“Why do you want to marry me, Michael?”
She immediately regretted asking the question. She knew
she was going to refuse him. Now she would have to appear
interested in his answer.
“Prince Michael,” he corrected automatically. “Because,
Lady Rosamund, I think you’ll make a perfect princess.”
A perfect princess. The words grated on Rosamund. That’s
what they were calling her in the newspapers, ever since
Prince Michael of the diminutive principality of Kolnbourg
had made her the object of his attentions. And the
depressing truth was, she probably would make a perfect
princess.
She was the daughter of a duke. She’d led a sheltered
existence. From the day of her birth, she’d been trained
in all the feminine arts, the ones that were essential for
the wife of some gentleman from her own sphere. She’d
never been to school like other girls, or had beaux, or
been kissed or had adventures.
If only she’d been born a boy, things would have been so
different! She had two brothers, Caspar, the elder, and
Justin, who was three years younger than she. They’d done
exciting things such as having a Grand Tour, and fighting
for king and country. They’d also done other exciting
things she wasn’t supposed to know about ... La Contessa
was what everyone was calling Caspar’s latest mistress,
who was haughty, expensive, and had the temper of a
tigress.
Rosamund’s smile was fleeting. La Contessa’s temperament
would never do for a duke’s daughter, of course. She’d
been raised to be polite to everyone from His Majesty down
to the lowest menial. Sheknew the rules of protocol back
to front and inside out. She always knew where to sit at
the dinner table, or to whom she should curtsy and whom
she should not. Small talk was her forte, except when her
mind wandered, as it did from time to time, and she forgot
where she was. If she had to describe herself in one word,
it would be ... bland.
Bland. It was a word that had stuck in her mind ever since
Lady Townsend’s ball, where she’d overheard some of the
younger women discussing her character. No one could
possibly dislike her, someone said, because she was as
bland as a blancmange. And everyone laughed.
Her mother had been anything but bland. By all accounts,
Elizabeth Devere had been impatient with the constraints
her exalted position had placed on her, and saw no reason
to follow them slavishly. In the end it was her downfall.
She’d gone out riding alone and had taken a tumble while
jumping a fence. It wasn’t the accident that killed her,
but the fact that she hadn’t been found till the following
morning. She’d come down with a fever and had quietly
slipped away.
Maybe if her mother had lived, her grief-stricken father
wouldn’t have been so strict with his only daughter. And
maybe, if her mother had lived, his only daughter wouldn’t
be feeling so restless right now.
All that happened twenty years ago, but she still missed
her. She wondered what her mother would think of the way
her daughter had turned out if she could see her now.
“Lady Rosamund?”
Uh-oh. She’d done it again, forgotten where she was.
She looked at Prince Michael and sighed. There must be
something wrong with her, she thought. Prince Michael of
Kolnbourg was tall, dark, and handsome. He was also titled
and legions of women had tried to lead him to the altar.
Then why didn’t he appeal to her?
Perhaps because she, too, was tall, dark, and handsome as
well as titled. She was also wealthy in her own right and
no fool. It didn’t take much intelligence to deduce that
this was why Prince Michael had chosen to court her.
Meanwhile, next month, she would turn twenty-seven, and
she knew her father was becoming desperate for her to
accept one of her suitors.
What she wanted, however, was a beau, not a suitor,
someone who would like her for herself. Suitors, in her
experience, were bookkeepers — every asset was noted in
their mental ledgers before they made an offer.
Michael, Prince Michael, was definitely a suitor. He was
only fourth in line to the throne and hadn’t a sou to his
name, a tragic circumstance when one considered his
expensive tastes. Marriage to her would solve all his
problems.
They were in the conservatory of Twickenham House, the
ducal mansion in Twickenham, just outside of London, and
Rosamund took a moment or two to set the mood by staring
at the vista through one of the windows. Autumn was ripe
and mellow, and the trees were ablaze with color.
“I’m an English girl,” she said. “I could never be happy
transplanted to a foreign shore.”
She looked over her shoulder and caught him in the act of
studying his watch. Evidently, she bored him as much as he
bored her! It didn’t surprise her: Lady Rosamund Devere
was a boring sort of person. As a duke’s daughter she’d
been raised to be as bland as a blancmange. Which was
exactly the kind of wife Prince Michael wanted.
