by Tamara Gill
“I’m not interested,” Kitty said.
“It’s from King Bertram himself.”
She didn’t care if it was from God, she was not going anywhere within ten feet of Baine Palace or any other royal residence. “Send it back. Inform His Majesty I am unable to attend but thank him for his graciousness.”
Mel lowered herself onto the chaise’s vacant space just past Kitty’s feet. “Since returning from Kisswyck, you have done nothing but spend your days either at your father’s bedside or wallowing on this damn chaise.”
“I’m in no mood for a lecture, thank you.”
Mel handed Kitty the invitation.
She swatted it away.
“Really, Kitty, you can be most annoying when caught up in your own pity.”
“This is not pity. I am truly suffering.”
Mel refused to give in. “King Bertram is granting you a peerage in your own right, the estate that goes with it, and an annual allowance that is attached to the title.”
“I’m not interested. I am quite content being a commoner.”
“That may be. But you can’t live out your days on this chaise. You haven’t gone to town since returning, nor have you entertained guests or even responded to Prince Edward’s visits. The man has inquired about your health at least ten times over the last fortnight.”
While she appreciated Edward’s concern, he was not the Baine she cared to hear from. That was Alex. And Alex hadn’t come to call on her once since she’d returned from Kisswyck. He hadn’t even sent her her favorite roses like he always used to do. “I’m happy just as I am.”
“Is that so?” Mel stood.
“Absolutely. In fact, I remember a wise soul once saying that a woman needed neither a man nor adventure to get on in life.”
Mel gave her an exasperated glare. “Do not throw those words back at me. I had just come out of a horrible marriage where my dratted husband had died. Plus, I have the money to do anything. If I take on another husband, I will lose my money and my freedom. Your situation is different.”
She sat up. “I have my father, this house and my father’s money. I do not need a title or anything else from the monarchy.”
She stood. “Send the invitation back.”
***
Alex eyed the twelve pairs of silk slippers he’d ordered from the royal dress makers and arranged them according to color inside the large box. He then layered a covering of rose petals on top.
A cough, sounding from somewhere behind him, interrupted his thoughts.
“A king does not have to ask permission to enter, Your Majesty,” he said, his focus remaining on the box sitting on his bed.
“I’m not here as your king, son.”
He turned around and faced his father who was dressed in full military uniform, as usual. “I’m sorry I didn’t attend the garden party yesterday, but I had other business.”
“Yes, I know.” King Bertram handed Alex a red ring box.
“What’s this?”
“It belonged to my mother. I thought perhaps you might have use for it.”
Alex opened the gold-trimmed box and gasped. Inside, propped on a red velvet cushion, sat a gold ring outlined with diamonds surrounding a large, center emerald. “This is Gran’s treasured emerald ring.”
“My father gave it to my mother on their one-year anniversary and she wore it until the day she died. She often told me that she wanted you to have it.”
He smiled. “Gran always said I was her favorite.”
“You were indeed.”
He closed the box and handed it back to King Bertram. “But I can’t take it. Not now at least, as I have no one to give it to.”
“You have Catherine.”
He most certainly did not have Kitty. “She doesn’t care for me anymore, Father. And I don’t blame her. I chose a mission over her. I should never have left her to go fetch that damn bonnet by herself. What sort of man am I?”
King Bertram sat on the edge of the bed. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened, Alex. You had no idea Baron Roc Black would show up. Nor did you know he was our man. Our realm’s number one enemy.”
“Have you sorted that all out, yet?”
The king shook his head. “No. But I am sure in time, it will sort itself out. The man can’t stay silent forever.”
At least they had the Knights Venomous’s most powerful man in captivity, causing the anti-monarchist movement to fall apart over the recent weeks. But there were still many questions about the whole ordeal no one had solved yet. Questions that would have normally fueled a fire in him to go out and learn the answers to. But he no longer cared for his old job, his old pursuits.
All he wanted was for his broken heart to mend.
And for that to happen, he needed to win back Kitty.
“How long do you intend to keep repackaging these gifts?” King Bertram asked, peering into the box of slippers.
“Until I get up the courage to call on Catherine.”
“How many times have you had to change out the rose petals?”
“More than you’d care to know.”
King Bertram stood. “You don’t need the gifts, Alex. You are worthy of Miss Culpepper just by being yourself.”
“Thank you, Father. But I don’t believe Catherine sees it that way.”
“Be adventurous, for once, Alex.”
“I have always been adventurous. I ran Countavia’s top spy ring.”
The king smiled. “You never put yourself out there where your heart has been concerned. If I recall correctly, you once said you fancied Miss Culpepper because you believed her to be demure and quiet. You believed her to be safe. Everything you ever did with Catherine was planned, when it should have been spontaneous.”
“True. But now I realize she isn’t the woman I thought her to be. I don’t even know who Catherine is anymore.”
“And are you still the man you once thought yourself to be?”
Somehow, his father was turning this little talk into a lecture. “Please, Father. I just need to let this go.”
