Princess In Denim (23 page)

She should have had the same freedom to choose the man she wanted for her husband. Not that she wouldn't have chosen William, but for heaven's sake, what did she have to do? She'd given him hours of her time the other evening. An intimate dinner, a tour-for-two of his castle, a romantic clinch in the privacy of his apartment. And had the man once gotten down on his knee?

No-o-o-o-o, he hadn't.

Had he produced an engagement ring?

No-o-o-o-o, he hadn't.

Had he once even begun a sentence with "Moira, it would do me great honor if..."?

No-o-o-o-o, he hadn't done that, either. What was he waiting for? For her to ask him?

Well, that had merit. Had the circumstances been different, had she not been signed away like a dairy cow or a bushel of corn, she might have considered it. But it really was his place to do the asking in this case.

She knew she should tell him she wasn't who he thought she was. But then he wouldn't be contracted to marry her. Then he wouldn't propose for sure; he'd go find the real Moira so that he could marry her and get the damned land. Then he wouldn't have the woman who loved him, because Chloe loved him more than any other woman ever could.

Moira wouldn't care about William's social programs or the building improvements that would raise the standard of living for thousands of people in both countries. As much as Chloe liked Moira, she knew the true princess had been spoiled from infancy on and expected things to be done for her, not
by
her.

So, as she lingered over tea and pastry, she still debated whether and when to tell William the good news-bad news, depending on how one looked at it.

"Please, Your Majesty," Angela said shyly, though she had grown more confident with her English over the past few weeks. "It is growing late."

"I don't want to rush. Those French ladies—" Chloe glanced across the room at them, still pooling and primping silk and lace. "—aren't about to let me sit down once I have that gown on."

Her wedding dress had turned out even more beautiful than the sketch. It was the one design William had shown her that she wasn't able to label, without a second thought, as hideous. He must have known. He must have seen it in her eyes or sensed her hesitation before she disparaged it. As if any woman in her right mind wouldn't have fallen immediately in love with the silk, lace, and pearl work of art.

"You're not worried about the rumor, are you?" Angela asked.

Chloe, about to sip her tea, set the cup back in its saucer. "What rumor?"

Angela glanced around, as if debating whether to continue now that she'd begun. She shrugged, as if what she had to say carried little importance. "I've heard whispers that you are not King Albert's real daughter." She rushed to assure her queen, "Of course, I don't believe this."

Chloe slowly became aware that the rattling noise she heard was her hand shaking the cup against the saucer. As if she'd been burned, she snapped her hand away to the safety of her lap.

"Who do these people say I am, Angela?" She noticed Emma playing with her long strand of pearls, warning Chloe not to go there.

"Oh, they don't say, Your Majesty. It is nothing. Just whispers. It would not matter."

"It wouldn't matter if I were someone else?"

Emma went way past fingering her necklace. It ended up wound around her neck tightly, like a noose, and Chloe wondered if they hanged impostors in this country.

"Angela, ladies..." Emma addressed everyone in the room. "Her Majesty would like a few moments alone before she gets dressed." Once they were all gone, Emma turned on Chloe. "Are you out of your mind?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Think about where you want to spend the night. In the dungeon or the tower? Because if you confess, that's where you're going to end up for sure."

"I don't know, Emma."

"Well, I do! What is going through your mind?"

Chloe's shoulders lifted in defeat. "I love him."

"Then marry him and make him the happiest man alive. Don't push him into a corner where he has no choice but to put you in chains."

Chloe hoped that was an exaggeration, though she hadn't known Emma to be given to that. Would the man Chloe loved do that to her?

Well, sure, if he didn't love her back.

"Get up on that pedestal," Emma ordered. "I'm going to call the ladies back in. You're going to get dressed and get married on schedule."

Chloe sighed, slowly got to her feet and dropped her robe in her chair. Emma hadn't steered her wrong so far. Chloe resigned herself to the fact that, for once, except for the barest of lingerie necessary to preserve her modesty, other people were actually going to dress her.

