The Golden Prince (32 page)

He felt so dizzy the walls of the library seemed to be moving around him. It was 1911, not 1811. Surely not even his father would have begun negotiating an arranged marriage for him without having spoken to him about it first?

He remembered that his mother’s marriage to his father had been at Queen Victoria’s suggestion and that neither of them had had any say in it. Heirs to thrones never did have much say as to whom they married. But he was going to be different, because he was going to have
every
say in whom he married.

Determination flooded through him, giving him courage he’d never felt before when confronting his father.

Without waiting for a reply, King George said, “I’m glad you are being sensible about this issue, David. You may think seventeen is a little young to be thinking of marriage, but royal marriage negotiations take time and an official engagement at eighteen followed by a wedding at twenty-one would be very acceptable timing.”

“Yes, sir. I quite agree. I …”

“Olga is a dear girl …”

So it was the Russian connection his parents had in mind for him, not a German connection—and it was not even to be Olga’s younger sister Tatiana whom, of all the tsar’s daughters, he had always felt closest to.

“Papa! Please stop. Please stop until you have heard what it is I’ve come to tell you.”

His urgent use of “Papa,” instead of “sir,” finally stopped King George in his tracks.

“Papa, I’ve met someone.” There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his heart was racing like a steam train. “She’s a wonderful girl. Absolutely tip-top. I so want you to meet her, and I so want to marry her.”

There. It was out. He had said it. He felt so weak with relief he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself.

“What did you say?” King George cupped his ear. “Olga’s a wonderful girl? Of course she is—and it wouldn’t matter if she wasn’t. She’s your uncle Nicky’s eldest daughter and there can be no better political alliance for Great Britain at the moment than with Russia—not the way Germany is building up its navy.”

Once more David summoned up all his courage. “You’ve misunderstood me, Papa. I wasn’t referring to Olga. The girl I’ve met and who I love with all my heart isn’t royal, though she does come from a very good family …”

This time it was King George who looked as if he needed to steady himself.

“What did you say?” His eyes bulged until they looked as if they were going to leave their sockets. “
What
did you say? You’ve met a girl? How in all that is holy can you possibly have met a girl? You’re talking like a fool, David! Are you ill? Have you a fever?”

“No, sir.” Thanking his lucky stars that Georgie Battenberg had agreed to play ball and that he wasn’t going to have to go into explanations about how he’d knocked Rose from her bicycle, he said, “Georgie Battenberg introduced us. She comes from a spiffing family and …”

“And nothing! Are you telling me you have become acquainted with a young woman without my knowledge? Are you?
Are you
?” The King slammed a fist so hard on the desk the paperweights jumped and skidded.

“It happened accidentally, sir.” That much at least was true. “Lily is a unique and special person, Papa, and I love her with all my heart.”

Behind his beard, King George’s face went white. “Don’t tell me you’ve been such a fool as to have
told
this girl you love her?”

Fear of his father was something David had grown up with. It was fear he felt now, but he had no intention of showing it, or giving in to it.

“Yes,” he said unhesitatingly, looking his father straight in the eyes. “I’ve asked her to marry me.”

King George made a choking sound, his face no longer white, but puce. He clawed at his stiff high collar, struggling to free himself from it. Horrified, certain his father was about to have a heart attack, David sprang forward to help him.

Still struggling for breath, the King fended him off violently, hurling him backward with such force he slammed into a glass-fronted bookcase.

Glass splintered.

Dazedly David struggled to remain upright, uncertain about whether shards had pierced his jacket and, if he moved, would pierce his skin.

King George lunged toward him and, as David braced himself, shot past him. Yanking open the double doors, he spluttered at the footmen on duty, “Fetch Lord Esher to me! Fetch him to me now!”

The doors crashed shut again and he turned to face David.

