How to Propose to a Prince (3 page)

Why do they persist with this senseless match
making? Have I not made my future perfectly plain?

Evidently not.

She looked at Lord Gallantine, who seemed quite pleased with himself at that moment, proud at whatever match he, Lord Lotharian, and Lilywhite had planned, no doubt with the help Lady Upperton, their female cohort in this constant matchmaking madness.

Well, they might have succeeded in orchestrating perfectly proper matches for her sisters, but Fate was on her side. And there was no possible way she was going to let the meddling quartet interfere. She would not go willingly along with it. And she would tell them so…in her own way.

“However,” Elizabeth coughed into a balled fist, “I thought I might retire quietly at home rather than attend the ball.”

“What is this nonsense, Elizabeth?” Lord Gallantine narrowed his eyes at her.

Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the floor and remained there. “Well, sir, it is only that I have felt dreadfully fatigued since I was drenched in the rainstorm earlier…and I fear I may already have a cold upon my chest.”

She lifted her head and her gaze darted to Gallantine’s eyes, searching for any hint that
this story might earn her leave from the event—and any matchmaking he and the rest of the Old Rakes of Marylebone had planned for her.

Gallantine lurched back away from her. “You are ill?” Worry pinched the crinkled skin around his eyes, making him look far older than his seventy-two years.

Oh, she should not have mentioned illness, since it was not true. But she knew ailments of any kind caused Gallantine as much, if not more, anxiety than books not being aligned perfectly on the shelf, a slip of thread on his lapel, or clutter on a tabletop. It was cruel of her to use his nature against him, terrible, but she could think of nothing else just then and, lud, she had her entire future to consider.

“Well, if you are ill…” Lady Upperton paused for a moment and peered suspiciously at Elizabeth. “…
truly
ill, then you should not attend the ball.”

Oh, blast. Her sponsor knew, somehow, that she was only crafting the slapdash tale to excuse herself from the social obligation. She could see it in the old woman’s eyes. Elizabeth felt her body contract and she cringed into the cushion of the settee.

Lord Gallantine tipped his head in agreement,
causing the wig to slip down from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. He shoved it back into place and then looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “Pity you cannot attend, dear gel. Once I heard about your premonition, I would have thought you would swim across the Thames to attend this particular ball.” He turned with a loud sigh and started back toward the secret door in the wall of bookcases.

What is this? After hearing my premonition, he thinks I would wish to attend the ball at Almack’s?

“Wait, Sir Gallantine. Please!” Elizabeth’s hand shot for the tea table, and she abruptly dropped her dish of tea, sending it clattering down upon the polished surface.

“Oh!” Lady Upperton jumped at the sound and slapped a calming hand to her chest. “Gallantine, you have stirred her too greatly. Do come back and sit down.”

Elizabeth leapt up and dashed after him. “Please, come back and explain what you mean?”

Gallantine stopped walking the moment she tapped his shoulder with her fingers. He pulled his arm away, staring at the place where she had touched him, then turned slowly to face her.

“I—I apologize, Lord Gallantine,” Elizabeth
hid her hands behind her back, “I should not have laid my hand upon your arm given my possible…yet
unlikely
illness.” She slid her foot backward a pace to calm him. “I only wished to know what you meant by your comment. Why might I wish to venture to this particular ball?”

“It took Lady Upperton quite a goodly amount of doing to see your name onto the list of very prestigious guests.” Gallantine gave Lady Upperton a nod of acknowledgment, a gesture to which she responded in kind.

“I did not know.” Elizabeth turned and dropped a curtsy to her sponsor. “My thanks, Lady Upperton. You are very good to me.” When Lady Upperton tipped her head in reply, Elizabeth returned her attention to the gentleman and waited for him to answer the question she had posed.

It took several long moments before he deigned to oblige her. “Why, I thought you had heard.” When he glanced across the library to Lady Upperton once again, Elizabeth chased his gaze with her own.

Lady Upperton shook her head dolefully. “I say, Gallantine, she mustn’t know. Though I do not see what benefit there is to telling her now. She is too ill to attend, after all.”

“Please. I must know.” They were toying with her, and she was fully aware of this fact. Someone of great importance and standing must be attending. “Please, tell me.” Elizabeth wrung her hands.