The king eyed the box on the bed. “That’s an awful lot of shoes to simply let rot.” He bent and plucked a pair of pink slippers from the collection. “I suppose your Mother might like these.”
“Mother hates pink.” Alex reached for the slippers. “She’d love the yellow or blue pair.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
He knew damn well his father hadn’t forgotten the colors the Queen favored.
“I did hear your mother say her maid, Miss Parker, fancies pink.”
“Mother is not giving Miss Parker the pink slippers. If Catherine was forced to choose just one pair, it would be these.” He paused. “I think. Or maybe she’d like the green ones better. Or the pale blue ones. Or…”
His father slapped him on the back. “Go to Catherine. Now.”
“And if she still rejects me?”
“Then she’s not worthy of you.”
“You have to say that. You’re my father.”
“But I believe it as your king, too. You were the best covert agent this realm has ever had. You spared the lives of many men thanks to the information you gathered. And if Catherine can’t see that, then she truly is not worthy of you.”
He disagreed. What concerned Catherine wasn’t his spy work or any of his other work for the realm. She cared most about Alex, the man who grew roses for her. The man who shared picnics with her. The man who in her presence shed all his defenses and presented her with just who he was at his core. The man who trusted her like she trusted him. “God, I’ve been a fool.”
“When it comes to love, son, no one is a fool.”
“I have to go.” Alex was out the door before his father had a chance to weigh in.
***
Kitty paced the bedroom trying to decide if maybe she should accept King Bertram’s invitation to the palace, after all. Even if she declined the title, she would at least have the opportunity to pass a note Ale
x as she was certain the king wouldn’t refuse her that one request.
A knock scraped at the door.
“Come,” she said, approaching the window to gaze out at the small back courtyard behind the townhouse.
A hint of lemon and spice caressed her nose.
Alex.
She didn’t know if turning around was the thing to do. But surely she couldn’t remain silent. Not now. “What do you want?”
“I owe you an apology?”
She spun around. “For what? You did nothing wrong.”
“I failed to accept you as my equal, when deep down I always knew you were.”
“Really?”
Alex sighed. “Yes. Don’t you see, Kitty. You are my everything. My home.”
“Your home?”
“You’re the one person I can be myself with. You’re also the one person who I do not need a structured plan to be around. Of course I never realized that before, for if I had, we wouldn’t be at odds at the moment.” He placed the box he was holding on the bed. “Having spent so many years leading the spy regiment, I wanted my personal life to free of the unexpected. Though now I see the unexpected is exactly what I need.”
“And I’m the unexpected?”
“You’re my adventurous minx.”
“Good to know, but where does this leave us?”
Alex retrieved a red box from his coat pocket. He lowered on one knee. “I hope it leaves us with you saying yes to becoming my wife.” He opened the box.
A magnificent emerald ring sat inside.
Kitty cried. “Yes. I would love to marry you.”
Alex rose, slipped the ring on Kitty’s finger, then hugged her tight. “I love you, Catherine.”
“And I, you.”
Alex pulled away. “Though I do hope you can promise me one thing.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “That depends.”
“When our daughters are born, please never tell them about what went on at Kisswyck.”
She smiled. “Are you referring to me having chased a killer or are you referring to my boldness in the carriage and in your bed?”
“All of it.”
Kitty wrapped her arms around Alex’s neck. “And what if we have sons. What will you tell or not tell them?”
“I will teach them not to be a dolt like their father had been.”
“I suppose that will do.” She eyed the box on the bed. “I see you didn’t bring any flowers today.”
“Not exactly.” Alex reached for the box and pulled off the lid. “But I did bring rose petals.”
Kitty offered a slight laugh as she loomed over the box. “Those are shoes.”
“A dozen of them.”
“I love them, but they are an odd gift, no?”
“I had them specially made, with a slightly padded inner sole and a firm leather outer sole. You can chase all the villains you want in these, and never have to worry about cutting up your feet.”
Kitty smiled as she reached for the pair of pink slippers. “I appreciate you thinking me capable of chasing criminals, but in truth, I would much prefer to chase our children—and Culain—around the lovely halls of Kisswyck.”
Alex beamed. “You have made me the happiest man on earth, today.”
Kitty was glad of it, as Alex had made her the happiest lady on earth, today.
The Landon Scandal Sheet
August 1808
Morning Edition
By the Somewhat Anonymous D.T.S., EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
PRINCE OF SPIES MARRIES LADY ADVENTUROUS
In a twist for the Baine family, His Majesty King Bertram and Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, threw caution to the wind and allowed their third son, His Royal Highness Prince Alexander Nicholas Albert Richard, to marry in an outdoor ceremony at Kisswyck Abbey that was officiated by the local cardinal.
In attendance were all the Baine princes, the realms greatest spies, (names withheld), and a Countavian-born Italian princess. Notably absent were the Duke of Dirksbee and all members of the board of Weatherback’s.
It is said Prince Alexander could not choose between his brothers as to who would be best man, so instead chose his Irish Wolfhound, Culain.
