A Princely Dilemma

Elizabeth Rolls

George, Prince of Wales (future Prince Regent/George IV) and Princess Caroline of Brunswick, 1795

George, Prince of Wales, with his mistress in tow, only lays eyes on Princess Caroline of Brunswick three days before their wedding, and his resentment is palpable. Christopher, Duke of Severn, knows all about arranged marriages—his new wife’s fortune is the reason plain Linnet is wearing his ring!

Severn and Linnet must persuade the spoilt princeling and his soon-to-be bride that a paper marriage can become something more. But in trying to convince the royal couple, a tantalizing spark ignites between the duke and his convenient duchess…

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Author Note

About the Author

Chapter One

Easter Sunday, April 5, 1795, St James’s Palace

‘Severn! A moment, if you will!’

Christopher James Beaulieu, Duke of Severn, turned at the summons to find Lord Malmesbury, his face white, closing the door to Prince Ernest’s private apartments in St James’s Palace.

‘Of course, Malmesbury,’ said Severn, keeping his features blank. ‘Something I can do for you?’

‘Can you turn the clock back nine months?’

Severn blinked…having just seen His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales, burst from his brother’s apartments. ‘Nine months?’ His mouth twitched. ‘Has a happy event just occurred in there? Who’s the father?’

Malmesbury cast a harried look around in case any of the bewigged and liveried royal footmen stationed in the corridor had heard, and glared at him. ‘Levity, my lord duke,’ he snapped in an undertone, ‘is out of place!’ He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and, keeping his voice low, said, ‘I have just had the—’ he gulped ‘—honour of presenting Princess Caroline of Brunswick to His Royal Highness.’

Severn could only conclude that to ruffle Malmesbury’s diplomatically serene feathers so badly, the introduction had not gone well. Of course, the fact that the prince had fairly galloped down the corridor…

‘I beg your pardon, Malmesbury,’ he said. ‘I saw the prince. He seemed, er, distracted. Muttered something about being duped and he must see Her Majesty immediately.’

Malmesbury groaned. ‘I have but a moment—the king wishes to see me. Severn, he repulsed her!’

Severn thought it possible his lower jaw might not recover from the shock. He, too, shot a glance at the footmen. Stolid and unblinking, they gave not the least hint that they had any idea of what was going on. He wouldn’t have wagered a groat on that. Not after Prinny’s idiocy. ‘He repulsed the princess?’

‘Yes!’ Malmesbury gripped his arm, drew him away from the footmen. ‘Repulsed her, announced that he felt unwell and demanded a glass of brandy!’

And Severn thought he knew all there was to be known about making a disastrous marriage of convenience. ‘Er, is there something wrong with the princess, or is it just that His Highness is being—’ He hesitated, searching for a diplomatic phrase.

‘—is being a damned fool?’ suggested Malmesbury. ‘A little of both perhaps. The princess is not, I fear, overly acquainted with the use of soap.’

Severn wrinkled his nose in sympathy with his future king as Malmesbury continued. ‘But she has improved vastly, and appears willing and eager to conform, but not if the Prince of Wales continues in this wise! After he left she complained that he was not as handsome as the portrait she was sent, and that he was fat!’

‘He is fat,’ said Severn. And it was highly likely that the portrait sent had been flattering in the extreme. At least he hadn’t made the mistake of relying on a portraitist’s fancy; he’d thought he was extremely well-acquainted with his bride before offering, let alone marrying. Which just went to show how mistaken one could be…

Malmesbury didn’t even glare. ‘Lord, what a mess. Severn, if you can, try to see the prince. Represent to him the…the folly of continuing to insult his bride. She is not, I fear, of a governable or tractable temper. This, on top of sending Lady Jersey as lady-in-waiting to meet her at Greenwich.’

‘He didn’t!’

‘Oh, yes, he did,’ said Malmesbury. ‘Apparently the queen was behind it. And the blasted woman was late! Lady Jersey, that is—not Her Majesty.’ His teeth actually ground. ‘Furthermore she had the temerity to attempt to sit beside the princess in the carriage. Claimed the motion made her unwell if she sat facing backwards!’

‘Well, quite apart from Prinny’s rudeness in sending his mistress to receive his bride,’ said Severn, ‘why the devil did Lady Jersey accept the appointment if she can’t sit in a carriage backwards?’

Malmesbury’s smile was pure acid. ‘I asked her that myself. Anyway, look, Severn, if you can talk with the prince, try if you can to get him to see reason. He likes you. And haven’t you recently married?’

‘I returned from my honeymoon yesterday.’ And he didn’t want to talk about it to anyone, least of all Prinny. ‘I’m surprised you knew anything about it.’

The baron nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Someone mentioned it in a letter. The thing is, he might listen to you. Voice of experience and so forth.’ Malmesbury looked apologetic. ‘After all, there are parallels, if you will forgive my bluntness.’

Severn forcibly relaxed his hands. ‘At least His Highness is marrying to settle his own debts,’ he said coldly. Then, at Malmesbury’s steady regard, he sighed. ‘Oh, very well. I’ll try what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.’ Prinny, when he had a bee in his bonnet about a woman, was deaf to anything remotely resembling reason. And if Lady Jersey was pulling his strings about the princess… Nor was the queen happy about the match, having wanted her son to marry her own niece, not the king’s.

Malmesbury gripped his hand. ‘Thank you. I promised her father, the duke, that I’d do my best for her, but it’s rapidly turning into a disaster.’ He strode off down the corridor towards the king’s apartments, with a final injunction cast over his shoulder. ‘Just do your best, Severn.’

Chapter Two

His best. Severn contemplated that as he entered his Grosvenor Square mansion three hours later, and handed his hat, gloves and cane to the butler. ‘Thank you, Blythe. Have brandy sent to the library, if you please.’

After his meeting with the prince he needed it. His best had not been anywhere near good enough. His Royal Highness showed absolutely no sign of being capable of listening to reason where the Princess Caroline was concerned—it was the king’s fault in pressing for a marriage, Malmesbury’s fault for not realising how unsuitable the woman was and getting him out of the match gracefully but instead bringing her to England, the princess’s fault for being so utterly repellent!

‘She reeked, Severn! Simply reeked. And all Malmesbury—blast his impudence!—could do when I positively begged for brandy—I felt faint, Severn, faint!—was bleat that I’d better have a glass of water!’

In the library Severn stared at the portrait of his father, resplendent in the silks and lace of his generation, an angel of ill-fortune, looming over the chimneypiece. ‘What a mess,’ he said. ‘Why the hell do fathers have to interfere in the marital decisions of their sons?’ He sank into the chair at his desk and buried his face in his hands.

His head snapped up again as a throat cleared in a very pointed sort of way.

Oh, hell!

His wife, having clearly just arisen from the wing chair facing the window, stood, book in hand, her expression unreadable, but her chin tilted just a little higher than normal. His heart kicked at the sight of her, but he kept his expression indifferent. Perhaps she hadn’t quite heard. It wasn’t as if he’d been speaking loudly.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord duke. I did not hear you enter. I hope you do not mind if I borrow your book?’ Her voice was quite even, not the least sign that she realised she had just heard herself comprehensively insulted.

‘They are your books now too.’ He looked at the one she was holding. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Goethe.’

‘What?’

‘You object?’

‘Of course not! I just didn’t know you could read German.’

‘And French, and Italian.’

She was better educated in that respect than he was. ‘An accomplished wife.’

‘As you wished. Or so I thought.’

Oh, damn. She had heard.

‘You will excuse me?’ She started for the door, her deportment perfect, correct in every particular.

‘Madam…’ He rose, went towards her, hands held out. ‘Linette, I did not mean—’

She changed course, quickening her step and skirting his outstretched hands. The slight hint of panic in her step, the sharply indrawn breath, halted him as nothing else could have. ‘No matter, sir. Fathers can be inconvenient creatures, I am sure. Good day.’ She reached the door and was through it in a froth of muslin skirts.

Returning to his chair, he dropped his head back into his hands and swore. He hadn’t even thought that she might be in here. Women were supposed to prefer drawing rooms to libraries, weren’t they? But his new duchess loved books, judging by the pile she kept beside her bed, and he had politely made her free of the library when he brought her home yesterday. At least it had been his wife, rather than a maid dusting. Although he wasn’t entirely sure which would be worse—the servants’ inevitable gossip, or his bride’s stony face over the dinner table.

Dinner… Oh, hell! It was Easter Sunday; they’d invited his immediate family, and her grandmother, for dinner. It might have been possible to speak with her, apologise, over dinner if it were just the two of them. He would have no hesitation in dismissing the footmen and dining alone with her. Impossible with guests. He’d have to speak with her before dinner.

Chapter Three

Linnet, Duchess of Severn, having ordered a bath in front of the fire, wondered in what way her undoubtedly bourgeois behaviour had disgusted her aristocratic husband. Grandmère had made it all perfectly clear, instructing her on how to conduct herself in such a grand marriage. Clear enough until one tried to actually do it. It didn’t help that he called her Linette, rather than Linnet; Grandmère had been very clear that being named after a bird was not at all proper.

Leaning back in the bath, she closed her eyes, listening to her maid, Bolt, moving about beyond the screen, laying out her evening clothes. She was never, or rarely, alone and yet she had never been so lonely in her life.

She had never thought that she would have no one to talk to. Really talk to. She certainly couldn’t talk to Bolt, who had been her mother-in-law’s maid and clearly disapproved of her new mistress. She had thought that she would be able to talk to Severn, that they could be friends, even though he had not married her for love. But it seemed that Grandmère had been right.…

‘No demonstrations of affection… You must use his title always… Any display of vulgar enthusiasm will betray ill-breeding, and give him a disgust of you… A lady of consequence lies still and accepts her duty; she submits to her husband’s attentions quietly.’

She hadn’t realised how difficult it would be to don the cloak of formal decorum. It didn’t feel at all like the gracious ease of manner that her grandmother told her was necessary; it felt stiff, and cold. Papa had always encouraged her to be affectionate, open in her manners. Not vulgar, of course, but relaxed. But she supposed Grandmère must know more about the aristocracy than Papa had. In fact, Papa had never intended such a grand match for her at all.

‘Marry a fellow you can trust to be honest with you.’

She swallowed. Severn had been completely honest with her about his reasons for offering for her hand—debts. His father’s crippling debts which, without her fortune, would have sunk the dukedom. He had been open about it all, not paying her flowery compliments, nor pretending that he had fallen head over heels in love. She shivered; he had not behaved at all like her cousin, Joseph. Joseph had fooled her completely. Courting her, paying compliments, buying her extravagant gifts, which it turned out had put him even further into debt. He had been all tender consideration, with the false light in his eyes a beacon to lure her to disaster. She had been so lonely with Papa gone, had wanted someone to love so desperately. Apparently Joseph didn’t even much like her.…

‘But, Father, she’s so plain! And she reads too much, dull as ditchwater!’