Maybe even…him.

Oh, God, could it be true?

Unable to restrain her burgeoning excitement, she took a hasty step toward Gallantine.

“No, no.” The tall, lean viscount shook his head, sending his wig pivoting to the left, then the right, until it sat askew on his bald pate. “Lady Upperton is correct about this. If you are ill, telling you that Prince Leopold is rumored to be in attendance at the ball would only disappoint you, child.”

“Oh, Gallantine,” Lady Upperton snapped. “You might as well tell her everything.” She waved her hand dismissively in the air. You’ve already slipped up and told her Prince Leopold was to be at Almack’s.”

“Did I?” He slipped his index finger beneath his wig and scratched, then righted the auburn monstrosity upon his head. “I don’t seem to recall…” he muttered to himself.

“You did.” She exhaled a long breath, and then shrugged her shoulders as if defeated. “Now she will sit in her bed and sulk about not
being able to reacquaint herself with her supposed future husband. But that cannot be helped.” She focused her gaze upon Elizabeth. “Because you are too ill. I am dreadfully sorry, sweeting.”

Elizabeth’s head swung back and forth between Lady Upperton and Gallantine as if it were affixed to a mesmerist’s chain. “Perhaps I will feel better on the morrow. Yes, I am sure if I only had enough rest this evening, and an uneventful day tomorrow, I will be right as rain come time to leave for the ball.”

Gallantine raised his eyebrows, and she knew he would protest her idea. So, clutching up a handful of her walking skirt, she started hurrying toward the door to the entry hall.

She looked back over her shoulder as she rushed from the library. “Good eve, Lady Upperton, Sir Gallantine.”

Lady Upperton pulled the lever on the side of the settee and a small footstool shot out from beneath it. The diminutive older woman stepped down from the settee and started for Elizabeth. “My dear, we have not yet finished our tea. Where are you going with such urgency?”

“Home to Berkeley Square.” Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on the open door. She did not look
back for fear she would see Lady Upperton beckoning her back to the settee. “If I am to attend the ball tomorrow, I ought to adjourn to my bed—without delay!”

Within minutes she was out the door and inside a hackney headed for Berkeley Square.

Tomorrow.
La, she felt positively giddy inside at the thought. Tomorrow she would meet her prince at the ball and prove to everyone that her dream would come true.

Berkeley Square
An hour later

“You can’t do this, Lizzy.” Anne nervously twisted her wedding ring around and around her finger. “Please.”

Elizabeth looked at Anne as she stood in the center of their great-aunt Prudence’s parlor, her sister looking back at her as though she was quite mad, or at the very least not to be trusted. “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Anne.” Eager to avoid her sister’s attention, she allowed her gaze to flit lightly over her white-haired great-aunt, who dozed peacefully in the hearthside chair, a droplet of drool stretching from her lip down toward her shoulder.

“I have a better idea to occupy your time.”
Anne rushed to the bookcase and withdrew the document box their father had left them upon his death.

“Not
that,
Anne.” Elizabeth sighed. “Please, not now.”

But her sister ignored her words and set the box on the table. She reached inside and withdrew a brass key.

“Anne, please.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes as her sister twisted off the key’s ornate oval grip to reveal a hexagonal driver, then used it to release the false bottom of the box.

From it, Anne removed two small amber laudanum bottles and, allowing them to clink together, handed them to Elizabeth, who exhaled slowly and held the bottles before her eyes.

“Two bottles labeled ‘laudanum’ with a crosshatch below. No number listed after the crosshatch, no initials. We have both studied these for clues for hours—the last bits of father’s so-called evidence—but we found nothing. They offer no proof about the events of our birth.”

Anne sighed. It was clear to Elizabeth that her sister was not going to give in so easily. “Lotharian told us that Father said the laudanum had been used, by Lady Jersey or even the queen, to drug Mrs. Fitzherbert during our
birth…or shortly afterward. And that the laudanum had not been supplied by our father.”

Elizabeth snatched up Anne’s hand and forcefully pressed the bottles back into them, not caring if the glass broke in the process. “Even if we knew who supplied the laudanum, it wouldn’t prove whether we are the true daughters of the Prince of Wales and his secret wife! It would only prove, if the story is true at all, that another surgeon was involved in concealing our birth. So, this supposed proof does not matter at all.” Elizabeth walked to the hearth before facing Anne again. “I have resigned myself to the fact that we may never have enough evidence to prove we are daughters of the Prince of Wales.”

