them. The cacophony of voices grew louder and the punch ran low. Eliza doffed her mask, too, tying the ribbons together and looping it over her arm while she danced. Once or twice, she had to remind herself that she was in Kensington Palace at a royal masquerade ball. That the gentlemen with whom she danced were important and wealthy men. And the women around her who weren’t already in desirable marriages were bound for them.
She might have smiled and flirted, might have pretended for the evening that she was not a spinster who looked after her father. But strangely, she had no desire to pretend. She was quite at ease as a dancing spinster fallen gaily into her cups.
And really, the only eyes she could recall at all in that vast sea of masks were a pair of autumn green eyes.
At half past two in the morning, the buffet in the banquet room was replenished to the great appreciation of many after the rigor of the Alucian sets. Masks began to come off and revealed several surprises, including how the curious tastes of a northern lord extends to his costumes. There was not a single sighting of a particular royal visitor after one o’clock. Nor was there any hint of the whereabouts of a lady whose hair marked her identity where her mask attempted to hide it. There was no witching hour for revellers, as many of them were heard in the streets as they departed Kensington well past four o’clock.
Ladies, if a late night of dancing has left you with swollen eyes, the French practice of sleeping in a mask of raw veal is the perfect remedy. You’ll awake fresh and doe-eyed.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
SEBASTIAN WOKE TO an empty bed.
He bolted upright, momentarily disoriented by the small room and the absence of any servant quietly arranging the tea service. But it quickly came rushing back to him—the woman with the brilliant red hair riding him, her fingers curling into the flesh of his chest. He looked down. Je, she’d left a mark.
Sebastian rubbed his hands through his hair, then got out of bed and found his clothes, everything but his discarded mask. He quit the room in a half-dressed state. His shirttails were out, his coat draped over his arm, his neckcloth dangling from his fingers.
Two guards were stationed just outside the door, both of them leaning against the wall, having learned the art of sleeping while standing up, a skill Sebastian himself did not possess. They quickly roused and silently led Sebastian out of the building, taking care to make sure the doors closed soundlessly behind them.
The day was just beginning to dawn when they reached a familiar part of the palace. When Sebastian entered his chambers, his valet, Egius, very nearly fell out of the chair where he’d been sleeping. Sebastian handed his coat and neckcloth to him. “A bath, please.”
“Je, Your Highness.” Egius bowed and went out to arrange it.
Sebastian walked to the basin, plunged his hands into ice-cold water and splashed his face. His belly rumbled with hunger. It had been a vigorous night—Mrs. Forsythe had a voracious appetite for the male body.
His butler entered the room and bowed, “Bon den, mae principae.”
“Good morning, Patro,” Sebastian returned in Alucian. “I’ll breakfast after my bath. Bring round the foreign minister. Where is Matous?”
“I’ll send a man to rouse him, sir,” Patro said.
It was early yet, Sebastian realized with a yawn. Too early to wake a man. “Leave him for now,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Let the man sleep until breakfast.”
When Sebastian’s bath was readied in the adjoining room, he sank into the steaming water and closed his eyes. This was the first time since arriving in England that he felt so relaxed. He was grateful to Mrs. Forsythe for scratching an itch that badly needed tending.
He dozed lightly in the fragrant water as his mind wandered aimlessly through a forest of thoughts, including the dozens of women he’d been introduced to since arriving in London. There were always women—eager, hopeful women. His lack of interest in any one in particular concerned his country’s ministers. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for women—nothing could be further from the truth. But it seemed to him, more often than not, that a woman’s interest in him was more about a position of privilege and notoriety than it was about him.
Nevertheless, he understood that he had to marry. He had to produce heirs. He was two-and-thirty, well past the time to do the one thing required for his life of undeniable privilege and produce an heir.
He’d met scores of women in Alucia. He’d met scores of women tonight at the ball, and before that, at supper parties across Mayfair in the homes of notable Englishmen. And two days after his arrival, at the formal supper at Windsor—but there, he’d been captivated by the saucy Mrs. Forsythe. No one else had stood out to him.
It was the same wherever he went, in any country, on any continent. He was introduced to people who were eager to marry a daughter, niece, sister, granddaughter to him. There were so many young women, in fact, that they’d all begun to look alike. Pale English faces and narrow noses. Mrs. Forsythe had stood out for all the wrong reasons. Compatibility, affection—none of that seemed to matter other than that the woman would one day be a queen and the mother of the heir to the throne in Alucia, and thereby bring the family privilege and standing. Sebastian could be a beast and it wouldn’t matter.
He sank lower into the tub and thought about calling for more hot water. Unfortunately, he had meetings to attend. Today, he was meeting with the English trade minister, who was clearly skeptical of the proposed agreement. Sebastian had to be at his best and convince the man.
And yet, he didn’t move from the warmth of the water.
The problem with all these women, he mused, was that he looked at the task of finding a potential mate as another in a long line of tasks: meet with the English officials about the trade arrangements; form alliances with rich, important men; select a woman from the many presented to marry. It seemed an easy enough task to accomplish if a man could divorce his feelings from it, but there was a part of him that yearned to find one who was compatible with him in some way. One whom he could trust. One who could be a friend and lover before she was ever a queen. Was that possible? Probably not. His grandmother had once said to him that there were trades in everything a person encountered in life. Great wealth and responsibility must come at the expense of something else. He assumed she’d meant love.
Once, he’d said to Leopold that he desired a woman who was compatible, and his brother had laughed. Not at Sebastian, really, but at the absurdity of their lives. They both knew that it was nearly impossible to find people they could completely trust, and they could only hope for it. Wealth and influence and titles had a way of turning otherwise honest people into liars and actors. Not that Sebastian believed that every woman he met was untrustworthy—but he didn’t know how to separate the trustworthy ones from the opportunists.
He would probably never know if the woman he married held any particular esteem for him. She could be bored beyond hope by his quiet life, and