‘She’s worth a fortune, boy. Enough and more to pull you out of the River Tick. That makes her a beauty, especially if you blow out the lamp. And there’ll be time enough to school her out of annoying habits once you’re safely married, and the money’s tied up. She’ll have to obey you then.’

Plain. Very well, she knew she was plain. Without the curling iron, which she hated, her hair was dead straight. And, with or without the iron, it was an unremarkable mousy colour. Not unlike the plumage of her namesake. Her eyes were a dull brown, and although her complexion was good, it was marred by those horrible freckles. As for her breasts, well, it was a good thing her stays pushed up what little there was. And Severn… She closed her eyes. Severn was beautiful, if you could call a man beautiful—those gorgeous eyes, the deep burnished gold hair and a face like…like a Greek god! And he was strong, but so gentle with it.

‘She’s bran-faced, Father, not to mention as flat as a board!’

‘Take a mistress, then, once you’ve got a brat on the chit. Just marry her and secure the money.’

She grabbed the washcloth, soaping it vigorously. Eavesdropping was shameful, of course, not at all the behaviour expected of a lady. She had known it then, and if that hadn’t been enough to prove to her that eavesdroppers rarely heard any good of themselves, then this evening had proved it. Not that she had meant to eavesdrop on either occasion. Still, sometimes it was better to know the truth even when it hurt. She had refused Joseph’s offer the following morning, accompanied by a few pithy quotes from the conversation she’d overheard, and removed from her uncle Bartholomew’s house to her grandmother’s within the hour.

There had been nowhere else to go. Her father’s will stipulated that until she married, or turned thirty, she must reside with either her uncle Bartholomew or her French émigré grandmother.

Madame la Marquise de la Marchèrand had received her willingly, if coldly. Even her enduring disgust at her daughter’s elopement twenty-three years earlier with a wealthy English merchant did not blind her to the advantages of chaperoning a young lady worth two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

‘Soit. So be it. We will contrive. Bad blood, oui.’

Her Gallic shrug said it all.

‘Et pas de beauté. You are no beauty. But with such a fortune, here in England—a land of shopkeepers!—it will suffice for many.’

The old lady had sniffed disdainfully.

‘In la belle France it would not be so. Such a bourgeois connection, it would be incroyable. Unthinkable! But while there may be none in this nation fit to ride in a carriage with the French king, there will of a certainty be many suitors for such a fortune.’

As opposed to suitors for plain, bourgeois Linnet Farley.

Instead of pointing out that the last French king and his queen had lost their heads two years before and their young son remained imprisoned in the Temple, she had submitted to Grandmère’s decrees, preferring brutal candour to lying sweetness. If all she could expect was to be married for her money, then she would do it with her eyes open and choose for herself.

And she had. She had chosen Severn, almost from the minute of meeting him. Severn, whose smiling blue eyes had offered friendship…or so she had thought.

She blinked away the hotness behind her own eyes, grabbed the washcloth and soaped it. It would all be perfectly fine, if only she had not permitted herself to believe that Severn felt something for her. That beyond his pressing need for her money to pay off his father’s debts and save his family, there had been a genuine liking for her. There had been something in his smile, something affectionate, almost a caressing, that had always left her warm, tingly and slightly breathless. She still felt that way, only now there was that cool reserve in his voice, a certain distance when he spoke to her.

Ignoring the lump in her throat, she washed herself. She had hoped it was just discretion after that dreadful time Grandmère had caught them together and she had been in his arms, about, she had thought, to be kissed. And very willingly too. After that he had been all that was polite and proper, keeping a decent distance at all times.

Even on their wedding night. Oh, he had bedded her. Gentle, careful and considerate, he had made her his wife. With the lights out. Just as Uncle Bartholomew had suggested to Joseph. And left her room as soon as he had assured himself that he had not hurt her too much in taking her virginity. It was the same each time he came to her, and each time she found it harder and harder to just lie still and silent beneath him, her heart pounding, her body shivering with the need to move against him, with him. It was even harder not to ask him to stay afterwards, to hold her for just a little while. She dared not. Apparently Grandmère had been right; it was folly for a lady to wear her heart on her sleeve. It was better off kept safely away from sight, if not intact.

She could no longer hear her maid, which suggested that it was probably time for her to be out of the bath, ready for the hated curling iron. Sitting up, she braced to stand; the outer door opened, and she froze.

‘Your mistress is here?’ That deep, quiet voice that brushed every nerve.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Out.’

The door closed, and he spoke again. ‘Madam?’

Madam wondered that the bath didn’t evaporate in steam, she was blushing so hotly. ‘I’m…I’m here, sir. In the bath.’

Chapter Four

Walking in on his wife in her bath had not been part of his plan. No wonder the damned maid had scuttled out past him, cheeks scarlet and eyes brimming with suppressed speculation. Why couldn’t Bolt have said something? If his mother had been in her bath, the wretched woman would have seen him off breathing fire!

‘Was there something you particularly wished to tell me, sir?’

He shut his eyes, wishing to God he could shut off his imagination as easily.

‘Er, yes. Yes, there is.’ He’d think of it in a moment, when his brain stopped dwelling on how she might look in her bath—silky brown tresses pinned up on top of her head, just waiting to be tumbled around her shoulders…all soft, and rosy, and…moist.

‘Yes?’

‘Ah…’ He floundered. What had he wanted to say? He grabbed at the first thing that floated past. ‘You’ve remembered that we have guests tonight?’ That hadn’t been it, surely?

‘Yes. Your family. Grandmère.’

Who knew that a faint French accent could be so damned erotic?

‘I would not forget such a thing,’ she said.

‘Er, no. Of course not. Um, oh, yes.’ He dragged in a breath. How the hell was a man meant to offer his wife an apology for something he hadn’t really said, when all he could think about was how damp and rosy that wife would be in her bath, and how soft and warm she’d been in his arms last night.

Soft, warm—and still frightened of his lovemaking, he thought. She lay so still, it was as though she was afraid to move. It was nearly killing him to keep it slow and careful for her, let alone leave her bed afterwards, but the thought of distressing her any more was untenable. Patience. That was the key. Bed her gently, keep himself under control.

He let the breath out, banishing all thoughts of either dragging his wife from the tub or joining her. ‘I wished to assure you that my…remarks in the library earlier did not refer to our…situation.’ He frowned, thought about that. ‘Our marriage,’ he corrected. He wasn’t going to have a situation. He was going to have a marriage. He hoped. Right now it was probably a situation.

‘Oh.’

Oh? What the hell did that mean? ‘No,’ he affirmed. ‘I was speaking of—’ He broke off. Dammit! Under no circumstances could he discuss the prince’s private affairs, not even with his wife. ‘Well, I was not speaking of you…that is, us.’ Lord! If he had a horse that lame, he’d have to shoot it.

‘Oh. I see.’ Apparently his wife would shoot the poor, gimpy-legged creature too. ‘Well, thank you, sir. Um, if that was all, perhaps you might send my maid back in? I should be getting out to dress. And…and I need the towel.’

The towel hung in plain view over a dainty lyre-backed chair. If it was anything like the towels he used, and it had damn well better be, then it was silky soft, but he’d wager it wasn’t as soft as his wife’s skin.

He was moving before he’d so much as drawn breath. ‘Permit me.’

‘What? No!’

The towel was already in his hand as he rounded the end of the screen. There was a frantic splashing as his furiously blushing wife drew her knees up to wrap her arms about them and hide her breasts, but he had one brief glimpse of heaven—wet, creamy, rose-tipped breasts and the delicate curve of her waist. It was enough; she was utterly delectable.

He shut his eyes and held out the towel. ‘There you are.’ There she was indeed. Soft and damp and naked. And he had his damned eyes shut.

‘Th-thank you.’ The tinkle of water told him she’d stood. He shut his eyes even tighter, reminding himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t open them. She was a new bride. Still shy, maidenly. She shrank from the idea of making love with a lamp lit; last night he’d tried leaving a candle alight, but she’d reminded him, in a wooden little voice that had torn him apart, so he’d blown it out, drawn the bed hangings to banish even the firelight.

The towel was taken from his grasp by a hand that seemed to tremble, and he fought the ignoble urge to open his eyes and see his wife, this woman whom he knew only by touch, and taste, a little.

Against all physical possibility, he hardened even more. Hell. If she saw that— With a strangled curse, he turned away, walking stiffly back around the screen.

‘I’ll send your maid back in, madam.’ He hesitated. The queen was not the only mother in London furious about her son’s choice of bride. Perhaps a tactful warning? ‘My mother, by the way, is likely to be early.’ Just because in this house, of all houses, she could arrive early to fluster her hostess without raising the slightest censure. Just to be able to moan a little more about his appalling marriage if her daughter-in-law was not down to receive her. All the while accepting an allowance made possible by the despised daughter of trade. And foisting Bolt on the poor girl. Just as the queen had forced Lady Jersey on Princess Caroline.

‘Ah, you know if you wished for another maid…there is no need to keep Bolt, just to please my mother.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded stunned. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you, sir.’

Chapter Five

Linnet stared at the gown laid over the chair. Dull grey silk, high-necked and long-sleeved; it was positively dowdy. It was one her mother-in-law had chosen as being appropriate. And Bolt had been her mother-in-law’s maid, in attendance when the gown had been fitted…and of course Bolt knew who was coming to dinner.

‘That isn’t the gown I asked you to lay out.’ She had asked for the muslin in soft lavender, embroidered with silver.

The maid sniffed. ‘No, Your Grace. But I thought it would be more appropriate.’

She was in mourning after all…but then, despite the downcast eyes, she saw the gleam of triumph in the maid’s expression. Linnet stiffened. She had nearly succumbed meekly to her maid’s decree. Quite possibly to her mother-in-law’s decree. Her father-in-law had been dead six months, she had never even met him and lavender was perfectly acceptable for half-mourning. She drew in a breath. Listening to advice was one thing; being dictated to was another.

‘But then I do not pay you to think for me, Bolt,’ she said coolly. ‘The gown I requested, if you please.’

Mouth primmed, Bolt obeyed. Slowly.

‘And, Bolt?’

‘Yes, Your Grace?’

‘This gown—I find that I do not like it at all. You may keep it.’

