The Trouble With Princesses (31 page)

“Rupert, how is Papa?” Emma hurried forward, giving her brother a quick, fierce hug before letting go. “He’s not—”

“No, but it won’t be long. I am glad you are here. Sigrid and Otto are here. They are in with him now.”

Sigrid was Emma and Rupert’s older sister, and King Otto was her husband, a man who had at one time been promised to wed Emma. Thank heavens that had not come to pass and that Rupert had relented and given Emma permission to marry Nick, the man she loved.

Luckily neither Sigrid nor Otto harbored any hard feelings on the matter. In fact, from what she had last heard, Sigrid was quite content in her marriage, although, knowing Sigrid, she was even more content being a queen.

“He has been asking for you,” Rupert said. “I’ll warn you, though, that he is in and out of consciousness. I’m not sure what state he’ll be in. He may not even know you are here.”

Emma took a deep, bracing breath, then nodded, Nick at her side with an arm around her waist. Together they moved forward through a set of massive painted doors and into the room beyond.

Rupert did not follow, but turned and crossed to Ariadne instead. “How has she been?”

“Fine. Worried naturally, but bearing up well.”

“And you?” He reached for her hand. “How was your journey?”

“Long, exhausting, but I am quite well.”

He studied her more carefully, as if something further was on his mind. “You’re certain? You are not . . .”

“Not what?” She considered for another moment before she suddenly realized what he must mean. “No! No, I am not”—she lowered her voice—“with child. I had my monthly last week.”

An expression of immense relief came over his face, one that surprised, and oddly enough, displeased her. Not that she had wanted there to be a child, not now, with everything so uncertain and unsettled between them, but still, he didn’t have to seem so happy about it.

Although perhaps she was being unfair. He had a great deal to contend with at the moment, not the least of which was the dreadful prospect of his father’s approaching death. And when that occurred, he would become king, with all the attendant duties and responsibilities of that office. He was regent now, of course, but still, it was not the same. The weight of the nation would be his to bear alone.

“Ariadne, I—”

But he got no further, as a well-dressed man—one of his ministers perhaps—stepped forward to interrupt them.

“Pardon, Your Royal Highness, but a matter of some urgency has arisen. If I might perhaps have a word.”

Rupert scowled and dropped her hand. “Yes, of course. Just a moment, if you would.”

The man bowed. “Certainly.” He stepped discreetly away.

“I am sorry,” Rupert told her. “It seems there is always something to do since my return. I suppose I was away too long and must now suffer the consequences. I shall be back shortly. If you wish, you may join Emma and Nick.”

“No, such times are for family. I would be out of place.”

“Believe me, you would not. You are more family than many who attend my father. The room is crowded with physicians and clergy and friends come to pay their last respects. No one would complain of your presence.”

She hated sickrooms, though she would never say so. “If you wish me there I shall go. Otherwise, perhaps I might be shown to my room. It has been a long journey.”

“No, of course, you are tired. You must be allowed to change and rest.” He strode across and pulled the bell. “Someone shall be here shortly to attend you. If you will excuse me.”

She watched as he left, regretting as he disappeared down the long corridor that she had not found a moment to kiss him first.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“T
he king is dead. Long live the king.”

The solemn phrase that Ariadne had heard that fateful morning four days ago repeated itself now in her head. Friedrich IV, King of Rosewald, was dead and his son, Rupert II, had ascended to the throne in his place.

Yet to her Rupert was still just Rupert, even if he did rule a kingdom now.

Still, as she gazed at him from where she sat next to Emma in the palace’s formal drawing room, there was no sign of the relaxed, playful man she had known as her lover. He was reserved and austere, his demeanor as stark as the black clothing he wore.

They were all attired in black, of course, now that the palace was officially in mourning. An elaborate state funeral had been held earlier that day, followed by a private graveside service attended by family only, which had included aunts, uncles, and myriad cousins, some whose connection was quite distant. She had been the sole outsider to be included, Emma insisting that she join them.

