The Prince

by Katharine Ashe

  “It is not wise to be seen unnecessarily in society together.”

  Her brow crinkled. “Because to be always seen in the company of a youth of no impressive social connections would damage your reputation as a fashionable artistic genius?”

  “Rather, to be always seen in the company of a youth with no apparent family or friends whatsoever, who is living in my house, would encourage gossip of the sort I do not wish for you. Malicious gossip that could harm you.”

  Watching the thoughts pass across her eyes was pure pleasure.

  “Do you understand?” he said.

  “I do. Thank you. But,” she said, abruptly animated again, “I am dying to know what you have been drawing of me.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “But you are making a point of silence when you sit.”

  “No. I am simply being silent. It is what you asked of me. I am respecting that. And I am mad with curiosity. What are you drawing? My elbow? My left nostril? The tip of my shoe?” Her eyes rolled upward. “This exasperating curl that won’t stay pinned or oiled down no matter how I try to tame it?”

  “The whole of you.”

  She regarded him for a stretched moment.

  “You are saying that now to make a point,” she said. “You are endeavoring to prove that you can be a better man than I.”

  “I am not.” He was beginning to see that he was in fact a much lesser man than she. Her candid honesty and sincere wish to always do good by others was showing him the hollow vessel that his life had become. “After you harangued me for drawing you in parts I began drawing the whole. I am not entirely unredeemable, Miss Shaw.” Rather, a scoundrel of the worst sort. He was drawing the whole because the woman of curiosity, ambition, intelligence, and humor had departed his studio, leaving a shell. In drawing the whole of her, he was dangling before himself pleasure he knew he mustn’t.

  “I did not harangue you,” she said. “Not any more than you harangued me, at least. But I should like to see the draw—Oh.” Her startled gaze was on the doorway. Grasping his arm she shifted her body behind him. “There are Mr. and Miss Plath. I don’t wish to see them. Hide me.”

  Across the room, a young man and woman greeted their hosts. Brother and sister by their appearance, they were fashionably dressed and obviously popular: as they entered, several people immediately approached them.

  “Why don’t you wish to see them?” he said over his shoulder, knowing he should tell her to release him but entirely unable to form the words. To have her hands on him was his daily fantasy. Rather, hourly.

  “Because he is the assistant to my anatomy professor and has seen me any number of times as Joseph Smart yet does not recognize me. Not at all! Can you believe that? What a bounder.”

  “The youthful male company you are keeping is having an influence on your vocabulary, it seems.”

  “Also, they are awful. The Plaths, that is.” Her grip was so tight around his elbow he could feel the impression of each of her fingertips. “When I tried to be friendly with Miss Plath, she and her friends snubbed me. Then he cornered me in an isolated place and stuck his tongue down my throat. He is a snake. It was disgust—”

  Ziyaeddin pulled away from her.

  “What are you—” She circled him and blocked his path. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Going to tell Mr. Plath that he must put his accounts in order because tomorrow at dawn a bullet will take up residence between his eyes.”

  “What?” She leaned close and grasped his forearm again, as though it were perfectly acceptable to do at a party, surrounded by other guests, several of whom were now watching them. “Are you mad? You will not call him out.”

  He extracted his arm. “Do move aside.”

  “No. What of your efforts not to draw attention to your acquaintance with me?”

  “Not with you. With Joseph Smart. Now, Miss Shaw—”

  She grabbed him again. “I will fight you to the ground to stop you from speaking to him,” she whispered tightly. “I know you are taller and much more muscular than I am. Entirely. But I am stronger than I appear and you are at a disadvantage in terms of balance on that stupid peg. So if you wish for me to make a scene here with you now, go ahead and try to approach him.”

  The image of her wrestling him on the ground resembled his greatest fantasy far too closely. He removed his arm from her grasp yet again.

  “And don’t even consider sending him a challenge either,” she warned.

  “I was not considering it.” Rather, waiting until she departed to do so.

  “Men are irrational. What if he chose swords rather than pistols?”

  “Then I would tell him the space between his ribs will shortly be home to the tip of a blade.” He had to smile.

  She fell back onto her heels. “You weren’t actually going to call him out, were you?”

  He still was. “Wasn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. But—actually—I have a question for you. An unrelated question I have been meaning to ask you.”

  “Another?”

  “Yes. And, no, it is not at all similar to the last question I asked you. Request, that is. So perhaps you could stand down your artillery and turn your attention to more productive matters. Good heavens, men really are belligerent. That is a quality of masculinity that I will never adopt. A battle of wits, to be sure,” she conceded with a shrug.

  Across the room Mr. Plath was now watching them. His gaze slid downward, along the length of the cane, and his lip curled.

  A rush of hot, sharp rage paralyzed Ziyaeddin.

  Impotent.

  He was impotent—not as Dallis had suggested weeks earlier, but in every manner that mattered, as he had been on ship deck years earlier, as he continued to be in the matter of his sister and people’s well-being, and now even as a champion for this intelligent, strong woman who needed no champion but whose champion he wanted to be.

  “What do you wish to ask me?” he said.

  “What is it?” she said instead. “You look . . . not like . . . you.”