Dressed in the lavender muslin, with its elbow-length sleeves, Linnet stared into the mirror, wondering if she had taken leave of her senses. Oh, it was pretty enough. In fact, she thought it might be the prettiest gown she had ever had. But it was so daring! The low-cut, highwaisted bodice, and filmy clinging muslins of dress and petticoat, showed every curve. Not that she had many curves. She swallowed. It was one of the few gowns she had chosen for herself one afternoon when she had shopped with Severn’s older sister, Lady Farnsworth, just before her marriage.

‘Excellent choice. Kester will like that one.’

Severn hadn’t seen it yet. She hadn’t dared. She took a deep breath. If she changed her gown she would be down late. Worse, Bolt would have won. And she still had to choose the right jewellery.

‘Yes. I like it. My jewellery case, if you please. And my gloves. Oh, and the turban that matches this gown.’

The knock at the door startled them both.

Severn walked in. Gorgeous, utterly elegant in satin evening breeches, black coat and a grey-and-lavender waistcoat, a single pearl nestled in his cravat. And then the man of fashion stopped dead in his tracks staring at her, his jaw dropped in a most unducal and inelegant fashion.

Despite the blush that scorched her cheeks, Linnet kept her chin up. ‘Am I late, Your Grace?’ She knew she wasn’t. Perhaps he simply wanted to assure himself that she was suitably attired.

For a moment he said nothing. Just stared, his gaze burning, intent. Then he took a visibly shaky breath. ‘No. Not at all. I…I came to give you these.’ He held out a long slim box covered in shabby green velvet.

Biting her lip, Linnet took the box and opened it.

‘Ohhh!’ she breathed. Pearls glimmered up at her, and in their midst a great amethyst winked in the lamplight. Her hands shook as she lifted the necklace out. She couldn’t speak. The pearls hung in a great rope, caught together by the amethyst which was surrounded by tiny diamonds, a smaller loop of pearls hanging below. It was lovely, beyond lovely, but the lump in her throat defeated her.

She looked up at Severn, saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.

‘Out.’

For the second time in as many hours, Bolt scuttled from the room under ducal decree.

‘I had them reset, but if you don’t like it—’

‘I like it,’ she whispered.

He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then, may I—will you permit me to put it on for you?’

Wordless, she nodded. He hadn’t said anything about the gown. Yet.

He stripped off his gloves and came to her slowly, and took her hands. For a moment he was motionless, then his hands skimmed up her arms, her bare arms. Slowly. While her knees shook and her mind melted in pleasure. He paused at the silver embroidered sleeve, and then for an instant one long forefinger slid under the sleeve. The lightest caress on her hidden flesh, yet she had to stiffen herself and swallow to hold back the gasp of pleasure.

A gentleman wants a virtuous wife and mother. Not displays of wanton abandon. Over and over she reminded herself, pretending the deep, aching need wasn’t there.

With a sigh, he shifted his hold to her muslin-clad shoulders, turned her to face the dressing mirror and lifted the necklace to slip over her head. Cool and silky, the pearls slid against her skin, the great central amethyst ablaze between her breasts, just above the bodice. She shivered again as his fingers feathered along her jaw.

‘The…the pearls are lovely,’ she managed to get out.

‘I’ve seen lovelier,’ he murmured, and bent to brush a kiss where his fingers had trailed. ‘Perhaps a kiss, sweetheart?’

Everything inside her melted, yearned, as she instinctively turned towards the temptation of his mouth. Their lips met, hers trembling, his warm, firm, moving gently on hers so that they parted on a sigh.

Abruptly he straightened. Stepped back. ‘That gown—’ His voice sounded odd. ‘I’ve not seen that before, have I?’

‘No.’ Oh, God! Here it came. Was he going to tell her it was shameless? That she was to change? And she had kissed him, for heaven’s sake! Would he think her shameless? Yes, he had meant to kiss her, but she had done it for him.

‘Did you choose it?’ Still that odd, strangled voice.

‘Yes.’ Defiant suddenly, she lifted her chin. ‘But Lady Farnsworth thought it was pretty.’

He shut his eyes. ‘I may have to kill Louisa.’

Her heart sank. ‘You don’t like it, then.’ He had shut his eyes when he’d handed her the towel too.

The blue eyes opened, their expression unreadable. ‘The gown is very pretty. Most fashionable.’ His voice was practically a growl. He reached into a pocket of his coat for another velvet-covered box. Handing it to her, he said, ‘You had better put these on.’

She stared. His hand was shaking.

‘Earrings,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘To match the necklace.’

Taking the box, she opened it. More amethysts winked up at her, each with a dangling teardrop pearl. Carefully she put them on, fumbling. ‘Thank you, Severn,’ she whispered.

He frowned again. ‘You are sure you like them? I thought, well, we are still in mourning for my father, so colours, except for purple, are out, but I didn’t know what you liked, so if you don’t—’

‘I love them,’ she said firmly. Carefully she picked up the turban that matched her gown and set it on her hair, and pulled on her white kid gloves. Tentatively she smiled at him. ‘Is it time to go down?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘You don’t want to check yourself in the looking glass?’

Her stomach lurched. ‘Is something wrong? Have I forgotten something?’

He stared. ‘No. Not a thing. You look lovely. Come.’ He held out his arm. Shyly she set her hand on it and he led her from the room.

Chapter Six

They beat the dowager duchess to the drawing room by a flight of stairs, hearing her below in the hall, bemoaning the inconvenience of a Sunday night dinner to her unmarried daughter, Lady Sophia.

She entered the drawing room in the wake of Blythe’s announcement. ‘The Dowager Duchess of Severn, Lady Sophia Beaulieu.’

The dowager’s mouth drooped petulantly. ‘Oh. I feared you would not yet be down, Miss Far— Dear me, what should I call you now? Oh, yes—Linette, is it not?’ She raised a lorgnette and examined Linnet from top to toe. Then lowered the glass with a faint sigh.

Linnet managed a smile. ‘Welcome, madame. And Lady Sophia. How do you go on?’

Rustling black silk, the dowager waved a languid hand. ‘Quite well, I assure you. If one may be well in such a poky establishment as that to which we are reduced.’ She cast a sorrowful eye around the drawing room.

‘You chose the house yourself, Mama,’ said Severn. ‘And if you feared we would not yet be down, then I wonder you chose to arrive so early.’

Linnet blinked. Severn sounded positively snippy. Seeing the dowager about to take offence, and fearing for the success of the evening, she rushed into speech. ‘But of course your mother may arrive whenever she likes, and welcome, Severn,’ she said firmly.

Baulked of prey, the dowager permitted herself a little smile. ‘Sophia, pray—my vinaigrette.’ She sank onto a sofa.

Behind her, Linnet heard Severn’s teeth grinding.

The Marquise de la Marchèrand arrived next, closing followed by Lord and Lady Farnsworth.

The marquise greeted her granddaughter with a deep curtsey, before subjecting her to a penetrating examination.

‘The gown… It is in the modern style, but not—’

‘I like it.’ Beside her, Severn sounded rather like a bear.

The marquise shrugged. ‘Naturally, if monsieur le duc approves, there is no more to be said.’

Lady Farnsworth dispensed with ceremony, greeting her new sister-in-law with a hug and approving look. ‘Hmm. I said that gown would be pretty. You seem very well. Kester looking after you?’

Linnet blushed.

Lady Farnsworth just smiled and turned to her brother. ‘I thought you’d appreciate that gown, Kester.’

Only Linnet was close enough to hear his response. ‘Yes, I do, and I’ll kill you later.’ Lady Farnsworth laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

So, if he really did like the gown, why did he want to kill his sister?

Farnsworth shook her hand. ‘Evening, Lady Severn. Shan’t ask how you’re going on—you look famously. Severn’s a lucky devil. Told Louisa that in the carriage.’

She liked Lord Farnsworth, even if her grandmother did dismiss him in acid tones as the grandson of a country physician. He was blunt, kind and made no secret of the fact that he thought his wife was brilliant.

‘Are we all here?’ asked the dowager. ‘Perhaps we should go down to dinner. Where is Blythe?’

Linnet hesitated. She ought to make the announcement that they would go down, but Severn’s younger brother, Lord Guy, was not yet arrived.

Lady Farnsworth dealt with her mother smartly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mama! You are not the hostess here now, you know. Besides, Guy is not here yet.’ She glanced at Linnet. ‘I’m assuming you invited him because you’re too polite not to do so, but since he usually ignores family invitations—’

‘Lord Guy Beaulieu,’ intoned Blythe, admitting a fashionably dressed young man with the same bright hair and blue eyes as his brother and sisters.

‘Unless he wants something,’ muttered Lady Farnsworth to Linnet.

Lord Guy bowed over Linnet’s hand. ‘How d’you do, ma’am?’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Sorry to be late. My fellow forgot to remind me in time.’

‘You’re not late at all,’ said Linnet politely.

Lord Guy passed on to his brother. ‘Evening, Severn. I say, any chance of a quick word before dinner?’

To Linnet’s surprise, Severn shook his head. ‘No. No chance at all.’

His lordship looked petulant. ‘Oh, I say. Really—’

The dowager drew herself up. ‘Now that we are—’

‘Blythe, now that Lord Guy is here, please have dinner served,’ said Linnet, speaking across her mother-in-law and shuddering internally for being so rude, but hoping to avert further arguments. To her surprise Grandmère gave a slight, approving nod. ‘Bon, ma petite. You begin to assert yourself.’ She dealt the dowager’s glare a gracious smile. ‘You and I, madame, we must remember that it is our children to whom we must now defer. Non? ’

Severn moved gracefully to the marquise. ‘Madame, I doubt you have ever deferred to anyone in your life.’ He offered his arm. The dowager’s glare redoubled and Linnet began to wonder if they would survive the evening without bloodshed.

Smiling, Farnsworth strolled up to Linnet. ‘Now I’m a lucky devil,’ he said. ‘I get the new bride.’ He sent his wife a wicked grin.

Lady Farnsworth choked back a laugh. ‘True enough. Guy, you take Mama in, since Kester is taking Madame de la Marchèrand.’

Lord Guy looked annoyed.

‘It’s that or Sophie,’ his elder sister informed him.

Lady Sophia stared around. ‘What? Isn’t anyone else coming? You mean there is no gentleman to take me in? How shab—’

Severn’s glare had her swallowing her remarks. ‘This is a family dinner, not a grand occasion, Sophie,’ he informed her. ‘You may consider yourself lucky, since you are not out until next year, to be invited at all. But next time we’ll invite Cousin Randolph for you.’

Lady Sophia scowled. ‘But I would be out this year if Papa hadn’t died! It’s not fair! Why can’t—?’

‘Oh, come along, Soph,’ said Lady Farnsworth, over her sister’s complaint. ‘You’ll have to make do with me in Randolph’s absence. Or go up to the old schoolroom.’

