The Trouble With Princesses (32 page)

Six or eight months, that was the most he would wait. He supposed they would have to agree to some huge state wedding ceremony, but he would abide it if only Ariadne would consent to the union.

He scowled. He’d had her exactly where he wanted her back in London, hurrying her down the aisle before she had a chance to think of a way out. But now he would have to persuade her all over again, and for the first time in his life he wasn’t entirely confident of receiving the answer he so strongly desired.

There was also another difficulty in selecting her as his bride. His ministers would not be in favor of the union. In fact, he knew more than one of them who would rail against what they would consider his imprudent choice and try to talk him out of it. Even his father had tried to do the same as he’d lain on his deathbed.

Rupert twisted the signet ring he now wore on his finger; it was the king’s ring, wrought of ancient gold and a magnificent square-cut ruby that legend held had been part of a war prize won by the very first king of Rosewald. Rupert’s scowl deepened as he recalled the conversation with his father.

“Rupert, I have but little time remaining.” His father’s voice had been thin and raspy, but with an underlying ring of strength and authority reminiscent of his prime. “You must remember your duty.”

“My duty is always my primary concern. You know that, Papa.”

“Then why have you not yet taken a wife?” The old king drew in a wheezing breath that rattled like a set of keys in his frail lungs. “Why have you not given me grandchildren to comfort me in such times? They should be playing here, my grandsons.”

“You have grandsons. Emma and Sigrid’s children. They visited you yesterday.”

“But those boys cannot inherit. They cannot continue the line. Only you.”

His father broke off, coughing long and hard. When it was over and the physician had withdrawn out of earshot again, his father’s rheumy eyes locked on him with piercing intent. “Grandchildren. You must swear.”

“I will marry and have children, Papa,” Rupert assured him. “You are not to worry about my continuing the line.”

“But I do worry.” He took another thin breath. “Have worried but held my tongue.”

Rupert refrained from lifting his eyes to the heavens. Over the years, his father had hardly held his tongue on the subject of Rupert’s lack of a wife or his desire for grandchildren from such a union.

“You must swear to me that you will not continue to delay in selecting a bride,” his father had said.

Rupert’s thoughts had gone to Ariadne, and he’d found himself wishing suddenly that she was by his side. But giving his promise on this point no longer presented a problem. “I swear.”

King Friedrich nodded against his pillow, his white hair hanging in lank wisps around his head. “She must be of excellent lineage, a virtuous woman of royal blood.”

“Of course.”

Again, Ariadne satisfied the requirements. As for the virtuous part, she had only been unvirtuous with him, so he didn’t see how that could count against her.

“The alliance with her family must strengthen Rosewald, must help to make it invincible. You must do everything in your power to ensure that the kingdom not only survives but thrives. Select a bride with wealth and powerful political affiliations. One whose allies will become our allies and who will make our enemies, or any who would stand against us, quake at the thought of our very name.”

Ah, now we have come to the impasse.

Rupert had fallen silent, considering his words. When he’d thought to marry Ariadne in England, he’d planned to return home and present their marriage as an irrevocable act that his father and everyone else would simply have to learn to accept.

But he had not married her, and since he had not, there would inevitably now be complications.

She had no family; not even her kingdom remained, as her ancestral lands had been divided up like scraps of meat tossed to a pack of hungry dogs. Nothing remained of Nordenbourg except its memory. She could bring no political ties to her marriage, for her former country had none. As for her dowry, it was adequate for her purposes but hardly sufficient to tempt a king.

She would bring nothing but herself to a marriage. Once, he would have laughed to think of uniting himself with her, but no longer. He wanted her, in his bed and by his side as his bride, regardless what others might say.

Not that he had ever planned to get anyone’s permission when it came to choosing his wife, not even that of his dying parent. But unlike earlier times when a royal could be an autocrat, this was the modern age. He could not simply act like some feudal prince and behead anyone who disapproved of his selection—however intriguing such an idea might be. Instead, he was obliged to consider other points of view—or at least appear to do so.

As he’d sat at his father’s bedside, however, he’d realized that in his heart of hearts, he wanted his blessing on his choice of bride. Yet he’d hesitated to mention Ariadne. His father had remarked what a lovely young woman she seemed, but that didn’t mean he would approve of her as a daughter-in-law.

“And what of compatibility in marriage?” Rupert ventured. “What of finding a woman who will be more than a good queen to our people but a good queen for me? A consort who will make me happy?”

“Happy?” his father retorted on another wheezing exhalation. “What does being happy have to do with marriage? That’s why a man takes a mistress. Compatibility is for peasants, not kings. Why this sudden outpouring of sentimentality? You’ve always been so sensible about such matters.”

The king’s tired eyes narrowed. “You’ve spent too much time in England listening to that maudlin drivel of your sister’s. It’s all well and good for Emmaline to throw herself away on that English earl, but you—” He broke off, needing another long drink of water.

“I thought you liked Lyndhurst.”

“He’s a good man, but he’s not the king she could have had. She threw Otto aside and let Sigrid claim him. Now there’s a girl with a sensible head on her shoulders. Sigrid always has known how to keep her sights on what’s important.”

Yes, Sigrid had spent her life focused on status and riches, but she’d never struck him as being contented, certainly not as being happy. Sometimes he wondered if she regretted the choices she’d made in her life.

And what of himself?

Until a few weeks ago, his life had been set in a predictable path, one that included a marriage based solely on its benefits to Rosewald and the Whyte family line. But now he was no longer sure of that course.

And in those minutes when he’d sat talking to his father, he’d found himself questioning many long-held beliefs. For the first time in his life, he’d found himself wanting more than to satisfy the dictates of honor and duty.