The bride wore a pink-hued gown with a diamond-encrusted brooch in the shape of an Irish Wolfhound. The brooch is rumored to have been a gift from Prince Alexander. She also wore a gold pocket-watch tied to the ribbon at her waist.
This leaves only two Baine princes left yet to be married. And considering the quirkiness of our esteemed royal family, one can only imagine what the next wedding shall bring. But one thing is for certain, as long as Countavia thrives, its subjects will be forever SEDUCED BY SCANDAL.
To read more books in the Seduced by Scandal series, visit Angelique Armae’s website at:
https://angeliquearmae.com/books.html#historicalromance
About the Author
USA TODAY Best-selling author Angelique Armae is a native New Yorker who loves all things royal, can trace her Irish roots back to the Scottish Highlands, is half Italian, and is owned by a long-haired Tuxedo feline. As a child her favorite toy was Emerald the Witch, a small doll with green eyes, green hair and purple skin. She spends most days writing, unless her cat deems otherwise.
Website:
https://angeliquearmae.com
Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/c6u8g7
A MARQUESS FOR CONVENIENCE
Bianca Blythe
Chapter One
The stars shimmered, the moon glowed, and Madeline’s heart tumbled downward as she inched from her hiding place.
Not tonight.
London had had the decency to be swathed in thick fog all week, yet this evening every object in the heavens seemed intent on emitting luminescent beams poets might rave about in iambic pentameter.
The wind, stronger on the roof, swept undeterred over the multitude of chimneys, and Madeline glanced downward. Glossy ebony coaches rolled outside the French ambassador’s home with the steadiness and majestic slowness of funeral processions. Women’s dresses glimmered under the moonlight, and even the coachmen, adorned with lustrous top hats and unused whips that swayed in the breeze, radiated elegance.
Madeline pulled her surreptitiously purchased greatcoat tightly about her body, lest her gown sparkle with unwanted potency. Few hues rivaled the impracticality of ivory.
The traffic had stilled. Most of the visitors must be inside now, feasting on the sumptuous sugary concoctions of the famous pâtissier whom the ambassador’s wife had procured. Ever since the war ended, everyone seemed delighted to indulge in all the French delicacies they’d denied themselves as they imbibed brandy and burgundies with glee.
Madeline moved from the chimney’s shadow and crawled over the slanted roof. The wind brushed against her, ruffling her locks and the hem of her gown, as if admonishing her for hampering its incessant path. Her heartbeat quickened, interfering with the rhythm of her movements.
Just a few feet more.
She wound her way to the small window on the top floor.
Madeline rested her feet gingerly on the ledge. The elaborate facade that adorned the window frame seemed designed to aid unwelcome visitors, and she swiveled her body to face the room and lowered her torso. Athleticism came naturally to her, even if housebreaking remained a more novel pastime.
Madeline had spotted the window open last week and she swung her legs from the roof. She glanced at the street, wary of the cluster of guards below. Still, no vigilant sentry met her eye, pointing a stubby finger toward her and calling for others to stop her.
Roof clambering was not her favorite entrance method, but servants at these events possessed an unfortunate habit of announcing everyone’s arrival in a lofty, old world ritual. At some point the magistrate would investigate who’d attended the event, and she preferred for her name to be removed from any incriminating lists. Any guest who saw her would assume she’d been invited. After all she was a baroness.
She tappe
d her legs against the glass panes, and the window swung open easily. The guards outside didn’t have the imagination to know to stop her, and she smiled. Breaking the window would have been unideal.
Even if the musicians tackled their violins with vigor, sending French songs floating through the air, someone might notice shards of glass tumbling from the heavens. Shattered glass had a propensity to damage her slippers even further than clambering on roofs.
She slid into England’s most French establishment, and her feet thudded against the wooden floor. She blinked into darkness and stretched out her arms to familiarize herself with her surroundings.
The stale scent and narrow corridor hardly denoted sumptuousness, but in her experience the French displayed a distinct tendency toward hypocrisy.
The Costantini family depended on her success, and Madeline strode down the darkened hallway.
She removed the unfashionable greatcoat and abandoned it on the floor. Later the magistrate could suspect that a man had committed the crime. She smoothed her gown. Hopefully she would find stairs that would lead to the ballroom.
She brushed her fingers against the wall, stopping when she came to an open space.
Stairs.
This was it. The last chance to change her mind. She could still grab her coat, button it up, and sneak out the way she’d come.
Yet that was impossible.
This was the Costantini family’s inheritance.
Everyone dismissed the Italian peninsula as a compilation of romantic hilltops and the people as backwards and incapable of doing anything else except manage vineyards and the odd olive grove. It didn’t surprise her that the French ministers who’d been gifted the jewels by the jubilant army of peasants had ignored the forcefully worded letters from Italian solicitors which demanded the jewels’ return, but Madeline would not permit the Costantini family to lose their heirlooms forever, no matter how fond the French ambassador’s wife was of parading in the stolen sapphires.