Lady Sophia did not look at all as if this pleased her, but she shut up and took her place with her elder sister.

Farnsworth choked. ‘Randolph’s sixty. Divinity Fellow at Oxford,’ he explained to Linnet in an undertone. ‘For God’s sake take me in to dinner before one of the Beaulieus murders another!’

Chapter Seven

Surveying the guests ranged around the laden table, Kester nearly groaned. He must have been insane to have suggested a family dinner like this. It would have been better to invite a few extras. Then his family might actually behave itself.

Instead Mama was putting on her best die-away airs over the soup to impress the marquise, who looked completely unimpressed. Guy was sulking because he had been denied his ‘quick word.’ Kester knew what that was all about—money. Even if Farnsworth hadn’t warned him, he would have known. Guy assumed that now the family was afloat again, he could apply to his ducal brother for an endless supply of the ready to pay his mounting debts. Well, he couldn’t. Linette’s money was not going to be wasted on idiocy.

Sophie was sulking, too. She had obviously assumed that at least one eligible young man would have been provided for her entertainment.

Briefly he wondered how the family dinner at St James’s Palace was progressing. Had the prince thought about what he’d said? That he needed to give his bride a chance? Would the princess find a single friend at that dinner table beyond poor Malmesbury?

He could only thank God for Farnsworth and Louisa, happily chatting to Linette at the other end of the table. Even if he did intend to murder Louisa over that damn gown. How the devil was a fellow supposed to remember to eat when his wife sat glimmering in silver-shot muslin, with a confounded amethyst between her breasts? Had she really meant to—?

‘Severn!’

He turned to look at his mother. ‘Yes, Mama?’

She adopted a wounded air. ‘I’ve spoken to you three times, Severn. No doubt you have more important things on your mind, but…’

Dead right, he did. Such as whether or not his wife had really meant to kiss him when he gave her the necklace? If he hadn’t stepped back…well, he didn’t think that dinner would have been served at all, let alone on time—

‘Severn!’

He jerked his attention back from that blasted amethyst. ‘Sorry, Mama. What did you say?’

‘I was saying,’ said his mother, in a slightly louder voice that had everyone turning to listen, ‘that since your wife evidently prefers her own jewels to the family collection, you might give Sophia the pearl set. If not for your father’s death, she would have come out this year, and—well, Severn, the pearl set would be most becoming to your sister!’

Even separated from her by fifteen feet of mahogany, Kester saw the shock and embarrassment on his wife’s face. In that single unguarded instant he saw the insecurity, the hurt. And then it was gone. Hidden behind the polite, demure façade.

‘Of course, if Lady Sophia—’ she began.

‘No.’ He didn’t bother to sugarcoat his words. Is something wrong? Have I forgotten something? She was already unsure of herself and damned if he’d permit anyone, even his mother, to belittle her. ‘Those are the Beaulieu pearls, Mama. I had them reset especially for Linette. They are hers. Until she chooses to hand them on to my heir’s bride.’

His wife was simply scarlet, and he could have cheerfully murdered his mother for embarrassing her. He drew a deep breath and beckoned to a hovering footman. ‘Champagne for everyone—a half-glass for Lady Sophia.’

He waited until everyone was served and then rose.

‘To my bride,’ he said simply, lifting his glass. Their eyes met, hers so soft and—damn it—were those tears? Was it so surprising that he’d defend her? Had she really thought that he’d let his mother insult her?

‘Well, I’m sure that’s very pretty,’ said Louisa, setting down her glass. ‘And the pearls are lovely. Just right, Kester.’ She gave him an approving nod. ‘But is it true what Farnsworth tells me—that Princess Caroline arrived this afternoon and the Prince of Wales actually sent Lady Jersey to meet her?’

Kester looked at his brother-in-law, who shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard, Severn. Seems a mad start, but who knows? Prinny can be such a fool at times.’

‘I cannot think why you should say such a thing,’ snapped the dowager. ‘Lady Jersey is a particular friend of mine, and I am sure she is a most fitting person to greet the princess. Why! She is the daughter of a bishop!’

In the light of Sophia’s presence, Kester could hardly point out that, as the Prince of Wales’s mistress, Lady Jersey was hardly living up to her ecclesiastical origins.

Guy, however, laughed. ‘For God’s sake, Mama! She’s Prinny’s mistress, and everyone knows it! Smack in the eye for the bride though. Wonder what she’s like? And can he marry her after Mrs Fitzherbert?’

‘Guy!’ Kester rapped it out.

His brother scowled. ‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Severn! Everyone suspects he actually married Mrs Fitzherbert.’

Kester caught his wife’s gaze. She looked stunned. No, unfamiliar with his world, she might not have known. But she probably knew he’d been at the palace this afternoon. Would she say something about that?

‘Poor Princess Caroline, if it is all true,’ she said quietly. Her eyes met his searchingly.l Kester swallowed. Dammit. Did she think he would insult her like that? Take a mistress when without her he would have lost everything?

‘Well, it’s not as though he can possibly be in love with her,’ said Sophia indifferently. ‘It’s an arranged marriage. Everyone knows that!’

He opened his mouth to scarify Sophie, but his wife was speaking again.

‘I dare say such things are common,’ she said. ‘That does not make them right. And he could still be polite, even if he does have a mistress.’ Kester blinked at the suddenly fierce note in her voice. ‘She has come all this way, to a strange land to live amongst strangers,’ she went on, ‘away from her family and friends. How hard can it be for a prince to be polite? And…and kind!’ Her chin went up a notch. ‘Even in an arranged marriage, courtesy is important.’

The marquise nodded. ‘Exactement! Why, when la Reine Marie-Antoinette came to France, le dauphin was most gracious to her. As befitted his breeding.’

Kester had an odd feeling that his wife was not thinking about the martyred French queen. Sometimes you did not have to cross seas or continents to find yourself in regions marked Here Be Dragons.

Chapter Eight

Linnet heaved a mental sigh of relief when the conversation veered from the prince’s impending marriage. Since it was only a family affair they used the small dining parlour and were seated at a round table so the talk could range freely.

She made several efforts to coax Lady Sophia out of her sulks, asking about the plans for her Season next year, but received the most gloomy of replies, amidst bitter glances at the pearls. Sophia expected hardly to enjoy herself at all—how could one, when everyone knew how low they were sunk? She would be unlikely to receive as much as a single offer! Since Linnet was aware that a decent dowry had been set aside for Sophia, she knew this was nonsense, unless of course the dowry was not sufficient to compensate for Lady Sophia’s petulance.

Lord Guy was not much better. He supposed he was enjoying town. Not much fun when a fellow was kept so dashed short though. And of course, being in mourning a fellow couldn’t do much. Still it was better than being down at Camley Priory. And he had been put on to a sure thing just yesterday, if only Kester would oblige! Not as though he was short!

Linnet noted that Lord Guy kept his voice low enough that his remarks did not carry to the other side of the table. She also rather thought that although Lord Farnsworth was chatting with his wife across the table, they were both very much aware of the tenor of Lord Guy’s conversation.

‘You could have a word with Kester though, could you not?’ Lord Guy said to her, as though he had only just thought of it.

Lord Farnsworth’s eyes snapped into focus and his mouth opened.

‘No. I’m afraid not, Lord Guy,’ said Linnet gently. She smiled at his chagrined face and looked across to his lordship. ‘Is the dinner to your liking, my lord?’

‘Excellent,’ Farnsworth assured her. ‘Most entertaining dinner I’ve been to in years. You must come to us next week. Meet a few people, eh? Louisa will see to it now that you’re fixed in town.’

‘I should like that very much,’ she said. An invitation. Even if it was given out of family obligation and kindness.

By the time Linnet rose to lead the ladies out and leave the gentlemen to their wine, her head ached. But the drawing room was almost worse than the dinner table.

Lady Sophia opened hostilities. ‘It’s not really so surprising that the prince has a mistress,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘After all, most men do. Even Kester, I should think. He was very interested in Lady Anne Davison last year. Everyone knew.’

Linnet nearly dropped the teapot into Lady Farnsworth’s lap. She had met Lady Anne, a charming widow, shortly before her marriage. The dowager had made the introductions.

‘What rubbish!’ said Lady Farnsworth. ‘Just a drop of milk, thank you. Sophie, your manners are disgusting! It’s just as well Mama can’t bring you out this year if you can’t hold your tongue!’

‘I do not say that Severn does have a mistress,’ said the dowager. She flicked a glance at Linnet, whose stomach churned. ‘But he has certainly done so in the past, and it would not be anything at all surprising if he were to continue to do so.’ Another pitying glance at Linnet.

Linnet forced her features to remain blank. Yes, she had considered this possibility when she had realised Severn was likely to offer for her. Considered it and accepted the likelihood. She had thought she would be able to cope, that common sense would be enough. She had been a fool.

‘Most gentlemen do,’ continued the dowager. She primmed her mouth and sipped her tea. ‘Dear Linette would be well-advised to bear in mind that a lady does not notice these things.’

‘Which does not explain how you and Sophia come to be noticing them,’ said Lady Farnsworth dryly.

Her mother glared. ‘I meant that a lady does not make a fuss, or fall into the dismals when her husband strays, as he inevitably does.’

‘I can assure you that when Farnsworth takes a mistress, I shall not fall into the dismals, Mama,’ said Lady Farnsworth. ‘I’ll be too busy beating him about the head with his own duelling pistols!’

‘Really, Louisa!’ The dowager looked pained. ‘That would be most improper.’

Linnet couldn’t help it; she laughed out loud, despite the aching pain of wondering if Severn would stray.

Lady Farnsworth turned to look at her. ‘I doubt you’ll need them, but Kester keeps his in the bottom of his armoire. Or he used to. If you can’t find them, let me know. I’ll lend you Roger’s.’

‘It is not at all the thing for madame la duchesse to be beating her husband around the head,’ pronounced Grandmère. ‘In that—’ she nodded to the dowager ‘—Madame is perfectly correct. However—’ and she looked down her nose in scorn ‘—I think it is most vulgar to speculate upon whether or not monsieur le duc has, or may perhaps take, a mistress in front of his bride. At the court of Versailles, such manners would not have been tolerated.’

The door opened and the gentlemen entered. Linnet’s stomach dropped. Had Severn heard any of that? Whether he had or not, she would survive this evening with her head held high. She gritted her teeth and smiled.

‘Tea, Lord Farnsworth?’

Chapter Nine

After bidding his mother and Sophia farewell, Kester looked at Louisa and Farnsworth, who were the only guests left.

‘I suppose you think I ought to be grateful you didn’t make a dash for it an hour ago.’