She wasn't allowed to put on her own stockings—she "might snag them." Angela donned white gloves for the task, though Chloe did fight for and win the right to hook her own garters. She stepped into a slip when told to do so. She sucked in when told to do so. She turned when told to do so.

And all the while, she gave more thought to what was right and what was wrong. By the time the last hooks were in place, when the last loose pearl had been reattached, when her tiara hugged her head and her tulle veil covered her hair, she knew what had to be done. And she was the one to do it. She could not lie to the man she loved.

"Emma, I have to see William."

An audible gasp filled the room, from the French seamstresses, Angela, Emma, the ladies-in-waiting, and the maid clearing the table.

"No, it is not possible."

"I have to." She didn't whine or say it in any manner in which Emma might think she had the right to disagree. She was firm in her resolve to do this, and do it right

"I will arrange a phone call, Your Majesty."

"No."

"It will only take me a moment."

"I have to do this in person."

"It is not in the timetable, Your Majesty."

"I insist."

Emma reached up, grabbed her necklace and yanked it off. Pearls bounced and rolled across the rose-colored carpet like little beads of mercury racing for their freedom. A freedom, apparently, that Chloe was not allowed to enjoy.

Her secretary—her friend!—flung what was left of the strand against the wall. "If you're not going to take my advice, I guess I don't need this anymore."

"Emma!"

"If you get a choice, shall I tell His Majesty you prefer the tower or the dungeon?"

"You can't buffalo me like this. Get me to William, and do it now."

"But, Your Majesty," Angela interjected, "the people have come to see you in your gown. They are waiting for you. You would not be able to get through in a car. Please, Your Majesty, the telephone would be much better."

Chloe knew that if she called William, he'd want to hear her important news immediately, and it wasn't something she was willing to do over the phone. "No. Emma, send for William. Tell him it's important that I see him before the wedding,"

"Do it yourself." Emma walked out.

"Angela—" Chloe turned to her maid "—will you do it?"

Angela, in slack-jawed shock that Emma would disobey her queen, responded quickly. "Of course, Your Majesty."

After Angela rushed away to carry out the order, Chloe abandoned her pedestal and moved, in a cloud of silk that mocked her every step of the way, to the window. A crowd of thousands stood in the courtyard below, waiting for a glimpse of their queen on her wedding day.

Their queen.

Well, darn it, that's me!

Only, depending on how William took the news, there might not be a wedding. Today—or any day, for her. Emma had threatened her with the dungeon or one of the towers. Chloe wasn't even sure which castle she'd be locked in.

As she looked out at the crowd, she wondered whether she'd have to be kept from them for her own safety. They were in favor of this wedding, this merger of two countries. If her honesty jeopardized that, she might be in more danger from an angry mob than she was from William.

She was too nervous to sit, even if the French ladies would have allowed, it. Which was highly unlikely, since they followed her as she paced the room, continually primping and tucking and draping the silk into some preconceived arrangement.

She finally blew up at them. "Would you quit?" But they pretended they'd forgotten any English they'd known during her fittings. The next time one of them reached for an unbecoming wrinkle over her hips, Chloe swatted at the lady's hands.

It seemed forever before William arrived. By that time, Chloe was sure she would be beheaded or burned at the stake. Maybe even drawn and quartered. It didn't alter her decision, though.

William charged through the door as if he feared her life were in danger again. "Your Majesty!" He sounded quite relieved to see that she was still in one piece.

Chloe had to no more than glance around the room to send everyone scurrying out.

"Moira, what is it?"

She walked over to the door to shut it, so that she could say what had to be said without adding fuel to the rumors—if she hadn't already.

