There were pitfalls, of course—the eagle-eyed Merlin, for one, and Eleanor for another. If they caught a whiff of the deception—Marie shuddered to think what they’d do to the two girls. It was treason, what they were planning—a betrayal of the highest order—a dark and terrible magic that would corrupt the very foundation of the empire. No matter how light and pure their intentions were, it was a perversion of the natural order of things. It would mean the Aquitaine bloodline would not continue—the victory Henry had won on the bloody fields of Orleans would be for naught. The treaty the Merlin had crafted to ensure no mage would ever rule—a treaty that protected magic and non-magic alike—would be nullified.
Hell, as they say, would break loose.
To give up an empire for personal happiness was madness, but Marie had never wanted to rule—had never wanted to be queen—had never truly believed she would inherit the crown. She had always felt lesser, unworthy, too small and insignificant for so large a role. All she wanted was to be happy. Although, perhaps if she was being completely honest, Marie would admit that she did feel a little twinge of sadness and jealousy when she saw Aelwyn in all her finery down there, reveling in the love and appreciation of her people. Marie herself would not have chosen a blue column of fire to mark her appearance. No, that was pure Aelwyn: drama, magic, the unknowable mystery of Avalon. Marie would have chosen something simpler to announce herself: perhaps a crown of flowers on her head would have been her only jewel for a public appearance.
Either way, the point was now moot. Once the plan was in effect—a plan she herself had set in motion—she would no longer be the princess. She would never face the court again, never have to wake up to the blank faces of her ladies, never have to sit in session on any issue, never see her mother again. If only they could leave as soon as possible, so she would no longer linger on the doubts that had started to cloud her decision.
Gill kept his strong arms around her, and his heart beat steadily in his chest. Marie decided she would spend her future with him, place her happiness with his. “Let us go, as soon as we can,” she whispered. “Please.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” he whispered. “I promise. It won’t be long now.”
She nodded and sighed.
“Now I need you to do something for me,” he said. “Dance with me, Princess. After all, we know the steps.”
She turned to him with a smile. To the strains of the Lovers’ Waltz, they danced the night away.
She was the princess. She had the fire, the dress, the magic, and—thanks to the power of the illusion spell—Marie’s face on her visage. The joy of the crowd. The hand of the prince on her waist. They finished the waltz and Leo escorted her to the podium, where the queen and the Merlin were waiting.
“My darling daughter!” Eleanor exclaimed, enveloping her in her arms and kissing her profusely on her cheeks. “Well done!”
“Princess,” Emrys said, bowing. The Merlin looked at her keenly, but Aelywn would not meet his eye and kept her chin lowered. The white stone that amplified the spell was tucked underneath her neckline, and the glamour it cast made certain that not even those with the power of sight could penetrate its haze. But still she trembled before the Merlin, her treacherous black heart cowering in front of the most powerful mage in the world.
Now Leo was leading her back to the crowd, back to the dance. He was looking at her with a wonder-filled light in his eyes, as if he had never seen her before. As he led her through the dance, holding her in his arms tightly, he was just as strong and confident and handsome as the day when they had first met in that hallway. She felt her body responding all too eagerly to his touch.
She had not felt this way since Lanselin.…
She could not think of Lanselin right now.…
His hand was on her waist, the other on her shoulder as she swayed to the tune of the music, their steps exquisite and perfect. It felt as if they were the only two people in the room, even while they were surrounded by the entire court. Leo had not said a word to her since her appearance. Instead he had a glazed, dazed look on his face, as if he could not quite believe his luck.
“My prince, you are so quiet,” she said coquettishly. “Do you not like the dress?”
“Who are you?” he asked abruptly. Before she could answer, he added, “You are different tonight. Where have you been all this time?”
“I have been right here, my lord. Right in front of you.” She smiled.
“Then I am a fool for never noticing before,” he said, and held her even more tightly. It was tradition at the royal ball for the princess to dance with lords and courtiers out of courtesy—to entertain the Viceroy of India and the Minister of Zanzibar, to laugh at the jokes of the Duke of Buckingham—but Leo did not let her go, would not let her leave his side, would not give her up to anyone in the room.
Instead, they danced for hours. With every waltz, every step, Aelwyn understood there was no turning back now. She had fooled the queen and the Merlin, the entire court of England and France: the great empire. She would be the princess. She would have love and power and position, higher than she could have dreamed.
It was everything she’d ever wanted.
Her feet were tired. Her dress was made of magic, and fit like it was made for her and her alone, but the shoes were another matter. The heels were very high, and the narrow shape pinched her toes. Ronan wanted nothing more than to sit down, but there were so many lords and gentlemen who had written their names on her dance card, and it felt rude to turn them away.
When she’d found out who “Heath” really was, she had wanted to hit him, or run after him—explain, or apologize—but she understood that it was too late. He had been looking for something, had been testing her, and she had failed. If she ran after him now, his disgust with her would be complete. And Wolf had looked a bit disgusted with her, she could tell; she’d seen his lip curl a little at the sight of her face when she received the news.