‘Yes,’ said Farnsworth. ‘I do. Damned grateful. What’s all this nonsense about Prinny and the Princess Caroline?’

Kester cleared his throat. ‘Can’t discuss it. Sorry.’

Louisa snorted. ‘Really, Kester! You must be the only person in town who won’t discuss it. Were you, or were you not, at St James’s Palace this afternoon?’

‘Yes. And that’s all I’m going to say.’ He looked over at his wife. She appeared pale, sad. What the devil had the ladies been talking about earlier? When he’d brought the gentlemen up the conversation had died instantly, and Linette had looked as though someone had struck her. ‘Why don’t you go up? I’ll see these two out.’

She looked hesitant, but Louisa spoke up. ‘Yes, don’t stand on ceremony with us.’ She went over and gave her sister-in-law a hug. ‘Cheer up. Mama never behaves at family dinners. Don’t pay any attention to her nonsense—we none of us do.’

‘Which particular nonsense was Mama spouting over the teacups?’ asked Kester as he accompanied Louisa and Farnsworth downstairs. ‘Did it have something to do with the court of Versailles?’

Louisa glanced at Farnsworth, who shrugged. ‘He’s your brother.’

‘True,’ said Louisa. ‘Very well.’ She looked at Kester. ‘Do you, or do you not, have a mistress?’

Farnsworth spluttered.

Kester stopped dead in his tracks. ‘What?’

Grabbing his sister by the wrist, he dragged her down the last few steps and into a small parlour off the front hall, to the evident surprise of the footman on duty.

Slamming the door behind them, he turned on her. ‘What the hell do you take me for, Louisa? A complete—’ He broke off as the door opened to admit Farnsworth. ‘—brute?’ he continued as Farnsworth closed the door.

‘Are you going to kill her, or just beat her?’ asked Farnsworth equably.

Beyond flinging him an irritated glance, Kester ignored that. ‘Are you aware,’ he demanded, glaring at his impossible sister, who had strolled across to peruse the bookshelves, ‘that if it hadn’t been for Linette agreeing to marry me, we would have lost practically everything due to Papa’s damned folly? Everything.’

‘Slightly more aware than Mama, I should think,’ said Louisa, over her shoulder. She pulled out a book. ‘May I borrow this?’

‘Yes, curse you!’ Kester dragged in a breath, reaching for control. Damn it! He could scarcely think for wanting his wife, worrying that she might be regretting their marriage—how the hell could he possibly want a mistress? ‘And you believe I wouldn’t at least give her my loyalty?’ He wanted to give her far more than mere loyalty.

‘Of course not,’ said Louisa. ‘But Mama planted the seed. Or rather Soph did, and then Mama dropped a load of manure on it and watered it in. You might want to do some weeding.’

Farnsworth looked pained. ‘Such a crude way of putting it, Louisa. May I presume to offer a word of advice, Severn?’

‘What?’ said Kester.

‘Don’t let this take hold. Even if she doesn’t believe it now, every time a woman so much as looks at you, particularly Anne Davison—’

‘Curse it, Farnsworth! I haven’t seen La Davison for months!’ He’d broken off the connection when he’d decided to court the marquise’s unknown granddaughter.

‘—she’s going to worry. Even if you don’t love her.’

‘What the hell would you know about it?’ snarled Kester.

‘Make sure she knows that your loyalty at least is given,’ said Farnsworth. ‘And make sure our world knows that too. Otherwise, they will tear her to pieces.’ His mouth thinned. ‘Just as Princess Caroline will be torn to pieces if Prinny doesn’t conduct himself as a gentleman.’

He went upstairs slowly, thinking. Understandable that the prince resented the situation. He hadn’t been happy about being forced to marry either. But that was not his wife’s fault. Nor was it the princess’s fault. Only a cur, or a spoiled princeling, would take that resentment out on his bride, or permit his family to make her life hell.

Besides, he liked his bride. More than liked, if he were to be honest with himself. Only something had gone wrong, and he would have to put it right.

He found his wife in her bedchamber, still dressed, but she had discarded the turban and stripped off her gloves. With her hair hanging down in long soft curls, she looked terribly young and vulnerable. He swallowed. That dratted amethyst was still riding in pride of place. He’d look like an idiot if he challenged a jewel and shot it for being precisely where he wanted to be.

‘Oh. My lord. I was about to ring for my maid.’

‘Don’t.’ He thought about that. ‘Please,’ he added. ‘Why don’t you come through to my sitting room? There’s a brandy decanter there and a couple of glasses. If you don’t need one after that evening, I do.’

One thing they weren’t going to need was her maid. He took off his own gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of his coat and held out his hand. ‘Come.’

Slowly she laid her small hand in his much larger one. He drew her up, resisting the urge to kiss her. For now. Instead he led her to his rooms.

‘This,’ he said, turning to face her in the middle of the sitting room, ‘has got to stop.’

She paled. ‘What? I don’t understand, my lord duke.’

He groaned. ‘No. You don’t. I mean this formal idiocy we’ve taken refuge in. It has to stop. I’m damned if I’ll spend the rest of my life being my lord duked by the woman I—’ he cleared his throat ‘—share my bed with!’

She opened her mouth.

‘And don’t call me Severn either. Not when I’m about to—’ He broke off and cleared his throat again. ‘Not when we are private together. It’s Kester.’

‘Kester.’ His name had never sounded so sweet.

‘Yes.’ He reached out to take her hand. ‘Yes, Linette—’

Her hand stiffened in his. ‘That’s not my name.’

He blinked. He might be a duke, but he could read, and he’d seen her name written several times, heard her grandmother speak it too. ‘What?’ He drew her over to a sofa and sat down, taking her with him. How the hell had he got her name wrong?

‘It’s Linnet, not Linette.’

The small hand tried to pull away, but he held tight. ‘Why the devil didn’t you tell me, then?’ he asked. How the hell had he been married for a month and not even known his wife’s name?

She blushed. ‘Grandmère always said that Linnet was not a proper name, that Papa was ignorant and Maman must have meant for me to be called Linette.’

‘And did she?’

‘No. When Papa came to her room after—’ she blushed even deeper ‘—after I was born, there was a linnet singing outside. They called me after the bird. Of course Grandmère didn’t like that either—that her only grandchild should be called after a common, drab little bird.’

‘I like linnets,’ he said, caressing her palm.

Her hand trembled. ‘Grandmère said it was not proper for a duchess to be called after a bird either.’

He was beginning to think that Grandmère had said entirely too much. ‘She probably also said that I was not fit to ride in a carriage with the French king,’ he pointed out. His wife’s grimace confirmed his guess, but he left that. He was beginning to get a glimmer as to what might have gone wrong between them.

Grandmère. Here Be Dragons. Had the marquise also said something about how a lady should conduct herself in bed?

He knew Madame had very definite ideas on what befitted an aristocrat. It had not occurred to him that her influence over her granddaughter was quite so strong. Although if she had convinced him that his bride was a young lady of delicate sensibilities who would be disgusted by passionate lovemaking… Damn it to hell! He’d been a fool. Combined with his mother’s attitude…dragons indeed.

‘Do you remember that house party in Kent?’ he asked. He’d found Linette—no, Linnet—alone in a parlour. Always before they had been strictly chaperoned, and here she was, alone. All shy, welcoming smiles, she had not repulsed him when he’d taken her in his arms. If he’d kissed her then…

She blushed again. ‘I thought you were going to kiss me,’ she said.

‘I was,’ he said. ‘Completely senseless. But your grandmother came in.’ He’d wanted to kick the prickly marquise into the middle of next week. ‘Would you have minded?’

Her blush deepened. ‘I wanted you to kiss me.’ A pause. ‘That was why I was there.’

Shock hit him. ‘You were waiting for me?’

‘Yes.’ Still scarlet, she hung her head. ‘But I didn’t mean to trap you!’

He touched her chin, lifted it. ‘Bold minx. I had no idea you planned it. And I certainly never thought you were trying to trap me. Not your style at all.’ He frowned. ‘But the next time I saw you…’ He sighed. Her grandmother. The old lady had summoned him, castigated him roundly for endangering her granddaughter’s reputation. Shamed that he’d been essentially caught dallying with an innocent at all, let alone the girl he was rapidly falling in love with, he’d offered marriage on the spot.

If the marquise had shamed him, a reasonably experienced twenty-nine-year-old…

‘I barely escaped your grandmother with my skin,’ he said. ‘What did she say to you?’

‘That my…my behaviour was so vulgar, I would lucky if you could be prevailed upon to marry me. That even my fortune—’

He put his hand over her mouth. ‘Stop.’ Beneath his fingers the tender lips quivered, igniting him. ‘I was not prevailed upon,’ he said. ‘I wanted to marry you. You. Linnet Farley. Yes, I had to marry money, but believe me, the knowledge that I would also have you—’ He dragged in a breath. ‘I could have waited. Compounded with the creditors. I did not have to marry the first heiress I saw if I didn’t like her.’

‘You didn’t?’ Something tightened in his chest at the note in her voice.

‘No. But I didn’t see just any heiress.’ His hand cupped her chin again. ‘I saw you. And I didn’t want to wait. Now…’ He lifted her chin, his other arm sliding around her, drawing her close, close enough that her fragrance slid through him, winding about his senses. ‘We’re going to turn the clock back.’ He undid his cravat in a few careless jerks, tossing it God knew where.

‘What?’ Her breathless voice skimmed his nerves. She was going to be even more breathless before he had finished.

‘I’ve found you. All alone in a private parlour,’ he murmured. Her eyes widened as he shrugged out of his coat. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

Her lips parted.

‘That’s exactly right,’ he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her.

He had kissed her before. Of course he had, and she had liked it. But it had not been like this, all heat and demand. Always before he had been gentle. Careful. Restrained. This was different. Now he was hungry, all fierce possession, taking her mouth with tender ruthlessness, surging within to stroke his tongue against hers. And she felt it; clear to the place between her legs where he would come into her, she felt it as fiery delight, and moaned, stroking her tongue back against his. His arms tightened.

Briefly he released her mouth. ‘Yes.’ His husky voice slid over her senses. ‘Let me pleasure you. Show you.’ And he took her mouth again.

He could do whatever he liked to her, as long as he didn’t stop touching her. Kissing her. Consuming her.

He didn’t. One hand closed over her breast and even through gown, chemise and stays his touch seared her. And where the upper curve of her breast was exposed, his touch lingered, tracing the delicate skin.

He released her mouth, only to murmur her name, and feather kisses over her throat, pausing to lick hotly at the scrambling pulse, then finding the upper curve of her breast.

‘Damned amethyst,’ he muttered, pushing it out of the way. ‘I’ve been thinking all evening about challenging it to pistols at twenty paces.’