The perfect princess, the bland blancmange, who could be
counted on never to put a foot wrong, say a wrong word, or
have an original thought.
Without awkwardness or embarrassment, Prince Michael
slipped his watch inside his vest pocket and gave her one
of his engaging smiles. “I have no objection to your
remaining in England after we are wed,” he said. “In fact,
I may decide to make England my home. The climate agrees
with me.”
So did the actresses, but she wasn’t supposed to know
about them. She gave him one of her own engaging
smiles. “I’m almost tempted, but...”
“But?”
“Well, you can’t play chess, Your Highness. You see, I
could never marry a man who cannot play chess.”
Mrs. Calliope Tracey put the teapot down with a
thump. “Chess?” she said. “What has chess to do with
anything?”
Rosamund gazed at her friend over the rim of her teacup.
Last night, she’d put up at the Clarendon, where she
normally stayed whenever she came up to town to do a
little shopping or escape her father’s temper. The duke,
her father, had not been amused when she’d told him that
she and Prince Michael would not suit. There had been a
scene, if one person ranting and raving could be called a
scene. And her brothers had not got off scot-free either.
It seemed that His Grace had raised three thankless
children, if persons of their advanced years could
possibly be called children. Not one of them was married.
At this rate, their line would die out. Then where would
they be?
As usual, she and her brothers had listened to Papa in
sympathetic silence, then made their escape to do
precisely what they wanted to do. With Justin, it would be
chasing petticoats, racing his curricle to Brighton,
dueling, gaming, or whiling the hours away with friends.
With Caspar, it would no doubt be La Contessa. There
wasn’t much a duke’s daughter could escape to, but she
could always count on her one and only friend to lend a
sympathetic ear. So here she was, in the breakfast room of
Callie’s house in Manchester Square.
That was another consequence of being a duke’s daughter.
She had legions of acquaintances, both male and female,
but they were not friends. They were so intimidated by her
rank that they treated her with a deference that made her
squirm. They never contradicted anything she said.
Whatever she suggested was always accepted without
argument. It was such a bore.
Callie was the exception. Her late father, a widower, had
been the duke’s steward, and he and Callie arrived at
Castle Devere, the principal residence of the Duke of
Romsey, not long after the tragic death of Rosamund’s
mother. She and Callie had known each other from the time
they were children. They’d even been educated together,
not at school, but by Rosamund’s governess. This
arrangement had suited both the duke and his steward,
since Callie would have the advantage of a superior
education her father could not afford and Rosamund would
have the benefit of Callie’s company. Though the idea was
that they’d both be treated equally, it hadn’t worked out
that way. Callie had always been allowed more freedoms
than Rosamund.
And after Callie married and moved away, there had been a
succession of chaperons, most of them edging toward their
dotage. Over two months ago, her father had relented and
had hired a young woman of Rosamund’s age to be her
companion, Prudence Dryden, but things hadn’t worked out
the way Rosamund had hoped. Miss Dryden was hard to get to
know. And since she was hard to get to know as well, they
were like polite strangers.
“Roz?” Callie slapped her open palm on the table to get
Rosamund’s attention. “Hallo? Hallo?”
Rosamund blinked. “What?”
“Where do you go when that look comes over your face? What
are you thinking?”
“I was thinking that ordinary girls have an easy time of
it. They have so many choices. They can do what they want
or go where they want. Look at you.”
Callie laughed. “Nonsense,” she said. “The sad truth is,
no female has an easy time of it. We are tied to some
man’s leading strings from birth, first a father’s, then a
husband’s or a brother’s. It’s only when a woman becomes a
widow that she is truly free. You should follow my
example.”
Rosamund obligingly smiled. This was one of Callie’s oft-
repeated jests, that life for a female began only when she
became a widow, and in Callie’s case, it was true. When
her unlamented tyrant of a husband choked to death on his
own vomit during a drunken stupor, Callie had come to live
with his brother in Manchester Square, and she’d found her
true vocation as Charles Tracey’s hostess. She was
amusing; she was outrageous. An invitation to one of her
parties was highly prized, and she was invited everywhere.
