Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  So when they alighted under the great torchlit portico, Tatiana was prepared. On Lord Wellesley's arm, she moved gracefully to the great entrance hall, extending her hand to the Lord Chamberlain, ceremonial chief here at Carlton House. She was very much the proud Romanov princess as their little group strolled between the great porphyry marble columns. But inside she was tense, waitful, wary. She was an alien in an alien. land, accepted only on conditions that had yet to be stated aloud but were nonetheless binding. She mustn't let any of her heart show to any of these Englishmen, not even to Michael, until she understood better the odds against her.

  But her caution extended only so far. She refused on principle and perhaps on spite to listen to another word of Wellesley's silken warnings. So she cut him short as he warned her not to mention the labor uprising currently terrorizing the midlands. "Don't be tedious, my lord. I promise not to disgrace myself. Now tell me where you are dragging me."

  Wellesley's arm tensed under her hand. She looked up limpidly to meet the full blister of his anger before he hid it under his customary polish. "The Blue Velvet Drawing Room, where the regent receives his special guests. We shall have a private dinner. There will be no dancing tonight, for the prince is no longer able to dance." Unable to resist another chance to direct, Wellesley added, "The regent has assembled quite an art collection, so you might compliment him on it. He is justifiably proud of the beauty of this house."

  As usual, the marquess's comment was colored with a cynical tincture. As they passed through the hall, he pointed out the opulent architectural features—the towering pier glasses, the graceful columns everywhere. His hauteur indicated a covert disapproval, but Tatiana said artlessly, "After the Winter Palace, Carlton House seems almost homey. The palace where I grew up was simply echoing, wasn't it, Buntin? The walls were mostly of stone and very cold, and many of the great halls were empty of ornament. There were more than two thousand rooms, after all, and nowhere near enough of the ready to furnish them well."

  Unable again to resist, Wellesley murmured, "There's not enough of the ready here, either, but that hasn't stopped our regent." Then he cast a glance at her, but she only fluttered her eyelashes innocently, as if she hadn't understood his reference to his monarch's extravagance.

  She did note that all the pomp of the bowing courtiers was not nearly so creakingly formal as an occasion in Petersburg. "I suppose the prince has not taken on all the formalities of reigning yet, for hasn't he only been regent for a few months?"

  Wellesley's warning not to tell the prince his home wasn't sufficiently regal was lost as the great doors to the Blue Velvet Room opened silently. Then even her tongue-in-cheek critique was stilled by the grandeur that awaited them.

  From floor to ceiling the great room was covered in the most soothing blue-gray. The sculpted carpet that softened her every footstep perfectly matched the silk-hung walls and the lovely velvet settees. From the vast painted ceiling hung a three-tiered chandelier whose crystal reflected back the same blue-gray. She felt almost as if she were underwater, in the cool blue recesses of the ocean, where all was hushed and tranquil. The nervousness she had felt at the prospect of meeting the regent dissipated under the serene effect of his decorating.

  In the midst of his careful splendor, the Prince Regent sat with a few others near a blazing fire, his portly form filling a delicate brocade chair, a decanter of cherry brandy at his elbow. He was encased in an exquisite scarlet uniform, as elegant as his figure was not. Though his face was now fat and wattled, the fineness of his features and the shock of dark curls testified to the beauty he had once possessed. But now he looked unhealthy, simultaneously flushed and pale, the result of excessive leeching by his physicians. Tatiana stole a pitying glance at him, then cast her eyes down courteously.

  With some difficulty, the prince rose as the Lord Chamberlain announced, "Your Highness, may I present Her Highness, the Princess Tatiana of Saraya Kalin."

  There were others around the prince, but Tatiana was schooled well in royal deportment and kept her eyes discreetly lowered as she dropped into a deep curtsey. The prince came to take her hand and she rose gracefully as he murmured some pleasantry. "So kind of you to receive me, Your Highness."

  "I thought you were Russian. What is this Saraya Kalin?" the prince asked with a jolly sort of petulance, as if suspicious he had been sold a bill of goods but wasn't yet sure if it were all a prank.