“Of course you must be there,” Emma had told her before the service. “You and Rupert are engaged. That makes you family.”

But other than the four of them, no one knew about the engagement. Rupert had made no mention of it since her arrival, and to her knowledge he had not discussed it with anyone else. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be a secret.

Still, no one complained of her presence at the graveside. Nor had anyone complained when she held vigil with the family in the king’s chambers while he breathed his last. Despite her aversion to such doleful matters, she’d sat on a sofa beside Emma and held her hand through the sorrowful ordeal. Nick had sat on his wife’s other side and done the same.

Emma had wept on both their shoulders once her father finally passed away.

At least, Ariadne had whispered to her, she had gotten to see him again and he had gotten to see her and his grandsons. They had all been able to say their good-byes.

Rupert had stood across the curtain-darkened room, arms stiffly at his sides, clearly wishing for no sympathy. She’d tried afterward to offer him comfort, but he’d turned her gently away.

“Thank you for your concern,” he’d said, “but I am entirely well. My father had been ill a very long time and this day was not unexpected. He is at peace now and what more can any of us wish for in the end?”

He had not shed so much as a single tear, though she knew he grieved. He had also not visited her bedchamber, an absence that made her all the sadder.

She sighed quietly to herself now and raised her teacup to her lips. Emma sat, her own cup full and untouched, forgotten. Gently, she took it from her friend and set it aside.

“Mayhap you ought to go upstairs and rest,” Ariadne suggested. “You are expecting again, after all. I am sure no one would notice if you slipped away.”

Emma sent her a wry smile, coming back from wherever it was she had been. “Then you do not know my family. Decorum is a must, and we are all expected to remain until the last of those wishing to pay their respects have gone on their way. Truly I am fine and thankfully Sigrid will make sure no one greatly outstays their welcome.”

Yes, Ariadne decided, looking at the refined blond beauty accepting condolences across the room, that was a fact she could readily believe.

Mourners approached singly or in small groups to express their sorrow and share a remembrance or two about King Friedrich. Emma was gracious to each and every one, no matter how sad and weary she might be inside. Nick was there as well to buoy her up. Ariadne knew Emma relied on him, leaning into his strength when she needed an extra measure of support. And there were her children—currently safe in the nursery—who brought her joy and never failed to bring a smile to her face.

It was near the end of the reception when she left Emma and Nick and went in search of the refreshment table. She’d scarcely eaten more than a few bites of breakfast, and nothing since then, having refused a plate offered by one of the servants earlier in the day. But now she was ravenous and had no wish to wait until dinner to eat.

Picking up a beautifully patterned china plate, she began inspecting the selections on the buffet. As she did, she heard a pair of women conversing not far away.

“So which one do you think he will choose?” said the first woman. “They’ve all come here, you know, like merchants displaying their best silks, waving their prettiest wares under his nose.”

“Estella, what a thing to say, and at a funeral no less. The old king is barely in his grave. I don’t think the new one is thinking about a bride.”

“He may not be thinking about it, but you can be sure his ministers are busy making plans, not to mention certain members of his family.”

“Queen Sigrid, do you mean?”

“Certainly not the other one, married to that Englishman for love, no less, even if the fellow has been elevated into royal circles.”

The second woman made noises of agreement; then the other continued.

“As for the parties in question and their lovely young daughters, they’ve all been playing up their expressions of sympathies, but have you noticed how careful they are to make sure the king gets a good look at the merchandise? He’ll be in mourning for a few months, as required, but then it will be time to take a wife and start his nursery. After all, what king does not wish for sons to carry on his line?”

“True. Quite true. He’ll pick a royal, of course.”

“Undoubtedly. Princess Sophia of Lorraine must certainly be in the running. Now that the French monarchy has been reestablished, a connection there would only strengthen Rosewald’s position, and I understand she has a dowry of twenty million francs. She has a lovely face, which cannot hurt either.”