Callie had no shortage of beaux, either.
She was the kind of woman, Rosamund thought, that would
appeal to men. She had expressive brown eyes, and dark
brown hair that curled naturally to frame her face in tiny
ringlets. And she was as dainty and as finely sculpted as
a porcelain figurine. God forbid that she should alight
from a carriage without some male rushing to her
assistance or that she should carry a hatbox or drop a
handkerchief. It wasn’t that Callie expected these
courtesies. It was simply that men thought she was
fragile. And nothing could be further from the truth.
It was true that men showed her, Rosamund, the same
courtesy, but that was because they wanted to curry favor
with her father. The only time she felt tiny was when she
was flanked by her father and brothers. That was one thing
she particularly liked about her companion.
Prudence was as tall as she.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Callie.
“I was thinking of Prince Michael. At least he’s taller
than I am.”
“You still haven’t explained what chess has to do with
anything. What did the prince say after you told him that
you could never marry a man who did not play chess?”
“Not ‘did not play chess’ but ‘could not play chess.’
There is a difference. What could he say? I’d beaten him
at chess, you see. If he hadn’t looked at his watch, I
would have let him down gently. But after he slighted me
like that, I didn’t care how brutal I was.” To Callie’s
blank stare, Rosamund elaborated, “He’s a chess player. He
fancies himself an expert. But I let him know he was no
match for me.”
“Then what happened?”
“He clicked his heels and took off like one of Congreve’s
rockets.”
Callie stared, then hooted with laughter. At length, she
said, “You chess players are a breed apart. I never had
the patience for it.”
“No. I remember.”
There was an interval of silence as Callie replenished
their teacups. Without looking up, Callie said, “All this
talk of ordinary girls makes me think that you’re finally
thinking of establishing your own home.”
“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what good it
would do. I’d no sooner move in than so would my father
and brothers. Or, if they didn’t move in, they’d visit me
so often, I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Callie sighed. “I’m sure you’re right. Your father and
brothers are too protective of you. If they were my
relations, I think I’d shoot them or shoot myself. Thank
God my male relations know enough to keep their distance,
except for Charles, of course, and he’s a dear. I never
regretted my decision to come and live with him.”
Rosamund did not doubt it. Though there was an unmarried
aunt, Frances, who lived with them as well, Callie had the
run of the house. She also seemed to have the run of
Charles, who, according to the duke, should put his foot
down more often.
Callie said suddenly, “Where is your chaperon, Miss What’s-
Her-Name?”
“Miss Dryden,” said Rosamund, slightly irritated because,
in two months, Callie had never taken the trouble to learn
the girl’s name. “She came down with a bad cold, and is
confined to her bed.”
“I’m surprised at your father. I’ve never known him allow
you to travel alone.” Callie finished her tea, and put
down her cup and saucer. “Not that Miss Dryden is much of
a chaperon. She’s so insipid.”
“Reserved,” said Rosamund, bristling. “Miss Dryden is
reserved, not insipid. And I didn’t travel alone. I came
in the ducal carriage, with a full complement of coachmen
and postilions, all of them armed to the teeth. And now
that I’m here, you can be my chaperon.”
Callie rested her chin on her linked fingers. “You know,
Roz,” she said, “if I were you, I would get married. No,
no, hear me out. It could be the ideal solution. Maybe you
were too hasty in refusing Prince Michael. From what I
hear of him, he’d make an ideal husband.” Her eyes
danced. “He’d marry you and forget about you. You’d be
free to come and go as you please. No more leading
strings. What more could a woman want?”
“What about the right man?” responded Rosamund dryly.
“The right man?” Callie laughed. “Roz, he doesn’t exist.
If he did, you would have met him by now.”
“Now, just a minute! I’m not exactly in my dotage.”
Callie sat back in her chair and studied Rosamund’s
lowered brows. Finally, she said, “I’m all ears. Describe
this romantic figure who can do what no other man has done
and lead you to the altar.”
Rosamund gazed down at the dregs in her teacup as though
she were a fortune-teller reading the tea leaves. A
solitary tea-leaf bobbed on the surface. With an index
finger, she pushed it under. A moment later, it bobbed
right up again.
Copyright 2001 by Elizabeth Thornton