‘You have?’ It was a shaky gasp. Amazing that she could think, let alone speak.

‘God, yes. Jealous as sin.’ His hand slid over her waist, lower, lower, until he could slip it under her skirts and skim it up her leg, past her stocking and garter.

‘Say my name,’ he whispered, against her breast.

The insistent knock at the door took some time to really penetrate. It probably only did so because Kester raised his head from her breast and stopped stroking her thigh.

‘Hell and the devil!’ he muttered. ‘Damned servants—you’d think they’d know that when a duke is closeted with his duchess at this hour, then he’s not at home to anyone but her!’

Releasing her, he strode, unbuttoned waistcoat and all, to the door, opened it a crack and demanded, ‘What the devil are you about, Blythe?’

The butler’s murmur was unintelligible, but rather than dismissing him, Kester groaned. ‘Very well. I’d better see him. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.’

He shut the door and turned back to her. ‘It’s poor Malmesbury. Probably wants to know how I got on with Prinny.’ His gaze lingered. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can get rid of him. Why don’t you get into bed?’

Linnet gazed dazedly at the door as it closed behind him. Get into bed? Whose bed? He’d brought her to his own rooms though, and ravished her half out of her senses. Surely that meant… She drew a deep breath. Yes. She hurried from the room back to her own apartments.

Chapter Ten

Malmesbury was pacing the library when Kester entered.

‘Sir?’

The baron swung around. ‘Severn. I apologise for calling at such an hour—’ His gaze took in Kester’s dishevelled state and something that might have been a smile flickered around his mouth.

Kester cleared his throat. ‘Not at all, sir. I collect it is something urgent.’

‘Urgent enough,’ said Malmesbury. ‘The prince is talking about calling off the marriage! Saying the only woman he will ever love is Mrs Fitzherbert, and—’

‘Did he marry her?’

‘God knows, and it doesn’t matter. If he did, it was invalid according to the law and cannot be upheld, since he had not the king’s permission. Which, given Mrs Fitzherbert is a Catholic, would never have been granted. The point is the embarrassment that will ensue should he now refuse to marry the princess! After all my work instilling a sense of the importance of what was before her into the princess, the prince has undone all that good by his folly.’

He turned again to pace. ‘Her father warned me that she could be intractable, and it appears she has decided to give as good as she gets. Nothing could be more disastrous for her! And now that Lady Jersey is in charge—God help us! She takes every opportunity to aggravate, Severn.’

‘You wish me to see the prince again?’

‘Please. For what good it will do. I fear even if you can bring him around, the princess is now so intransigent that she will go out of her way to offend him. Her behaviour at dinner tonight!’ He covered his eyes briefly. ‘Flippant, rattling, and she threw out the most vulgar hints about Lady Jersey!’

Kester perceived that he was indeed not the only one to have endured a ghastly family dinner that evening. ‘Is it too much to hope that Lady Jersey wasn’t present?’

Malmesbury groaned. ‘Of course she was present! Not that it would have made any difference—she would have heard everything over her breakfast otherwise. Severn, you must see the prince again.’

‘Perhaps I should see the princess instead.’

Malmesbury almost smiled. ‘Perhaps. What I need is a sympathetic woman of high rank who can talk to her without Lady Jersey being able to interfere.’

He halted before Kester. ‘I’ll not keep you from your bed any longer, Severn.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Thank you for seeing me. And pray, give my regards to your wife.’

Kester’s cheeks heated.

‘I shall look forward to meeting her,’ continued Malmesbury. This time he actually smiled. ‘You look happy, Severn. I could wish your example might inspire the prince. Goodnight.’

Kester returned to his private sitting room to find that the bird had flown. Muttering a curse under his breath, he headed across the room for his bedchamber—for God’s sake! What had he been thinking, telling Linnet to just get into bed? Of course she had gone back to her own—

‘My lord? I mean, Kester?’

He stopped dead in the door leading to his very large bedchamber, turned around and wondered if his heart had stopped too.

His wife stood just inside the door that led through to her sitting room.

Of course she had gone back to her own bedchamber. He took a deep breath. She had changed for the night and returned. With a book. He supposed if Malmesbury hadn’t left when he did, she might have found a use for it. As it was…

She looked at him, an expression of uncertainty on her face, the slender column of her throat rising from the high-necked nightgown, bare toes peeping from beneath.

‘Yes,’ he said, before she could ask. ‘This is exactly where I want you.’ God help him, that demure nightgown was as erotic as the evening gown. Or perhaps it was just her. And him. No matter. He strode back across the room, swept her up, startled gasp and all, heedless of the book crashing to the floor, and headed for his bed.

Chapter Eleven

Linnet found herself tumbled onto the ducal bed, the duke tumbling after her, rolling over and over with her locked in his arms until they reached the middle of the vast counterpane. She ended beneath him, a willing captive, held by his hard, hot weight and by the surrender of her own heart. He smiled down at her, brushed his mouth over hers and began to unbutton her nightgown. ‘Naked,’ he said softly. ‘Not a stitch between us, and I’m not putting the candle out either.’

She flushed. ‘But I’m not…pretty—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re gorgeous. And you are mine and I want to see you. You’re not going to hide from me any longer, sweetheart.’

And all the time those buttons were coming undone, until her nightgown hung open and he stripped it from her. Moments later he had shed the last of his own clothes and took her in his arms. Naked. Not a stitch between them. Hot skin to hot skin. Firelight and candlelight a dance as sensuous as his fingers at her breast.

Slowly, he rose over her, gazing down, and she trembled at his expression. Hot. Hungry. One hand still fondled her breast.

His mouth, all hot demand at her breast, drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth. Delight shot through her to where his thigh held her legs apart and she felt his hand slide down over her belly and cup her. There. There where she was aching and needy and wet for him. There where emptiness cried out so that her hips lifted, dancing and pleading for more. And he gave her more, teasing and stroking, finding a place where all pleasure was centred, pressing so that she cried out as lightning struck from where he suckled to where he caressed her so tenderly.

‘You like that,’ he murmured against her breast. ‘Say it, sweetheart.’

‘Yes,’ she panted. What did he like? ‘But you—I want to please you.’

He drew back a little, lifted his head. ‘Touch me, then,’ he said.

Her breath came in. ‘Touch you?’ Even as she spoke her hands spread over his back, finding and loving the lithe muscles, loving that his body shuddered. No longer did she think it was distaste. She knew that pleasure now.

He still caressed her, but lightly. Watching her. Letting her explore and possess. And she did, discovering his chest, that the small male nipples could tighten, that he liked it as much as she did. Finding the taut curve of his buttock, the length of thigh.

With a groan he caught her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. Then slid it down the front of his body to…

‘Touch you there?’ she whispered.

‘God, yes.’

All velvet heat and steel, he pushed into her hand as she sat up and leaned over him. The firelight danced, lit his eyes, slid over his tautly muscled body in golden shadows. Shamelessly, she explored, discovering all the textures, the sleek, hard shaft, that leapt to her touch, finding that she loved his response, loved that she could please him. That pleasing him made her ache even more, there where they would join. And all the while his hands roamed her body, possessing her, loving her. And he watched, his eyes hot, hungry. Hot and hungry for her. Plain Linnet Farley, who had never thought a man would look at her like that.

‘Enough,’ he groaned, moving her hand away. ‘My turn,’ he said, and slid his hand back between her thighs, rolling her beneath him again. And this time it was different. Now that she wasn’t trying to hide from her own desire, it was different. Beautifully, splendidly different.

‘Kester, please!’ She pushed up against his hand, fierce, urgent in her need. But he kept the caress light, maddening.

‘You want more?’ His husky voice breathed delight in her ear.

‘Yes!’

‘What? What do you want, Linnet? Open your eyes. Look at me. Tell me.’

She forced her eyelids open. He was there, above her, firelight and shadow gilding the planes of his face, his mouth hard with restraint. She could feel it in him. He was holding back as though leashed. Waiting. Waiting…

Waiting for her.

‘You,’ she sobbed. ‘I want you. Everything.’

The leash snapped, all restraint gone as he came to her on a surge of power and wild possession. Her body leapt to meet him, to welcome him, and then he was there, pushing deep inside where she wanted him. Around her, above her, part of her.

Clinging to the last rags of control, Kester shuddered at the hot, wet clasp of his wife’s body, trying to remain still, to give her time. But she moved under him, all silken fire in his arms, and need raked him.

‘Linnet.’

Unable to help himself, he began to move, the world contracted to the space around them. Contracted to her soft gasps as he loved her, to the feel of her body matching his rhythm, to the silk of her hair spread on the pillow, its fragrance all around him and through him.

Braced on one elbow, he reached down between their bodies, found the taut nub and stroked. Her cry seared him and he circled it, feeling her body tighten around him at each thrust, hearing her desperate sobs as she swirled closer to the edge. He felt her body shatter around him, pulse after pulse as she broke and fell, and he went with her, his consummation a white-hot wave crashing over him.

Chapter Twelve

Somewhere in the middle of the night she awoke to warm darkness lit only by the dying glow of the fire and realised that she had fallen asleep in his bed, that she was—a furious blush heated her cheeks—nestled in his arms, her lower limbs shamelessly entangled with his.

Heavens! What must he have thought of her? Carefully she began to extricate herself, only for the arms holding her to tighten to steel, and the powerful thigh wedged between hers to shift possessively.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he murmured in her ear.

‘I fell asleep,’ she said.

‘You certainly did.’

A gentle nip at her ear scattered her thoughts. Determinedly she attempted to order them again. ‘So, shouldn’t I be going back to my own bed?’

‘Definitely not,’ he said, and, rolling her beneath him, showed her exactly why not.

She awoke finally in soft grey light to find her husband sitting up in bed looking at the volume of Goethe she had dropped the previous night. His long fingers were carefully smoothing a page which had become creased.

She watched him for a moment. He did not appear to be reading; in fact, she was reasonably certain that he didn’t read German. But he was staring at the book, deep in thought. She ought to be embarrassed. Here she was at dawn, still in her husband’s bed, and stark naked. He was naked too. Beautifully and utterly naked. And he apparently thought she was beautiful. He had spent a good portion of the night making her feel beautiful too. And wanted. And wanton. He hadn’t minded at all. Quite the opposite.

He looked across at her, and smiled. A tender, intimate sort of smile that had her snuggling closer against his body.

His reaction shuddered through him, and he slid an arm around her. ‘You said you read German, Linnet.’

She blinked, slightly surprised. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you also speak it?’

She nodded. ‘Fairly well. I had an Austrian governess for a few years. Why?’