  Wellesley swiftly intervened. "The princess is a Russian princess, Your Highness, for her mother was a Romanov. She is also the Princess of Saraya Kalin, which was her grandfather's small kingdom. Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

  It was a moment before Tatiana realized this "Your Highness" referred to her and not to the prince. "Oh! Oh, yes, that is so. I am a typical royal mongrel." When the prince's eyes narrowed and Wellesley made a strangled sound, Tatiana hastened on, "I have German connections, too, through the Houses of Hesse and Baden and Holstein."

  Relieved that she was no longer comparing royal bloodlines to those of a dog, the prince took her hand in his own warm fat one. "Then we are cousins, and you must call me so," he said, smiling a bit foolishly. "We are cousins, aren't we?"

  "In some fashion," she answered lightly, waving her hand in the direction of Buntin. "My companion here can explain better than I, for she's made a study of the genealogies of the European monarchs."

  The prince compliantly turned toward Buntin, who stood trembling, nearly overcome with vapors. But the Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to take charge again of the introductions. In a piqued voice, he started with the next highest-ranking guest. "First, Your Highness, may I present Lord Wellesley?"

  "Well, I know him, man, he's in my cabinet, ain't he? See him every week. And how do you do, Lady Sherbourne? Yes, yes, I know her, too. I just don't know this charming lady in mauve—you complement my Blue Velvet Room so well, madame."

  With a huff, the imperious Lord Chamberlain broke in. "Your Highness, may I present Miss Anne Buntin, originally of Kent, who accompanied Her Highness from Russia."

  The prince's predilection for older women was well known, though he usually preferred ladies more substantial than the fragile Buntin. So perhaps he was only being charming in his odd way when he frankly ogled Buntin, refusing to release her hand and assuring her he was enchanted. Whatever his motive, Tatiana felt a sudden affection for the man, for her dear companion was in utter transports of delight, and Lady Sherbourne was left tapping her elegant long foot with envy.

  Another lady's pique was more intrusive. Lady Hertford, the prince's latest mistress, appeared at his elbow, almost shoving Buntin out of the way. The haughty matron cast a honeyed glance at the regent and a vinegarish one at the innocent Buntin. "Ah, yes, Cousin Tatiana, this is Lady Hertford. These others"—he waved vaguely at the other courtiers standing about—"can introduce themselves. Come and meet the princess, all of you. Then can we sit down?"

  After the most cursory of presentations, the prince guided Tatiana to a couch near the hearth. He fell back onto the seat, sticking his sprained ankle out to the fire. Patting the blue velvet upholstery, he said, "Come sit, cousin, let's be cozy."

  Tatiana had to squeeze into the small space between the prince and the arm of the couch. Her heavy satin skirt spilled over onto his thigh, his doughy hip pressed intimately against her side. They were, in fact, quite cozy.

  Tatiana forced herself not to lean back away from the prince's bulk and hid her discomfort with a bright smile.

  She was hot enough without proximity to the roaring fire, but the prince shivered and rubbed his hands together. "Cold in here. But you're from Russia, so you wouldn't credit that, would you? Vicious winters there, haven't you?"

  The Prince seemed a bit nervous, glancing over to her with a weak smile. Tatiana wondered why, for she was the one who should be anxious. He was much older than she, and far more senior in rank, for all that they were both of royal blood. And Britain, of course, far outranked poor Russia in influence and cultu
ral importance. But his smile was almost imploring as he addressed the always fertile topic of Russian winters, while Wellesley and Lady Hertford and all the rest hovered around eavesdropping.

  Tatiana's heart went out to this awkward prince in his anomalous position. He was a ruler but not a king, holding the power of the monarchy but none of the love his subjects had granted his poor mad father. And perhaps the regent was foolish and vain and extravagant, and perhaps his figure was egg-shaped and his face florid with excess. But she could see the handsome, vulnerable boy inside that absurd man, a boy indulged into excess by his exalted birth, then denigrated because he had not lived up to his role. With quick sympathy she realized how they both shared the disadvantages of royal birth. A generation ago, he had been denied the woman he loved and forced to marry the unfortunate Princess Caroline, just as Tatiana was expected to make a political marriage. That her Cousin George was a party to her situation did not mitigate her sympathy for him. She supposed he had to make some dramatic move to show that he was, in fact, the nation's ruler. And knowing that she might have to disappoint him, no doubt making him look more foolish than ever, Tatiana made a great effort to put him at his ease at least for the moment.