  He hardly knew who he was now. Not a prince. Not a complete man. A painter of elbows and nostrils and shoes.

  “You are angry,” she said. “You are truly angry, aren’t you? At this minute. Not as you were angry with me on the street. Why are you—Because of what I said about your balance?”

  “No. What is your question?”

  “You are unwell now. That is, you are as handsome and elegant as ever. But I can see that something is wrong.”

  Plath had looked away from them, but Ziyaeddin could not unclench his teeth.

  “I am well.”

  “You cannot lie to me. I am trained to notice when something is amiss with a person. We should go home now.”

  “I would be happy to convey you home. But we, Miss Shaw, are not here at this party together.”

  She blinked.

  Then, as though she were bringing him into focus, from her eyes abruptly shone awareness that he felt in the pit of his belly and hard and deep in his chest.

  He wanted to be at a party together with her—to be anywhere with her. He wanted Elizabeth Shaw on his arm. He wanted the world to know that this brilliant, ambitious, outrageously courageous woman belonged to him.

  “How right you are,” she said, a hitch in the words. “Now, master chemist, do tell me your thoughts on the following troubling conun—”

  “Libby, how delightful to see you speaking with Mr. Kent.” Lady Constance Sterling appeared on her husband’s arm. “Good evening, sir.”

  “My lady.” Ziyaeddin bowed.

  The gold of her hair was like summer sunlight and her skin peach-touched cream. Her movements were graceful, her form voluptuous. She was a portrait of rounded glory, all of it ornamented in wealth and style. With this woman as her sole childhood companion, it was no wonder that Elizabeth Shaw could not see her own appeal.

  He nodded to Constance’s husband. Saint
Sterling was neither aristocrat nor politician, rather a swordsman by trade. Over two years of lessons, Saint had taught Ziyaeddin how to use his loss to his advantage when fighting.

  “I did not know the two of you were acquainted,” Constance said.

  “We met at Haiknayes once,” she replied as blandly as though she were not living in his house now. When necessary, she was a fine actress.

  “Of course,” Constance said, her gaze shifting slowly between them. “I should have guessed that.” Her perusal was too acute.

  “If you will excuse me, ladies, Sterling,” he said with the languid air of a bored poet he often adopted at parties, an attitude which suggested that although he enjoyed present company, inspiration called and he must heed it. “I must be going.”

  “You are leaving?” Elizabeth’s gaze darted to Plath. “Now?”

  “It has been a pleasure.” He moved toward the door.

  She followed him.

  “You must not call him out,” she said.

  “I do not intend to.” Not tonight.

  “Then why are you hastening away, if not to sneak a challenge to him while I am talking with others?”

  “One does not sneak a challenge.”

  “One might if one were trying to hide the challenge from a woman who does not approve of it.”

  “Do recall, Miss Shaw, how you told me that Lady Constance brings you to parties with the hopes of you discovering a man whose company you can endure.”

  “Oh. You and I were conversing for too many minutes just now, and I am following you to the door. You are correct, of course. Constance will begin to investigate.”

  “She has, it seems, the same inquisitive mind as her sister.” It was perfectly foolish that he felt pride in saying this.

  “Go, then. But I must have your promise that you will not call out Mr. Plath, tonight or ever.”

  “If you ask it, güzel kız, I will give you my promise.”

  “That was not a promise. It was a statement of your willingness to make a promise if I asked it, which I did not. I demanded it.”

  “You are too clever for my transparent wiles,” he said.

  “I am.” Her lips were pinched. Still, they were a temptation. Every bit of her was a temptation.

  “I give you my word, Saint George.” He bowed.

  “Saint George? Oh, of course. When you saw me beneath that statue of Saint George in the library at Haiknayes. But you said I looked like an angel at the feet of triumphant Lucifer.”

  “You remember.”

  “I have an extraordinarily good memory.”

  “Do you also remember that you corrected my catechism?”

  “I reminded you that Lucifer in fact lost the battle. Yet you said he won a kingdom of his own in the end,” she said thoughtfully now. “Are you Christian? Or are you a Muslim?”

  “I am neither.” No longer. Not since the sea had taken his faith. “Neither Christian nor Muslim, ‘neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor freeman.’”

  “Ha ha. That Bible verse continues ‘neither male nor female.’ How clever you are, sir.” Her tone was dry. “And well versed in Christian Scripture.”

  “When in Rome . . .”

  “One does as the Romans, as the saying goes, I suppose.” She offered a small smile. She was pleased now and it was everything he wished to give her: pleasure, even such humble pleasure.

  But he had not learned his Christian catechism in Rome. Rather, in Egypt.

  During those years in exile he had never even remotely imagined this future—a future in which a young woman with lips that drove him mad would be gazing up at him with such delight and so many questions in the Mediterranean blue of her eyes.

  “Have you another question for me, oh She Who Triumphs Over Dragons? Or may I finally leave?”

  “It is an important question, in fact. But it must wait because now you are being ridiculous.”

  “What a man most wishes to hear.” He could not resist the opportunity to touch her. He took her hand, bowed, and lifted it to his lips. “Good night, Miss Shaw.”