‘Just something you might be able to help me with later.’ He put the book aside, slid down in the bed and reached for her. ‘For now, I have something much more important to do.’

‘Kester, are you sure about this?’ asked Linnet as he handed her out of the carriage in the courtyard of St James’s Palace. ‘It seems mad to me. Why would a princess want to talk to me?’

Kester led her across the courtyard. ‘Because you speak her language. Because you’ll listen. And you won’t make nasty little digs at her expense.’ His hand tightened on hers where it lay on his arm. ‘And perhaps because you’re you.’

‘But what if she refuses to receive me?’

‘Then I’ll send you home in the carriage,’ he said. ‘But she won’t. I sent a message via Malmesbury. Apparently she trusts him. He is your devoted friend for life, by the way.’

‘And what about Lady Jersey?’

His grin was wicked. ‘You outrank her,’ he said simply. ‘Just remember that. By the way, she is known as That—’ He leaned down and murmured the rest in her ear.

Her jaw felt positively dislocated. ‘She isn’t!’

‘Oh, yes, she is,’ he assured her. ‘An appellation more fitting for the kennel than a bishop’s daughter, I agree, but believe me, it suits her. Remember that too, and don’t trust her any further than you can spit!’

‘A lady,’ she informed him, ‘does not spit.’

‘There are quite a number of things a lady isn’t supposed to do.’ And his lazy grin sent curls of delight along her spine. He bent down to speak softly in her ear. ‘You did quite a few of them last night, and I’m looking forward to the rest.’

Chapter Thirteen

Princess Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel eyed her visitor with patent disfavour. Bright blue eyes were narrowed between white lashes.

‘I haf dis note from Malmesbury.’ She held up the note. ‘Vy should he t’ink I vish to meet another English?’ Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘Hein?’

On the other side of the room, Lady Jersey tittered, and murmured something to another lady.

‘Perhaps he thought you might like someone to speak with privately, madame,’ said Linnet in perfect, if careful, German.

The princess’s remarkably delicate mouth went from pout to smiles in an instant. She clapped her hands. ‘He’s not such a fool after all!’ she said in the same language. ‘That one—’ she made a dismissive gesture at Lady Jersey ‘—interferes with everything I say or do, but she can’t if she doesn’t know what I’m saying.’

‘You think not?’ murmured Linnet. Lady Jersey was bearing down upon them, her expression haughty.

‘I am sure you mean it for the best, Your Grace, but if Her Highness is to learn our language and ways, it is best for her to hear and speak only English!’

You outrank her… Remember that.

Linnet looked the countess up and down, just as Grandmère would have done. She frowned, as if puzzled. ‘Oh, yes. Lady Jersey, is it not? I am sure Her Highness is learning a great deal of English, and most…interesting ways from you.’

Lady Jersey drew in a sharp breath. ‘Impudence!’ she snapped.

Linnet raised her eyes. ‘She is learning that from you too? How very dreadful. Please excuse—’

‘Go.’ The princess accompanied this command with a flip of her hand at the countess.

Lady Jersey retreated.

The princess’s bright blue eyes sparkled. ‘That was fun,’ she announced, reverting to German with a broad smile that unfortunately revealed less than perfect teeth. ‘She won’t like you now. You know that, don’t you?’

Linnet smiled back. ‘What a shame. Did you enjoy your journey, Your Highness?’

Apparently not. Princess Caroline related everything that had gone wrong, from the weather—frightful—to avoiding French troops—annoying—and finally having a tooth drawn in Osnabrück—painful. ‘My page took it down to Malmesbury,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I think he did not much like it.’

Probably not.

The princess changed the subject. ‘Tell me—there is a place called Richmond, is there not?’

‘Two,’ said Linnet. ‘One in the north, but I think you must mean the village just outside London on the river.’

‘Yes, that is the one. My mama spoke of it often. She was very fond of it. My papa had built for her the little pavilion quite away from the court in the country by the River Oker. Such a pretty place.’ Her expression turned wistful. ‘She called it Little Richmond. I should like to see the real one.’

‘I am sure you could. It is not very far, perhaps ten miles. You could order a carriage.’

The princess shook her head. ‘Later. I have to be fitted for my wedding gown. Tell me—have you met the prince?’

‘Er, no. I…I believe my husband is upon terms of friendship with him.’

This was greeted with a snort. ‘Then I pity you! Such a one cannot have pleasant friends!’ She jerked her head at Lady Jersey. ‘That one! Do you know what she is?’

Linnet drew a breath. ‘Yes.’

‘Then your husband is friends with a man who offers such an insult to his bride! Is he of the same sort?’

‘No,’ said Linnet. She knew beyond all doubt that she spoke the truth. ‘He would never treat me like that.’ He had made that very clear to her last night.

‘I have my linne to sing for me, so there will be no birds of paradise.’

The princess frowned. ‘You are quite young. How long have you been married?’

‘A month.’

‘A month! And did he take you for love?’

Honesty was all that could help here. ‘No. It was for money. But he is…all that is kind, and honourable. And I am happy.’

The princess leant forward and took Linnet’s hands in hers. ‘Then I am happy for you. I think perhaps it will not be thus for me and I shall like to think that there is one Englishman who treats his bride rightly.’

‘Ma’am,’ said Linnet, ‘I am sure that once His Royal Highness comes to know you… We—my husband and I—have both had to adjust.’

‘He dislikes me,’ said the princess simply, releasing Linnet’s hands. ‘But we will be married in two days and one day I will be queen. It is enough. You will come to my wedding?’

‘I… Yes. I believe we are invited.’

‘Good. Then it shall not be just Malmesbury who is my friend. Tell me, have you met this Maria Fitzherbert?’

For a woman who spoke little English, the princess had certainly made herself familiar with all the pertinent facts of the case very quickly. But then, her own mother-in-law had gone out of her way to put certain facts, and fictions, in her way.

The princess scowled. ‘His Royal Highness may have a mistress and two wives, but should I stray, why then I may be executed!’ She thumbed her nose and made a rude noise. ‘That for their rules. My Lady Jersey wishes me to learn English customs. Well, I shall—from her example!’

‘But, ma’am, if you were to behave perfectly, then everyone would see that it was not your fault—’ She broke off, realising that she had come within a whisker of criticising the Prince of Wales directly to a woman, who, however wronged she might be, Linnet was not certain she could trust.

‘Not my fault he has two wives and a mistress?’ The princess shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I can try. That is what Malmesbury wants, but I doubt it will change anything. And if I am to try, then he must also.’

‘I tell you, Severn, I’ll not marry the woman! The thing is impossible!’ The prince took another swig of brandy. Kester sipped his own and maintained his patience. ‘She’s not even pretty! Nothing like her portrait, and she smells, Severn. Smells!’ The prince sank onto a chair, eyes closed, nearly weeping. ‘How they can ask it of me, when I have already taken to my bosom the most dear, the most exquisite, flower of womanhood! She is the only woman I shall ever love.’

The question remained—had the prince actually taken Mrs Fitzherbert to wife, however illegally, or merely to bed? At least, he assumed the prince was not referring to Lady Jersey. One would have to be a great deal more foxed than His Highness to refer to the countess as an exquisite flower of womanhood.

‘Sir, you must see that to refuse to marry Princess Caroline now would constitute an intolerable insult. Although she is the king’s niece, infamy must attach to her name, and whatever your personal…reserves…she has done nothing to deserve that.’

The prince opened his eyes and gazed piteously at his friend. ‘Severn, I thought you would understand. You! Who have been forced into the same appalling situation by your father!’

Kester let that pass. Now was not the moment to explain that his marriage of necessitous convenience was becoming something rather more. Especially when he had not said as much to his bride. ‘Precisely, sir. So I know that such a marriage can work if both parties to it are willing to try.’

And it would have worked, he realised. Because he would have remained loyal to his wife under any circumstances, and she was too true and honest to do anything but her best.

‘Both parties, you say, Severn? Yet I have no such confidence that the princess intends anything of the sort! Her behaviour—it passes all bounds! At dinner last night— I blushed for her, Severn. Positively blushed!’

‘And could she perhaps have had some provocation?’

‘Provocation?’ The prince bridled. ‘Certainly not!’

Kester stripped off the verbal kid gloves. ‘Sir, you repulsed her when you met, and demanded a glass of brandy.’

‘Damn Malmesbury’s wagging tongue!’ the prince replied sharply.

‘You told me so yourself, sir.’

‘I was in shock, Severn! Shock! And I blame Malmesbury entirely. He should have seen at a glance that the woman was unsuitable and avoided the match! Besides, she could not possibly have heard me ask for brandy—Malmesbury and I were on the far side of the room!’

‘Nor was sending Lady Jersey to meet the princess necessarily the wisest choice,’ persisted Kester.

The prince glared. ‘Her Majesty the Queen approved the appointment!’

Which only went to confirm, as if he needed confirmation, that royalty could be as foolish as the next human.

‘And speaking of Lady Jersey,’ went on the prince, ‘the princess actually informed me today that she knew all about the intimacy of my friendship with Lady Jersey. Slanderous, Severn. Even if she had been sent anonymous letters on the subject, a lady should affect not to know such things!’

‘That makes it very convenient for us gentlemen, does it not, sir?’ said Kester, not bothering to mask the sarcasm.

The prince drew himself up. ‘I believe this interview is at an end, Severn,’ he said.

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Kester, bowing.

‘You will, of course, present my compliments to your bride, Severn,’ said the prince in frigid accents.

‘Of course, sir. She will be gratified.’ A lie if ever there was one, but necessary under the circumstances.

‘I shall look forward to meeting her, of course,’ said the prince sweetly. ‘I understand from Lady Jersey that she was an extremely wealthy young lady, but nonetheless passably pretty. I daresay she will attract a great deal of attention as she goes about in society.’

Kester stiffened slightly at the malicious glint in his future sovereign’s eye. He knew a threat when he saw one. Somehow he reined in the urge to violence, and spoke in the laziest tone he could muster. ‘As you say, sir. I fear though that I shall be one of the most unpopular husbands in London.’ The prince blinked, and Kester let his tone harden slightly. ‘I have a feudal, positively feudal, dislike of sharing.’

‘Er, quite, Severn. Quite. Good day to you!’

Chapter Fourteen

Kester was directed to one of the withdrawing rooms where he found Linnet waiting for him alone.

‘Are you ready to leave?’

‘If you please, sir.’

He offered his arm and murmured, ‘Wait until we are private.’

She nodded.

Together they traversed the corridors and finally reached the courtyard where their coachman was waiting. Kester handed her up and leapt in beside her. A footman closed the door, got up behind and the coach started.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘I think, if the prince would but be polite, and…and not flaunt his mistress in her face, that she would at least try to be conciliatory, but—’

‘There’s little chance of that,’ said Kester. He took her gloved hand and held it. ‘You are a very lucky bride. You know that, don’t you?’