  "And that tsar of yours, does he mind the winters? I hear he's a sturdy man, well-looking, in fact."

  The prince's voice was tinged with envy, and Tatiana responded instinctively. "Oh, he's handsome, of course—it's that German connection, for his mother was a Wurttemberg. But his dress! Why, Cousin George, those Russian tailors just don't know how to dress a king. You should send your tailor to St. Petersburg to give them lessons!"

  It was almost pathetically easy to make him beam, this silly-sad prince. She had only to use the same teasing tone and light flattery that her little students loved so. He did not conceal his pleasure, replying graciously, "But if your gown is any example of the art of Russian dressmakers, they have nothing to learn from the English."

  Tatiana glanced sideways at Lord Wellesley, but he was occupied with Lady Hertford, a rabid Tory whose favor was essential for all successful cabinet members. "Actually," the princess whispered confidentially, "my designer is French. He was Empress Josephine's couturier—don't tell Lord Wellesley!"

  His jowls quivering, the prince roared with laughter to the consternation of the other guests, who had missed the joke. Finally, between gasps, he managed, "Don't you worry, cousin. There's much I don't tell Wellesley!"

  Tatiana chuckled as the marquess's elegant head jerked up suspiciously. But before Wellesley could detach himself from Lady Hertford's side, a footman stepped forward to help the prince heave himself out of his seat. Tatiana rose with rather more grace, smoothing her flowing satin skirt as the Lord Chamberlain opened the great doors and announced another contingent of guests.

  Of the elegant crowd, Tatiana had eyes only for one. As soon as she saw his lean figure, however, she looked away, unable to trust her own expression. She nodded and smiled at the Bourbon count and the English duke and all the other important people who bowed before her. But all their compliments and questions subsided into a hum, through which she finally heard, "Your Highness, and Your Highness, may I present Major Lord Devlyn?"

  Michael bowed correctly, gracefully, his gold-embossed sword sweeping against his leg. She raised her eyes to see his careful expression, as careful as her own. Taking a deep breath, she said calmly, "How nice to see you again, Lord Devlyn. I did wish to convey my personal thanks for bringing me here safely." She saw a flash of pride in the major's eyes at her unusual composure and then dropped her gaze. A princess should not be seen blushing at the approval of a cavalry officer.

  The prince hastened to add, "Yes, yes, Devlyn, my thanks, too. For my cousin and I have been getting along quite cozily, haven't we, my dear? I am heartily glad she has joined us here in England. Did you know, cousin, I've been trying to persuade the major to join my regiment. I've designed new uniforms for them, Devlyn, and perhaps that will persuade you. Crimson breeches and yellow boots."

  Yellow boots! Tatiana could not repress a giggle at the flicker of distaste that crossed the major's haughty features. But with perfect control, he replied, "It's tempting, sir, I assure you. But I fear Wellington's wrath nearly as much as I wish your pleasure."

  "Would Wellington be wrathful?" the prince asked worriedly.

  "Without a doubt. He is very possessive of his officers, you know. Doesn't even like to give us leave. I wouldn't like to speculate what he would have to say were I to transfer regiments at this critical juncture." He never looked at Tatiana as he spoke those chilling words, and she wondered if he realized what he was giving up to do his patriotic duty.

  "The Chronicle and the Times would hear of it, and write editorials claiming I'm interfering with the running of the war," the prince said resentfully. "They never give it a rest, you know. And what those damned—beg pardon, cousin—caricaturists would do, I don't want to imagine. But you would do my uniform such justice. It hardly seems fair."

  Tatiana looked down at her clenched hands, her disappointment almost overcoming her caution. He wouldn't join the 10th Hussars and stay in England to be near her. Could she have mistaken the feelings that inspired his reluctant passion?

  But when she risked a glance at his cloudy eyes, she saw the warning there, and something else too—an anguish to match her own. It was gone in an instant, but enough to make her swallow and say with creditable ease, "You know, cousin, it is indeed a shame he refuses so cruelly to wear your design, for I vow he would do it credit. I think he would look very well in yellow boots."