So she danced, and looked gay, and pretended that she was having a wonderful time, that she was just glad to be there, to be part of it all. When the princess appeared in a ball of flame that turned into a hundred blue songbirds, Ronan had gasped in delight and marveled at the depth and breadth of the Merlin’s magic. Her own moonstones paled in comparison next to the blue fire that was Marie-Victoria’s gown. Prince Leopold was as handsome as advertised, but he was too far away to analyze or worship thoroughly; since he was already spoken for, her interest in him had receded. No, she was only thinking of Wolf, dashing Wolf, who had walked away from her without looking back.
Ronan leaned against a wall, hoping that her next partner wouldn’t show up or had found someone else to dance with. But no such luck. She spotted Marcus Deveraux winging his way to her with a smug smile.
“Ah, there you are—I was looking for you. I believe you are mine.” He looked better than he had the other night, with his hair brushed back from his forehead. Away from the eclipsing glamour of Perry and Archie, one could go as far as to call him handsome—or as handsome as he would ever look in a white tie and tails.
“Lord Deveraux,” she said brightly. “What a pleasure to find you here.”
“No need to be so formal,” he said with a dismissive wave that was meant to be nonchalant. “Just call me Marcus, like everyone does.”
“Marcus,” she smiled. She was tempted to tell him she would rather sit this one out, if he did not mind, but somehow the words never came out of her mouth. She fell into his arms, and they fell into the small precise steps of a minuet.
“Having a jolly time, are you?” he asked, straining to make his voice heard over the strings.
She smiled and nodded politely.
“Had a chance to see any of the countryside?” When she shook her head, he said, “Oh, no matter. We won’t have to live there for a while yet. In fact, we could even live in America, in your ‘neck of the woods,’ as they say. I’m an adventurous chap.”
“Excuse me?” Ronan asked. S
he wasn’t sure she understood what he was saying. What was all this talk about “we”? “Forgive me, my lord, but I’m not quite following you.”
“Now, now, you don’t want me to get down on one knee, do you? Knee’s a bit shot. But I suppose the ladies like it. Ferdie said you would, said I shouldn’t muck it up.”
“Lord Deveraux,” Ronan said firmly, forgetting that they were supposed to be on a first-name basis, “please explain what you are trying to say.”
Marcus sighed loudly and blew a raspberry in exasperation, as if she were a particularly slow or dim-witted child. “Here’s the thing, see? I’m supposed to pick a bride this season, or Mummy’ll cut off the dosh. And, well…you’re awful pretty, aren’t you? So, um, how about it?”
The pretty ones always go first.
Ronan stopped dancing and stood still in the middle of the ballroom. Several couples had to dance around them to keep from bumping into them. “Are you proposing to me, Lord Deveraux? Proposing marriage, I mean?”
“Yes, of course I am,” he said with a big smile, relieved to be understood. “So, what do you say? Want to give it a go? You’re a pretty American—I’m a single, titled Brit—it’s what you came to the season for, isn’t it? Why don’t we seal the deal, as you folks like to say? Get this done, right?”
Since it was so businesslike, Ronan was tempted to ask about the amount of his stipend, and for that matter, how much he would inherit—what the estate was worth, and exactly how much of his fortune was liquid. But she did not have to, as what had been presented was enough for her to make a few quick calculations. She factored in their great house on the square (which had been suitably updated with the latest modern conveniences), the fact that his sister would be a bridesmaid to the princess, and what she could remember from the issue of Debrett’s—that the Warwick country home was one of the finest castles in all of Franco-England, and they also kept a house in Paris. On paper, he was proposing a very good match indeed—one, he was right to note, that she had come to London for.
“I…”
“Yes?”
“Yes—I mean—no. No. I can’t,” she said. Ronan started to dance again, and he was forced to follow. She gave a small laugh. “I mean, we don’t even know each other! We’ve hardly said two words to each other! And this doesn’t count.”
Marcus’s shoulders slumped. “Ferdie said you’d say that. I suppose I’ll have to court you properly, then?” he asked gloomily. “Send flowers, pitch woo, moon about your eyes and such?”
She did not dignify that with a response. Instead, as the orchestra played the last strains of the piece, she curtsied politely. “I am very flattered, Marcus, but…”
“But?” he asked hopefully.
Ronan wanted to laugh. She couldn’t seem to walk in any direction without someone proposing marriage to her. But she said the same thing she had told Wolf on the boat. “I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”
Wolf couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, since old Deveraux had had to yell above the orchestra. He had to hand it to Marcus—full points for attempting to make his mark early. Claiming the prettiest girl in the room before the night was even over. Ronan Astor, that was her name. He savored it like a fine wine on his tongue. Unconsciously, he had spent the entire night shadowing her movements, watching her as she danced with his friends and acquaintances, making sure she didn’t see him.
Like everyone else at the party, Wolf had been impressed by Marie-Victoria’s entrance, amazed to have seen his friend transformed into some kind of magical bird. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that—it didn’t seem very Marie-like to enter the dance in such a showy way—but he supposed it had to do with the Merlin, and the empire wanting to make an impression. During the mandatory dance, his brother seemed happy enough to see the princess transformed like that. After watching them for a few moments, Wolf went back to his regular pastime—tracking the movements of a certain American girl.