Yet isn’t that why he had offered to marry Ariadne? To satisfy honor? To keep her from ruin, since he had claimed her virginity? Or was it more? Was his insistence on a wedding between them just an excuse, a means of having what he really wanted—
her
?

Had Emma overheard him, she would have said he was in love.

But that really was nonsense. Even he hadn’t changed that much.

No, he wanted Ariadne, craved her in his bed with an almost relentless desire. But she had many valuable qualities outside the bedchamber as well. She was a worthy companion, a woman who would make an excellent queen and consort. She wasn’t intimidated by him and would never back down from a challenge. And she would amuse him too.

But that didn’t mean he loved her.

It’s just that he knew he wouldn’t grow bored in her company, he wouldn’t tire of her the way he would one of the other more eligible princesses on the list his ministers had prepared.

His father’s final words to him had been to choose an advantageous bride. But he didn’t see why he couldn’t choose one who gave him pleasure instead.

He gazed around the drawing room again, taking in the black-clad royals and nobles who put him in mind of a murder of crows. Or perhaps vultures would be more apt, come to pick over the moldering bones of his father.

His lips curled cynically, fully aware that many of the young royal ladies here today were being paraded for his inspection. He wasn’t naive; he knew they had come as much to catch his matrimonial interest as to pay their final respects.

But he wanted none of them.

His eyes drifted to the door through which Ariadne had gone, wishing again that he could follow her.

Instead, he lifted a glass of brandy to his lips and strove for patience.

Chapter Twenty-eight

T
he palace quieted once the funeral was over, most of the Whyte family relations and nearly all of the other mourners expressing their final condolences and their good-byes over the next few days.

Ariadne spent most of her time with Emma, who was already talking about returning to England. With another baby on the way, Emma didn’t want to delay her return too long and find the journey more difficult. Sigrid and her children were still in residence, although her husband had left the day after the funeral, citing pressing business at home as the reason why he could not stay longer.

As for Rupert, Ariadne saw him at dinner each evening and then for cards, or some other entertainment, after the meal. But they never seemed to spend time alone and he still had not come to her room at night.

She thought about confronting him and demanding to know exactly where their relationship stood. Was their affair over? Had he decided he wished to end their engagement as well? But then she would remember that he had just lost his father and that he was in mourning.

In the end, she held her tongue and said nothing.

So she was surprised on the sixth evening when Rupert drew her momentarily aside, using the excuse of everyone arranging themselves into whist teams to have a private word.

“Meet me later tonight in the library,” he said quietly, so that only she could hear. “I need to see you alone.”

Her heart beat faster as she met his gaze, finding his eyes intensely blue. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice even quieter than his.

Usually she was quite adept at whist, but she let her partner down badly that night, playing one ill-chosen card after another. She just couldn’t seem to make herself concentrate, her mind too focused on her upcoming rendezvous with Rupert.

What did he want? And why the library? Why not her bedchamber or his? Or did he mean to end things between them after all?

A lump settled in the pit of her stomach at the thought.

At the end of the game, her whist partner—one of the last Whyte cousins still staying in the palace—threw his cards down in disgust and stalked across to the liquor cabinet. Soon after, brandy glass in hand, he turned and glared at her.

She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t think she’d ever played so horribly in her entire life. But she would make their bruising loss up to him another time. Right now, she was thinking again about her upcoming meeting with Rupert.

Beside her, Emma concealed a yawn. “Mercy, I am done in,” she said to Ariadne. “What about you? Tired?”

“
Hmm
, not quite yet, but do go on. I think I may drop by the library and see if there is anything to read.”

“Well, if you cannot find a book in a library as expansive as this one, then you do not really wish to read. But I must admit we are all rather dull company these days. Do not stay up too late.”

“I won’t,” Ariadne assured her. She sent Nick a smile as he joined his wife, watching with an uncharacteristic feeling of envy as he placed a loving hand at Emma’s waist.

They all said their good nights, several others of their party doing the same, including Queen Sigrid. She and Ariadne shared a casual bit of small talk as they both strolled out into the hall, then parted at the main staircase, Sigrid going up while Ariadne continued on into the part of the palace that housed the library.

The room truly was as impressive as Emma had said, quite literally holding tens of thousands of volumes inside its floor-to-ceiling shelves. Woolen Turkey carpets in mellow shades of red and brown covered the floors, giving the library an intimacy that belied its size. A selection of plush sofas and chairs were arranged in easy groupings for the occupants’ comfort, while on the air drifted the warm scents of polish, ink, and parchment.

All in all, it was an extremely inviting room—or so Ariadne would have thought had she been there under other circumstances. As it was, she paid little heed to her surroundings, her nerves on edge as she waited for Rupert to arrive.

She heard a footfall at the door, but it was only one of the servants.

“Is there anything with which I can assist you, Your Highness?” the man inquired.

She shook her head. “Nothing, thank you.”

With a bow, he withdrew.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty, the time moving so slowly that she finally did go to peruse some of the selections on the shelves.

She had just opened a book of seventeenth-century French poetry when she heard movement at the door once again. This time it was Rupert who walked in.

She shoved the book back onto its shelf, then swung around to face him. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind about meeting me.”

“I was detained. My cousin Geoff never has learned to take a hint and know when an evening is over.” He closed the double doors at his back, then walked farther into the room, his shoes silent against the thick carpet.

“I don’t think His Grace was terribly happy with me at the card table tonight. I played dreadfully and we lost every hand.”

Rupert smiled. “Defeat builds character. I am sure he will survive.”

She moved closer, stopping when she was only a few inches away. Less than a month ago, she would have gone straight into his arms, would have kissed him without a moment’s hesitation. Now she no longer knew if she should—or if he would want her to.

He made no move to embrace her either.

Rather than feeling her usual bravado, she felt her confidence shrink.