  Before Michael could respond to this provocation— and it served him fair, she thought resentfully—she had turned a sweet smile upon him. "I am not acquainted with British regiments. To which are those fine colors bestowed?"

  "The 16th Light Dragoons, Your Highness," he said with only the slightest edge to his voice, for they both knew she was acquainted with his affiliation. "The Queen's Own cavalry. I have served the last two years, however, primarily on Lord Wellington's staff."

  "Well, it's a fine regiment, m' mother's," the prince said grudgingly. "Though the uniform is rather plain, don't you think, cousin?"

  Tatiana thought it a very fine uniform indeed, and said so, to the major's discomfiture. He could not like being examined this way and that like a mannequin. But it was easier to focus on his uniform than on his warning eyes. And in fact, he might have been designed to wear a uniform, it so complemented his lean, disciplined form. His coat was a dark blue-gray with gold epaulets and buttons, generously braided across the front in more gold ashed in crimson. The facings—the collar, cuffs, and seam pipings—were scarlet to indicate that the major belonged to a royal regiment.

  The immaculate white breeches would not have lasted long in battle, and the brilliant shine on his Hessians would not have survived an hour's hard ride. But at a dinner party, even this impractical uniform set him apart from all the fashionable fribbles in their satin coats and lofty cravats. Tatiana wished suddenly that Michael were one of them, frivolous and flighty, undeterred by duty and honor. But then he wouldn't be Michael, and she would not admire him so.

  Afraid of what her expression might reveal, she could not look up and meet his gaze. Her eyes stung with the effort of reading the engraving on one of the gold buttons adorning the major's chest. She was tilting her head to follow the letters as if they contained some secret message to her, when she sensed Michael's hard body go even more rigid.

  "Cumberland! Curse you, you are late again!"

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tatiana felt waves of anger emanating from Michael at the prince's abrupt greeting to the burly royal duke. Devlyn's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, and he tensed as if for battle. He must love me, she thought with a mix of triumph and dread, if even the approach of Cumberland would inspire such hatred.

  But as Devlyn's control vanished, Tatiana sought new reserves within herself. She must forestall his anger, or he would ruin them
both with a jealous display. So she lowered her eyes and curtseyed to the new arrival, murmuring some salutation. Then, bravely, she looked up to meet the man she was supposed to take to husband.

  She had been warned that Cumberland was a frankly ugly man. But the royal duke went beyond ugliness to some new reach of horror. After he released her hand, Tatiana wanted to wipe it on her skirt, as if a malevolent spirit oozed through his skin. His expression was just as alienating, with a fleshy mouth and sagging jaw set in a snarl; a patch covered his damaged eye, the socket sunken into his cheek.

  Tatiana's hands closed into hidden fists in the folds of her satin skirt. But she strived to keep her expression pleasant as Cumberland responded to her commonplaces in a harsh croak. Before she could speak again, Michael had turned on his heel and strode away.

  Fortunately the two princes had fallen into fraternal bickering and did not notice the major's rudeness. Tatiana watched covertly as he stopped near the door, his lean body rigid as he battled the urge to walk out. Then the Lord Chamberlain announced dinner, and Michael reluctantly joined the general withdrawal.

  Weak with relief, she accepted the Prince Regent's escort to the Circular Dining Room. But her already taut nerves were overset by another example of the regent's innovative decorating—this one not so serene as the Blue Velvet Room. She halted in the doorway, blinded by the flickering of a thousand candles magnified by dozens of long mirrors hung along the cylindrical silver wall. As the guests piled up behind her, the prince misinterpreted her hesitation. "Impressive, isn't it? I brought in the gold chandeliers from Spain. The reflection is dazzling, don't you think?"

  "Dazzling," she repeated, thinking that only the most narcissistic prince could have designed such a display of mirrors and light. The endless reflections of mirror facing mirror disoriented her, and she closed her eyes. Finally, focusing on the reassuringly rectangular tables set in tangent to the arc of wall, Tatiana was able to take a faltering step into the room.