“Which one is she?”

“Over there near the window. The blonde seated to the left of the tall Grecian urn.”

Ariadne looked across the room, locating a slender young woman with a demure cast to her fair-complexioned features.

“They would make beautiful babies together—do you not agree?” the first woman said.

If you like long noses and thin lips,
Ariadne thought, gripping the serving spoon in her hand far too tightly.
That girl and Rupert will never have babies together.

“Then there is Anna-Louisa of Carinthia,” the woman named Estella continued. “She has Hapsburg blood, you know. Her father is one of the emperor’s cousins. An alliance there would be quite advantageous to them both. He would gain a closer connection to the emperor, while she would be a queen. Were I one to wager, I would put my money on her.”

“A shame she isn’t a bit more personable, though.”

“By which you mean she’s a cold fish.”

The other woman laughed. “As a Norwegian cod in February.”

Ariadne tracked their gazes toward the far corner, where a dark, proud-looking girl sat next to an equally severe-looking older woman, who gave every indication of being her mother. Both women held their spines rigidly straight, as if they had steel rods in their corsets. And perhaps they did.

“If he chooses that one, he’ll simply have to look for his pleasures elsewhere, as most men do. Then again, they all stray once they have an heir or two, and often long before that. No, compatibility in marriage is the last concern of any royal, and King Rupert will be no different.”

A chill traced down Ariadne’s spine and she turned away, not wanting to hear another word. Blankly, she stared at the plate in her hand, having forgotten that she even held it. She wasn’t hungry anymore; the conversation had quite driven her appetite away. Though why that should be, she could not say.

Before leaving England, she’d been searching for the right way to end her engagement to Rupert, so what had changed, assuming there even was an engagement between them any longer?

She should be relieved if he was looking elsewhere.

Shouldn’t she?

Yet the idea of him marrying one of those girls—it made her blood boil.

It made her sick.

But she could not afford to let any of those reactions show here, in front of so many inquisitive eyes. Taking a carefully measured breath, she composed her features, making sure they were quite blank.

Only then did she return to Emma’s side.

•   •   •

From the opposite side of the room, Rupert watched Ariadne lean close and murmur something to Emma. A moment later she rose and left the room.

He wanted to follow, but forced himself not to go after her. Just as he’d forced himself not to seek her out at night these last few days.

Having her so near yet not touching her was killing him. But after she’d told him that she was not with child, he’d decided they shouldn’t take the risk again. They’d been lucky before, although at the time he hadn’t minded the idea. They’d been only days away from marrying and, more than anything else, he knew that a child would bind her to him, force her to realize that she belonged with him.

But nothing had been the same since his return to Rosewald.

First there had been attending to his father during his final days. At the same time he had been expected to resume the full weight of his duties as regent in preparation for becoming king.

Of course, he’d known this day would come, had had time to prepare himself for the loss of his father. Yet how could any man truly prepare himself for the enormity of such a situation? Dealing with the grief of losing a parent while at the same time assuming the mantle of his role as sovereign?

But he was king now; it was a role for which he’d been destined from birth. From his earliest days, he’d been trained to understand a king’s duties, to know how he ought to behave and what was expected of him, not only in ruling the country but in his personal life as well.

His court and his nation were looking to him now for leadership and guidance during this time of transition. So however much he wished he could take Ariadne by the hand and lead her to the private family chapel to wed, he knew there were many who would view such haste with derision.

They would speculate that he was marrying her because she was with child. They would hear of the scandal in England and see her as a disgraced woman. There would always have been some murmurs to that effect, but they would be magnified tenfold were he to rush them into marriage so quickly after his father’s death.

And so he had decided that he and Ariadne must wait.

The expected mourning period was at least a year, but waiting that long was absolutely out of the question—protocol be damned. A few months, he reasoned, first with an engagement, then with a wedding ceremony.