“Never,” he bellowed, “would I have believed a son of mine could be capable of such imbecilic behavior! Have you completely forgotten who you are? This isn’t Rumania! You can’t go shilly-shallying off, falling in love where you please! When you marry, you marry a royal princess. A royal princess who will bring political advantages to the table. And that means Grand Duchess Olga. As heir to the greatest throne in the world—and on the outside chance of your proposal being turned down—you do
not
propose marriage to
anyone
in person. Not even Olga. Someone will do that for you. Now get out of my sight! Get out!
GET OUT!
”

Pale and shaking, David had no alternative but to do as he was commanded. The minute he was out of view of footmen, or of anyone else, he leaned against a wall, a fist pressed hard against his mouth. To say that the interview had not gone as well as he had hoped it would was an understatement. His father, true to form, had been utterly unreasonable. When he thought of how his father hadn’t even allowed him to explain who Lily was, he didn’t know which emotion was uppermost. Anger or despair.

He sucked in a deep steadying breath. Lord Esher was his
father’s most trusted adviser, and he knew why his father had sent for him. It was so that Esher could advise him on how best he could be extricated from the mess that, in his father’s eyes, he had got himself into.

He bit hard on his knuckle. An approach from the palace to Lily’s grandfather would put an end to everything. Then a drilling by Lord Esher, or by the King’s private secretary, might well convince Lily that it was in David’s best interest for her to sever all contact with him.

His head hurt and his eyes smarted. He blinked hard, struggling to think clearly. That disastrous interview with his father wasn’t the end of everything. It was just the beginning. His father now knew what the situation was. David wasn’t going to permit himself to be harried into an arranged marriage. He was going to marry the girl of his choice, the girl who had won his heart and who he would love for as long as he lived.

Future interviews with his father would now start from that basis, and no matter how long it took before his father accepted Lily as a future Princess of Wales, David was utterly determined that eventually he would do so.

Feeling much calmer and no longer shaking, he eased himself away from the wall and began walking in the direction of his own apartment. The first and most important thing he had to do was to ensure that neither Lord Esher nor anyone else spoke on the King’s behalf to Lily’s grandfather.

He came to a sudden halt, his eyes widening.

No one
from the palace would speak with Lord May, for the very simple reason that the King hadn’t given him the chance to tell him anything at all about Lily, or about her family.

Quite simply, apart from the fact that she came from a good family, his father had not the slightest idea who she was. That was the way he was going to keep things until his father agreed that he was going to marry a nonroyal for love.

He entered his own apartment, and as Finch fussed around
him his thoughts continued to race. He urgently needed to speak with Georgie Battenberg, so that Georgie was prewarned about not disclosing Lily’s identity. He also needed to speak with Piers Cullen about the same thing. Piers, of course, would need very little persuasion to keep mum, for if his part in visiting Snowberry became known, his career as an equerry—and possibly even his army career—would be over faster than lightning.

He sipped at the mug of cocoa Finch had handed him.

Most of all he needed to speak with Lily to let her know that he had spoken to his father—and that he would probably have to do so several times before his father accepted the idea of a Princess of Wales who would only become royal upon her marriage. He needed to tell her, too, that in three weeks’ time he would be leaving for a three-month tour of duty aboard the
Hindustan
and that plans were also in place for him to spend time in France and then, next autumn, to go to Oxford for three years.

He couldn’t tell her any of those things over the telephone. He needed to speak to her face-to-face.

He pondered the chances of doing so after the scene he’d just had with his father and knew that they were zero. From now on every move he made would be watched and monitored. At the moment, however, his father was closeted with Lord Esher. No one was spying on him—or no more than was usual. Piers Cullen was on three days’ leave visiting his widowed father, and the equerry standing in for him was inexperienced and could easily be given the slip.

Decisively he put down his half-drunk mug of cocoa. “I’m going AWOL for three or four hours, Finch.”

“Absent Without Leave, sir? Will that be with a migraine, sir?”

He shot Finch a quick light smile. “If you think that serves the purpose, Finch.”

Thirty minutes later, at the wheel of his Austro-Daimler and unaccompanied, he was speeding out of London in the direction of Hampshire.