She looked at him with that glimmering smile he had seen for the first time last night. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. If I behaved like Prinny, Louisa would beat me bloody for you!’

The smile deepened. ‘Behave like that, my lord duke, and Louisa will have to stand in line.’

Wednesday evening, April 8, 1795

Linnet, Duchess of Severn, sat alone in her pew, watching as others of the nobility crowded into the Chapel Royal. Further along the pew other guests glanced at her surreptitiously, then turned away with ill-concealed smiles and shrugs.

‘Trade’, she heard whispered. ‘Severn’s heiress.’ None of them spoke to her.

She assumed Kester would rejoin her when he could, but the Princess Caroline was already waiting at the altar, chatting merrily to the gentleman that a kindly middle-aged lady seated behind Linnet had said was William, Duke of Clarence.

The lady leaned forward again. ‘Do you know where Severn has gone?’

Linnet shook her head. She and Kester had barely sat down when a very handsome gentleman in regimentals, younger than herself, had come to murmur in Kester’s ear and escort him out.

‘I’m Lady Blake,’ said the middle-aged lady. ‘This—’ she prodded the elderly gentleman dozing beside her ‘—is Blake. Obviously you are Severn’s bride. Permit me to wish you very happy. Louisa Farnsworth told me all about you. She says it’s an excellent match.’

Linnet blushed. ‘Thank you.’

Lady Blake gave her a tap on the shoulder. ‘You’d better look forward, my dear.’

The princess had broken off her chatter to Prince William and was staring straight at Linnet, her head cocked to one side. As Linnet looked towards her, she smiled broadly, raised a gloved hand and waved. Then turned back to her conversation. Further along Linnet’s pew there were more stares, and murmurs of astonishment.

Lady Blake nodded. ‘There. She saw you. I hear you gave Frances Jersey her own again the other day. Good for you. Any woman who can give her a set…’

Linnet lost track of what she was saying. A tall, familiar figure was hurrying down the nave towards her, hat tucked under his arm.

Lady Blake broke off and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ah. There he is. Just in time.’

And he was there, slipping into the seat beside her, reaching for her hand. ‘Lady Blake,’ he said with a smile. ‘How do you do?’

‘Very well, Severn,’ said her ladyship. ‘I’ve presented myself to your bride. Congratulations. Your mother is an idiot. Bring your bride to see me tomorrow. Blake!’ She sat back in her seat, giving her husband a hearty nudge in the ribs. ‘Wake up, do, Theodore!’

‘Hmmph! What? Just had my eyes shut for a moment. Too bright in here!’

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Linnet softly, turning to her husband.

Kester grimaced. ‘I have to tell you, you nearly got Roxburghe to sit beside you.’

‘Roxburghe?’

‘Duke thereof,’ said Kester in a very low voice. ‘Prinny is as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Roxburghe and Bedford are supposed to be supporting him in his ordeal, but he decided at the last minute that nothing would do but that I had to uphold him. Literally. That’s why young Brummell came to fetch me.’

‘But you’re here.’

‘He was talked out of it. Tradition decrees bachelors. Probably Roxburghe is wishing he was married right now. Good Lord! What is the princess wearing?’

Lady Blake leaned forward. ‘What her grandmother wore for her wedding day by the look of things. The queen’s idea, I understand. And of course Frances Jersey backed her up—anything to make the poor girl look like a dowd!’

Kester rolled his eyes. ‘Linnet, don’t let my mother tell you what to wear. Ever. Listen to Louisa instead. Even if I do find her suggestions distracting.’

Brass and the organ sounded and the entire congregation turned at the entrance of the prince.

His Royal Highness looked terrible. Almost, Linnet thought, as if he had been crying. Unthinking, her hand stole out, seeking… At once it was taken in a firm grasp. She let out a breath. Kester moved a little closer, sheltering her. Reassuring her. Whatever the outcome of this royal marriage, theirs was going to be happy.

At the altar the bishop began the service. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together…’

‘That’s Moore,’ murmured Kester. ‘Archbishop of Canterbury.’

The archbishop’s voice rolled on, intoning the prayers. ‘…and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly—’

The prince rose to his feet jerkily, looking around in what appeared to be desperation. A murmur rippled through the chapel, as though a great beast stirred, sniffing a meal.

‘Heaven help us,’ breathed Kester. Linnet tensed. What was the prince doing? Surely he wasn’t going to leave! The king came forward, spoke quietly, and the prince sat down again, his head lowered. Linnet felt sick. What must the princess be feeling at this display?

The service continued without hitch. Until they reached the part about just causes…and the archbishop’s voice slowed. ‘Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’ He stopped, and laid down his book, gazing, it appeared, at the king.

‘What the devil is Moore about?’ came a gentleman’s voice from behind them.

There was a snort. ‘Making quite sure, if you ask me.’

Linnet thought that was Lord Blake, because she heard a woman saying, ‘Shut up, Theodore! You’re in church!’

After a moment His Grace of Canterbury continued, apparently reassured.

But it seemed he still had doubts when they reached the Prince of Wales’s vows. ‘…and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, as long as ye both shall live?’

‘I do.’ The prince’s response sounded as though it had been obtained under torture, and the archbishop laid down his book again.

Beside her, Linnet felt Kester stiffen.

The archbishop repeated the question. Murmurs sprang up again, nearly drowning the prince’s response.

Kester leaned down to her. ‘He’s not taking any chances, is he?’

Behind them someone was heard to say, ‘I’d wager Moore’s risking a second murder in his cathedral at this rate. Damned impertinence!’

After a moment the marriage continued to the end without further sensation. The ring was given and accepted, the blessing pronounced and, for better or worse, the Prince of Wales and Princess Caroline were husband and wife.

Chapter Fifteen

‘I’m telling you, Severn, he scarce spoke to her at all on the way here from the chapel,’ said the Duke of Leeds.’ They were squeezed into a corner of the drawing room in St James’s Palace at the reception. Leeds shook his head. ‘I was right in front of them. And she’s really quite amiable. I can’t understand him!’ He smiled at Linnet. ‘Anyway, Lady Severn, a pleasure to meet you, and it’s plain to see that Severn here is happy. You will excuse me? I’d best return to the, er, other happy couple.’ With a bow, he left them.

‘They aren’t going to be happy, are they?’ said Linnet very quietly, watching the princess. Kester followed her gaze. The princess seemed in high gig, chatting and laughing. Beside her, the Prince of Wales looked like a man about to face his own execution. Even as Kester watched, she spoke to her husband. Politely. Cheerfully. His Royal Highness turned away, his gaze seeking and finding Lady Jersey.

Kester gritted his teeth. Impossible that the princess had not understood what happened during the ceremony, but apparently she was going to try.…

He sighed. ‘Probably not. But we are, aren’t we?’

His bride looked up, her eyes wondering. ‘Yes. Because you’re far too honourable to treat your wife like that.’

His heart twisted. ‘Honourable? Perhaps. And no, I’d never insult my wife, no matter how I felt about her. But I have to tell you, love makes all the difference between duty and joy.’

She became very still, but her hand on his arm trembled. ‘Love, my lord?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Love. You are my wife, Linnet. My duchess. Will you be my love also?’

‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, yes.’

Author Note

Anyone who knows anything about Regency England probably knows that the marriage of George, Prince of Wales, to Princess Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel in April 1795 was an unmitigated disaster. Forced by the king into a legal marriage so that Parliament would clear his debts, when he had already contracted an illegal marriage to the Catholic widow Maria Fitzherbert, the prince married his first cousin without ever having laid eyes on her until three days before the wedding.

Princess Caroline’s arrival in England, the cousins’ first meeting and the wedding ceremony are as I have described them, and Lord Malmesbury was a real person and where possible I have used his own words, or a close approximation. Frances, Lady Jersey, was the prince’s mistress at the time and she was appointed as lady-in-waiting. Everything else is fiction, although as historically accurate as I can make it.

Readers who would like to know more about the marriage and Caroline of Brunswick may like to consult Flora Fraser’s excellent biography, The Unruly Queen, as I have done. The Disastrous Marriage, by Joanna Richardson, also has useful information, if taking perhaps a rather romanticised view of the Prince of Wales’s frequent to-ings and fro-ings between mistresses! My story covers only the three days between the first meeting of the cousins and their marriage. More than enough time for Kester, Duke of Severn, to sort out his own marital difficulties and convince his bride that he wants more than just her money.

Elizabeth Rolls

On April 29th 2011 the world will be waiting with bated breath for Prince William and Kate Middleton to say ‘I do’!

The bells at Westminster Abbey are chiming, the carriage is waiting and THE dress has finally been unveiled… So join Her Majesty by dusting off your best hat as you prepare for the wedding of the decade!

To celebrate this historic event, Mills & Boon have created a special ebook collection:

Royal Weddings

…through the ages

Read about the future king’s ancestors and the people who helped bring their special days together.

7 couples, 7 marriages, 7 stories for you to enjoy!

What the Duchess Wants by Terri Brisbin

Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and Henry of Anjou (future Henry II), 1152

Lionheart’s Bride by Michelle Willingham

King Richard and Princess Berengaria, 1191

Prince Charming in Disguise by Bronwyn Scott

Prince George and Caroline of Ansbach, 1704

A Princely Dilemma by Elizabeth Rolls

George, Prince of Wales (future Prince Regent/George IV) and Princess Caroline of Brunswick, 1795

The Problem with Josephine by Lucy Ashford

Napoleon and Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria, 1810

Princess Charlotte’s Choice by Ann Lethbridge

Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, 1816

With Victoria’s Blessing by Mary Nichols

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, 1840

So if you can’t wait until the 29th for your royal wedding fix…download one now!

Award-winning author Elizabeth Rolls lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia with her husband, two soccer-mad sons, two dogs and a cat. She also has four alpacas and two incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking, and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at books@elizabethrolls.com and visit her website at http://www.elizabethrolls.com

Available from Harlequin® Historical and ELIZABETH ROLLS

The Dutiful Rake #712

The Unexpected Bride #729

The Unruly Chaperon #745

His Lady Mistress #772

A Regency Invitation #775

The Prodigal Bride

The Chivalrous Rake #804

Mistletoe Kisses #823

“A Soldier’s Tale”

A Compromised Lady #864

Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride #948

Delectably Undone! #1036

“A Scandalous Liaison”

and in Harlequin Historical Undone! ebooks:

A Scandalous Liaison

ISBN: 978-1-4592-0418-8

A Princely Dilemma

Copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth Rolls

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