  She allowed her hand to rest in his.

  “Good night, Mr. . . . whoever you are,” she finished in an uncertain voice—a voice entirely unsuited to her character. Within the blue eyes was dawn, midday, and dusk at once, a fullness of emotion that made the irises glitter like stars.

  Snatching her hand away, she pivoted and disappeared among the guests.

  He went home.

  And created a masterpiece.

  “Did you rise before dawn for your duel?” she said, readjusting her position on the stool. With the crispness of the early December morning, the northern light made the studio seem especially clean and uncluttered. He too seemed particularly sober today, dressed in black trousers and a coat of such dark violet it was nearly ebony.

  He did not reply.

  “I suppose we will all read of it in the broadsheets tomorrow,” she said. “‘Mysterious Turk Slays Cad Over Insult to Lady Who Does Not Deserve Defending.’”

  He continued working in silence.

  “You refuse the bait,” she said. “I intended you to reply with something to the effect of ‘All ladies deserve defending, even those who dress in breeches.’ Obviously you are not the sort of man to make pretty speeches but take no action. Rather you are profoundly gallant, a man who will actually call out another man for a small offense done to a woman, unless of course she makes him promise not to. My compliments.”

  Another minute passed in which the only sound was of a single bird chattering in the tree beyond the window, not even the usual scratch of his pencil upon paper. Today, for the first time since she had begun sitting for him, he was painting.

  “Did you work all night? I saw the light beneath your door before I went up at two o’clock.”

  More silence.

  “You are obviously weary,” she said. “You should sit.”

  “Hush.”

  “I suspected that if I gave you a direct order you would complain.”

  “I did not complain,” he said. “I instructed.”

  Earlier, when she entered, she had tried to glimpse the canvas on the easel, but he had not allowed it. He was painting with a rusty brown color.

  “If I suddenly jump up and run around the side of the easel to see the painting now, will you stop me?”

  “Does ‘hush’ have a second meaning in English, one which I have not learned, such as, ‘continue speaking’?”

  “Tired, yet cheerful. Interesting.”

  “Ask your question,” he said, not quite smiling. “The question you warned me of last night.”

  “After the organ dissections in anatomy lecture, my friend Peter Pincher fell ill. So did several other students who worked on fresh organs, which had not been preserved in solution but had come directly from the hospital. They all suffered horrendous fevers.”

  “I am sorry that your friend was ill.”

  “Thank you. As you are a better chemist than I—”

  “Not possible.”

  “Many surgeons are excellent apothecaries. Unfortunately I’ve never had the knack for pharmacy. In fact it is my least proficiency. Mr. Bridges always approves of the drugs I recommend for the patients at the infirmary, and I prepare excellent caustics. But pharmacy is a different talent altogether. I am still bowled over by the success of the adhesive you made for me. Last night I did not need to apply any powder to my face to cover blemishes or rash. None! That is how fine the adhesive is. I never would have thought of that combination of ingredients. Your natural talent as a chemist is far better than mine.”

  “Clean your hands.”

  “Now?” She inspected her hands. His hands were always beautifully manicured, like an aristocrat’s. It had inspired her to keep her nails especially short, so that dirt could not hide beneath them, and to wash her hands every morning upon waking. “All right.” She stepped down from the stool.

  “Not now. After handling flesh. Scrub them thoroug
hly with soap, as though you seek to remove the skin. Your clothing and hair as well.”

  “Scrub my hands and hair? And clothing?”

  “In the land in which I was born, men of medicine wash often. And they never wear the same tunics from day to day.”

  “Are they all vastly wealthy to have the laundresses to their houses daily?”

  “They believe that illness is easily conveyed through touch.”

  Touch. The word had new meaning.

  He had kissed her hand—his fingers around her palm—his lips on her knuckles—a simple series of touches that now made the word touch seem powerful. Magical.

  Libby had never believed in magic. A natural philosopher could not; the world was a place of physical truths that were discoverable through investigation and experimentation. But she now understood people’s susceptibility to notions of magic, the science of the unexplainable and marvelous.

  His lips. Her hand.

  Her belly was in knots of pleasure-confusion.

  “Clean my hands,” she said.

  “Bid your friends do the same.”

  “You have never spoken of your homeland. I understand that you do not wish to tell me its name or location. I must accept that, of course.”

  “As you accept all else with alacrity,” he drawled.

  “Would you at least tell me about it?”

  “It is verdant. There are green hills not unlike the Lothians and spectacular mountains. The sea as well. Great ships in the harbor. Magnificent mosques and churches, a synagogue—”

  “Churches and synagogues?”

  “Skies of sapphire and diamonds. Horses whose ancestors bore the great khans into battle. And a palace of such beauty and luxury, King George would blush with envy.”

  He was telling her something. She did not know what it was. Or perhaps she was imagining the hesitation in the strokes of his brush now.

  “Tell me more,” she said.

  “In that land there are men of great learning and women of great beauty—”

  A sigh of frustration came from her.

  “—and power.”

  “Power?” she said. “The women are powerful?”

  “Beautiful women are always powerful.”