Right now she was dancing with the so-called Red Duke, although nothing about him was red, except his face after a few drinks. Hugh Borel. Wolf didn’t know him that well—French royals had been practically banned from court since their defeat—but he appeared a nice enough chap, polite to a fault maybe. One of those nervous types.
Wolf downed his glass of champagne and made a decision. It was almost four in the morning, long past supper. All the court insiders had abandoned the ball for the after-parties, and he himself had promised a few friends he would leave soon. He felt a pang to see that Ronan was still at the dance, not realizing that only the losers who had not been invited anywhere else (like Hugh Borel) remained.
Well, it was up to him then, wasn’t it? To rescue the fair maiden and all that. He finger-combed his hair and checked his teeth in the silver. Then he approached, silent as a leopard, as smooth as knife through butter. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked.
Hugh glanced at him. For a moment his eyes were icy, but they turned back to the warm, cloying obsequiousness he was known for. “By all means, she’s yours. Excuse me, my lady,” he said as he bowed to Ronan.
“You,” Ronan said. He took her hand in his, put the other around her waist, and pulled her toward him.
“Me.” He smiled.
“I don’t think what you did was funny.”
“Really? I thought it was a laugh. That Red Duke needs to learn his place around here.”
“Not that. You know what I mean. Back on the Saturnia. Pretending to be someone else. Getting me to play those games with you,” she said, her cheeks turning red.
“All right, so I never told you my real name. But Wuthering Heights is one of my favorite books. If you recall, Heathcliff is quite the anti-hero—so in that way, I never pretended to be anyone else. I told you the truth. I fight in the ring, my family herds sheep. Okay, so they herd a lot of sheep. My brother’s getting married. All truths. And it was just a game, love—we did nothing wrong, did we? As I recall, you enjoyed it too.”
Ronan’s face remained frosty. “If you say so, Your Highness.”
“Highness! You don’t need to mind your P’s and Q’s with me, girl.” He quite liked the way she fit around him. His hand almost spanned her small waist, and her hand was curled in his like a child’s.
She lowered her lashes. “I don’t think we’ve even been properly introduced.”
He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I’m Wolf.”
“Ronan Astor,” she said, her voice still chilly.
“Don’t be that way, Ronan. Come on. I heard you turning down my friend Marcus back there. Now, why would you do a thing like that? I thought you meant to marry well—the Warwick spread not big enough for you? Have your plans changed, my lady?” he asked, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment.
“If they had, why should I alert you?” she asked tartly.
“Point taken,” he said. “I do apologize.” They danced for a few more songs, taking a whirl across the floor. He leaned over to her ear again. Her skin was so soft, and her hair was fine as silk. He remembered those lazy days of champagne and billiards. “You have to believe, I wasn’t…I wasn’t taking advantage of you, back on the boat. And I wasn’t making fun of you…the proposal might have been an impulsive gesture, but it was a sincere one. I apologize if I offended you.”
She relaxed in his arms and looked him right in the eye. For a moment, she looked like she did the first time they had met: determined, resolute, brave. “If you want to know why I turned down his proposal, it’s because I thought it was too early.”
“Too early?”
“Too early to exit the game. After all, the season’s just begun, hasn’t it? It would be a shame to miss all the fun,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “And it’s all a game, isn’t it? Even to you, who proposed to a stranger on the boat. What did you call the London Season? The wedding races? Well, I aim to get my filly past the line.”
He’d been about to invite her to the after-party at the Grosvernors’, but it was clear she thought
their time together was over for the evening.
She curtsied. “Good night, my lord,” she said, reaching out her hand. Wolf flinched, thinking she meant to slap him. But she only tweaked his bow tie, which was crooked.
Wolf bowed, watching her leave. He touched his tie where she had fixed it, a small, secret smile on his face.
The next day, wedding gifts began to pour into St. James Palace in earnest. From the far-flung reaches of the empire and across the globe, friends and allies sent gifts to the newly affianced couple in honor of their upcoming wedding. A date had been set by the Merlin and announced all over the empire: Marie-Victoria and Leopold would be married on the summer solstice, a worthy night for merrymaking. It would be the end of a glorious season, capping the year and signaling the start of something the empire had not seen in decades: peace.
The gifts were remarkable in breadth and variety: dazzling jewels from the mines of Burma and Africa, pineapples and coconut creams from the island provinces, rare animals and exotic fruits from the Australian hinterlands. There were gifts of ornate furniture and important paintings, gold doubloons and bottles of the finest liquors throughout the land.
Isabelle stood in the center of the royal court, covering her yawn as Hugh presented their gift to the royal couple. Her cousin was a bit agitated, as Louis-Philippe was supposed to have joined them for this reception, but had failed to meet them at the ordained time. Good for him, Isabelle thought. She would have preferred to sleep in as well.
Was this truly necessary? Neither the queen nor the prince or princess were at court to receive the gifts. Instead, only a minister of the Merlin’s and the first lady-in-waiting stood a few feet away from the throne to officially accept the procession of bounty. Even they looked tired. But this was the royal protocol—no matter that the entire court had been up until five in the morning from the festivities.
The Ring and the Crown Page 17