Anne looked up at her peevishly, and then returned the bottles to their hiding place inside the box. “I only thought that you might amuse yourself, while I am away, by trying to learn more about the bottles. You are so clever. I am sure you can find the meaning of the bottles.”

“Stop, Anne. Please, stop now.” She brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed them to soothe the ache there. She turned her eyes toward Anne. “You and Mary have seemingly given up proving Father’s story of our birth. Why shouldn’t I? Why should I not occupy my
self with pursuing my own future—as you and Mary have?”

Anne stood on her toes and set the box high on the shelf. When she turned around, Elizabeth saw that her cheeks were growing red with frustration. “Laird and I are leaving on the morrow, Lizzy. It is to be our honeymoon. Please, promise me you will not approach Prince Leopold at the ball and do or say anything nonsensical. You must dismiss this notion that he is your future husband.”

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. “I know better, Anne,” she said firmly.

“Lizzy, all of London is abuzz with rumors that he means to marry Princess Charlotte the very instant he has the backing of Parliament and the Regent.”

“Because he wishes it, or is
rumored
to wish it, does not mean he will marry the princess.” Elizabeth unfolded her arms and set her hands on her hips.

“Perhaps not, but it does not mean he will wed
you
, either!” Anne expelled a growl of a breath. “Be realistic about this, Lizzy!”

“I know what I saw in my dream, Anne.” Yes, she knew all of this must sound utterly mad to the rest of the world, but it should not to Anne. Her dreams were prophetic, and both of her
sisters had personal proof of this. Not only had she dreamt that her sister Mary would fall in love and marry the Duke of Blackstone, despite her claims that she loathed him above others, but her dreams also correctly foretold that Anne would marry Lord MacLaren, even though he claimed to desire another! Why would Anne not listen to her now?

Anne moved forward and grasped Elizabeth’s hands. “Have you considered that it might have been Princess Charlotte you saw marrying Leopold and not you at all? If the story of our birth is true, she may be our half sister. That would make us all daughters of the Prince Regent.”

Elizabeth thought about her sister’s words, but they did not sway her. In her dream she was gazing deeply into his eyes. Holding his hand as he pressed a golden ring onto her finger. She was looking through her own eyes, not watching the marriage of another. Not at all.

“No, Anne. I
am
the bride. Of that I am sure.”

“But don’t you understand? Your dreams are usually only half right.” Anne’s frustration was palpable. “Might the half you have wrong be that the bride is someone else—perhaps even your half sister?”

Elizabeth broke Anne’s hold on her and
walked over to Great-aunt Prudence, whose eyelids were now wide open. By the look of intrigue in her eyes, Elizabeth would wager she’d been watching and listening to the entire exchange without letting anyone know she was eavesdropping, as she was wont to do whenever a conversation turned down an interesting path.

Cherie, the silent maid-of-all-work, quietly slipped into the parlor and passed between her and Anne with a glass of claret for Great-aunt Prudence. It was uncanny. Cherie had done it again—she’d sensed a need before it had been realized by anyone. This incredible ability of the French maid’s never ceased to amaze Elizabeth, her sisters, or guests in Great-aunt Prudence’s Berkeley Square home.

Great-aunt Prudence’s lips lifted at the sight of the claret and she raised her hand from her lap to grasp the small crystal goblet. She took a sip and then tipped the glass back and gulped some claret down. She drew her lips into her mouth and sucked any remaining claret from them, then pinned Elizabeth with her gaze. “This Lord Whitevale may or may not be a prince, Lizzy, but whether he chooses you or Charlotte, he will be marrying a blood princess one way or the other, eh?” She chuckled merrily then.

Elizabeth smiled at the old woman and knelt
down before her to adjust the coverlet on Great-aunt Prudence’s lap. “Let us hope he allows Fate to choose his mate, instead of Prinny.” She winked at her great-aunt, who laughed heartily at her words, sending her whole body shaking and nearly causing her to spill what little claret she had left onto Elizabeth’s arm.