William's unwavering eyes followed her carefully as she returned to face him. "You are very beautiful, Moira, but is it not against tradition for the groom to see the bride before—" He grinned, and his eyes twinkled merrily. "Ah, yes, I remember. Tradition. Royal brouhaha. Never mind. I would rather tell you how radiant you are today. Even more ravishing in that dress than I anticipated. And I must tell you, I anticipated. Moira, stand still. Why are you pacing like that?"

With a deep breath, she gathered her courage, turned to face him one more time and resolutely planted her feet in one spot. "I have something to tell you."

His eyebrows slowly puckered together. Levity was gone; she held no illusion that he dismissed her mood as prewedding jitters.

One of her feet started to move, but she caught herself before she fell into pacing again. It would be counterproductive, and besides, she was beginning to hate the restrictions of her long, heavy gown. Her slip whispered a soft
Impostor...impostor...impostor
every step of the way.

"I'm not who you think I am."

William's hand shot up. He ripped his military hat from his head and threw it against the wall. He raked his fingers through his hair. But he, also, did not pace. He did not leave her, but stared over her shoulder at the wall behind her. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

"You don't look surprised."

"I have heard rumors."

Look at me.
"You didn't believe them?"

"I do not listen to gossip."

Look at me!
"William—"

"And then your brother...then Louis came to me this morning and told me his suspicions."

Please.

When he finally looked her in the eyes, the intensity of his gaze was so powerful that she was uncertain whether to be thankful or to run and hide.

"Will you let me explain?"

"Have I not been patient with you these past weeks? Have I lost my temper with you? Why would you ask if I would let you explain?"

"Maybe because your hand's on your sword."

His reply, as he threw both hands up in the air, was an enraged growl that illustrated what Chloe thought to be the highest level of anger a man could reach and still not kill someone. But at least his sword was still sheathed.

She stared at the top button of his uniform and noticed the furious pounding of the pulse in his neck.

"Who are you?"

"Chloe Marshall."

"The American woman? Your friend?"

She nodded.

"You simply...switched places?"

"Yes."

"When you were twelve?"

"No."

"Fourteen?" His voice rose when she shook her head. "Sixteen? Twenty? When?"

"A week before I flew home...here."

"Good God." He turned away.

She stared at the breadth of his back as he walked slowly to the window. He stood tall and proud, neither slump-shouldered nor defeated. He would be tough with her, she knew. She had insulted him and his throne and every person in his country and hers by playing this game with Moira.

"I think your brother is insane."

She must have misunderstood. "What?"

He continued to stare out the window. "I said I think your brother is insane."

Not "Louis," but "your brother."
She felt the first seed of hope. "And this means?"

"I did not believe him when he came to me this morning." He looked at her. "I did not want to."

"And now?"

"Oh, I have given the matter a great deal of thought."

Since this morning?

"At first I wondered if it could be true. And then I realized I do not care."

She couldn't look away from his eyes, which didn't so much as waver. She felt herself drawn across the room toward him, first one slow step, then another. And yet another—each stride quicker and longer than the one before. It would be a cruel trick for him to look at her like that, then toss her out the window. Was she willing to risk it?

Yes.

"After all, what good is merging our kingdoms if I do not have you by my side?"

"You mean—"

He opened his arms and swallowed her whole. He whispered tenderly, "I mean, Moira, that I want you. I want none other." Holding her hand, he dropped down onto his knee in front of her. "Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

Tears blurred her vision. She couldn't see the wall, the window; she could barely see him. Was he asking because he still wanted to merge the kingdoms? Or had he meant what he said, that Baesland-Ennsway would mean nothing to him with a different woman—the original Moira—by his side?

"Oh, William..."

"You have to think this over?" he asked dryly.

She laughed and sniffed. "No, Of course not."

"Damn it, woman, say yes."

"Yes!"

He reached into his pocket. "I have carried this with me for too long—it seems like eternity—waiting for the right moment. I had wanted to court you properly first, before your father told you about our contract."

He slipped the most beautiful ring she'd ever seen onto her third finger. Like William, it was one of a kind.