Another hour later, as the light smoked to dusk, he was roaring up Snowberry’s elm-lined drive and Lily was running from the house to meet him.

“I heard you the minute you turned in from the lane!” she shouted, racing over the gravel toward him.

He sprang from the car, all cares and concerns temporarily forgotten. She was wearing a faded blue dress she often wore when working in her studio. It had a creamy lace collar and its skirt bore traces of paint marks that had refused to launder out.

He opened his arms wide and, not caring who might be watching from the house, she ran into them as if he had just returned from a war.

In the little privacy the two of them had ever had together he had become very practiced at kissing, and as he kissed her now, fiercely and deeply, she clung to him as though she would never, ever, let him go.

He never wanted her to let him go. He never wanted to be anywhere but with her.

At last he reluctantly raised his head from hers and said, looking down into her eyes, “I’ve a lot to tell you, Lily darling. Let’s go down to the lake. There’s no one down there, is there?”

She shook her head. Her glossy hair was held away from her face by a ribbon tied at the nape of her neck. The temptation to undo it for the pleasure of watching her hair cascade free was almost too much for him.

“You were
wonderful
at Caernarvon, David,” she said as, her hand in his, they began walking in the direction of the lake. “I’ve begun a newspaper-cuttings book.”

He squeezed her hand tightly, loving the way she made him feel six feet tall. He didn’t pursue the subject of Caernarvon, though. Instead he said tautly, “I’ve told the King that I love you, Lily darling. I’ve told him I want to marry you.”

Anxiety flooded her face. “What did he say? Was he very disappointed you wanted to marry someone who isn’t a princess?”

He hesitated and then, choosing his words carefully, said, “He was a little disappointed—but then we’d known he would be. It’s going to take him a little time to come round to the idea, but I’m sure he will do eventually.”

“Does he want to meet me? Does he want to speak with my grandfather?”

There was no eagerness in her voice at the prospect of meeting the King. Only acute apprehension.

The dusk was deepening, the air still warm. He said gently, “He will want to meet you, darling. But not just yet. At the moment he still needs time to accept that my marriage is going to be different from the usual run of royal marriages.”

They had reached the jetty and, as had become their habit, they sat down on it, taking off their shoes and plunging their feet into water that, in the twilight, was the color of indigo.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “You know how I’ve told you plans are always being made for me and without my knowledge until it’s too late for me to object to them? Well, it’s been happening again. On a grand scale.”

Both his voice and his face were somber, and she knew that whatever his news, it was news he didn’t like.

He hugged her tightly. “I’m to leave in three weeks’ time for a three-month tour of duty aboard the battleship
Hindustan
. Next spring I’m to go to France. I’ll be mainly in Paris, staying with the de Valmy family. The Marquis de Valmy was a good friend of my grandfather’s. Then, in the autumn, I’m to go to Oxford—and I’m dead set against doing so. Mainly because while I’m there we’ll hardly ever be able to see each other, but also because I’m just not cut out to spend three years studying under the tutelage of a lot of stuffy dons.”

She bit her lip, wondering what she could say that would make him feel better about things. At last she said tentatively, “When you come down from Oxford, we’ll both be twenty-one. When we’re twenty-one, we won’t need anyone’s permission to marry.”

Her head was resting on his shoulder and he hugged her even closer, kissing her hair. “I will,” he said glumly. “It doesn’t matter how old I may be, I will still have to have the King’s permission—as will Bertie, Harry, and Georgie when it’s their turn to want to marry.”

He didn’t mention John, and she had far too much on her mind to wonder why it was he never did mention his youngest brother.

She said, trying to be optimistic, “Perhaps when your father has become used to the idea of you marrying me, he’ll think differently about you spending three years at Oxford?”

“Perhaps.” There was no confidence in his voice. To block out the thought of how violently opposed his father was to his marriage to anyone other than the Grand Duchess Olga, he hooked his finger under her chin and, tilting her head to his, kissed her long and lingeringly.