A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book

by Erin McRae

  “No. Not right then at least.” There were spots of color high on his cheeks. “Do you want me to kneel again?”

  “Your trousers are muddy.”

  “And I’ll catch hell from my valet for that, I’m sure. Is that a yes or a no?”

  Amelia let herself laugh and shook her head.

  “There are two rings,” he said slowly, and the mood was suddenly serious again. “One belongs to the Crown,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “But I thought you wouldn’t stand for not having something your own.”

  He grabbed her left hand, gently uncurled her fingers, and turned it over. “There’s some fascinating history to this one, but we can talk about that later. Or you can look it up yourself,” Arthur said. There was the sensation of cool as he slipped the first ring on her hand, a solitary ruby surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds. It was beautiful.

  It was also red. The color of Lancaster. And the south.

  Amelia tilted her head at Arthur. “You’re promising me I’ll be the first queen of my people in nearly two thousand years with a ring that claims me otherwise.”

  The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up. “But it’s surrounded by diamonds. White stones, for the white rose of York.”

  “That can’t be what this ring meant when it was made.”

  “But it’s what it means now.” Arthur smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’ve another for you. It’s new, I had it made. Welsh gold. Conflict-free diamonds from the Commonwealth. I wanted you to have something all your own from the very beginning.” He took a step closer to her and slid a second ring, a circlet of diamonds, onto her finger. “No matter what happens after today,” he said, his voice very near her ear. “This is yours. A symbol of my regard for you. And my promise that before you are a symbol of anything, to anyone else, you will always be a person to me. My wife and partner.”

  “How did you know my size?” Amelia asked.

  “Charlie. A pair of your gloves. And some very good guesswork.”

  “So you planned some of this at least?” She wanted the whole of her body to feel the way her small hand felt enveloped in his.

  “Some,” he said. “You took me by surprise.”

  “I fail to see how this is my —”

  Arthur cut Amelia’s words off with his mouth. This time, unlike in the park at Sandringham, the kiss was not tentative. Or chaste. When Amelia made a soft sound of surprise, he dropped her hand and grabbed the back of her head instead.

  She was suddenly acutely aware that they were standing in Arthur’s rooms, feet from his bedroom, and with a heavy door between them and the outside world. She was an adult, and on her finger now were rings meant to serve as insurance against a marriage gone wrong. She could sleep with him without consequences.

  Arthur was clearly thinking along the same lines. His hand not tangled in her hair began to unfasten her riding jacket. Amelia’s breath hitched — nerves or desire or both — and Arthur’s hands faltered. But then he slid both of them under her coat, beneath the shirt that had pulled out of her trousers over the course of the morning. His fingers spread warm and strong against her back.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her lips.

  Amelia made a questioning sound, and Arthur pulled back further. His dark eyes were wide, and his lips were a deep red. The spots of color on his cheeks had spread. Lancaster, her mind supplied unhelpfully. But it was a good look on him. Amelia wanted to put it on his face more often.

  “There’s an announcement to make and logistics we need to attend to. Immediately.”

  “Oh.” Amelia could hardly argue with the dictates of royal protocol. Just…why now? Surely five more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Or ten. Or an hour. But Arthur was already pulling away from her, tugging her shirt back down and straightening his own coat where Amelia’s fingers had wrinkled it without realizing.

  After that, things happened at an alarming pace.

  Once they’d made themselves decent, Arthur summoned his equerry and told him to assemble everyone downstairs in the drawing room. He and Amelia walked back downstairs hand-in-hand, Amelia was intensely aware of the weight of the rings on her finger. She’d worn fine jewelry before, but never anything so heavy and bold. The rings marked her out, not just as victorious in a game she had never wished to play, but as different from other people, intended now for something less than mortal.

  She was glad she hardly had to say anything when Arthur led her into the drawing room and announced their engagement to the other guests gathered there. Only Princess Violet, Lord Matthew, and Hyacinth — just then returned from hospital and with her arm in a cast — looked pleased. Lady Olivia looked murderous. Helen smiled, but it was tight and the expression didn’t reach her eyes. George’s face was unreadable.

  And then, in front of everyone, Arthur kissed her. This time it was chaste and very much for show.

  Luncheon was as awkward as dinner the night before had been. By the time it was over, the head of royal public relations, Beatrice Slingsby, arrived from London. She was followed soon after by Arthur’s solicitor, because there were legal matters to settle. Namely the prenuptial agreement.

  Arthur holed himself up with the solicitor in his study. Which left Amelia to meet with Beatrice alone. Amelia couldn’t help but apologize for ruining her weekend, but Beatrice tutted and flapped her hands.

  “This is much better than many of the weekends I’ve had ruined in service to Their Majesties.” She said gave Amelia a meaningful look.

  “You’ve been in this role a long time?” Amelia asked carefully.

  “I always prefer announcing weddings rather than funerals,” Beatrice said in confirmation. “Besides,” she pulled out a massive binder which she dropped loudly on the table between them. “You shouldn’t worry, I’m here to ruin your weekend too.”

  Amelia eyed the binder warily. “What’s that?”

  “Something the chief steward should be delivering to you, but as I am present, and he is not…. Here, have a princess manual.” She pushed it across the table.

  “Are you friends with Mr. Jones in the household office?” Amelia blurted.

  “Pardon?”

  “Mr. Jones. He calls himself my royalty customer service representative. It just seemed to go with the princess manual,” Amelia said.

  Beatrice’s raised an eyebrow, and Amelia realized that almost certainly she was not friends with Mr. Jones.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is making perfect sense in my head and probably none to you.”

  “No matter. Big day, and we try to develop a sense of humor about our jobs where we can. But your job is now very important. And this,” she reached her arm down the table to tap at the binder with one perfectly manicured nail, “will help you get it right.”

  *

  By the time Beatrice released her for dinner, hours had passed. Amelia startled as she exited the sunroom and shut the door behind her. Arthur was leaning against the wall in the hallway outside.

  “Were you waiting for me?” she asked.

  “I wanted to make sure you survived.” Arthur gave a tired smile. “Although you’re in very good hands with Beatrice.”

  “She seems lovely,” Amelia agreed because doing so seemed appropriate. “Although I don’t think anything could have prepared me for the horrible necessity of discussing my wardrobe for an hour and a half.”

  “I’ll trade you arguments over heel heights for the prenup negotiations.”

  Amelia thought about asking, but then decided she didn’t want to know. “There’s no way all of this gets sorted before the end of the weekend.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We have a few options. Most everyone will leave tomorrow night to go back to their own homes. You and I and my people can stay here to finish the planning. It’s certainly the more scenic option and will afford us some respite from the rest of the world. But to be honest, all will be easier if we ret
urn to London. You could stay with me at St. James's Palace; it will be simpler to have you close to hand. The announcement of our engagement itself will be made from Buckingham, of course.”

  “Of course,” Amelia echoed dully, feeling overwhelmed already.

  “Will that interfere with your studies?”

  “No,” Amelia said, chagrined Arthur had remembered what she herself had forgotten in all the activity of the day. “No, it’s reading week.”

  “Good.”

  “Although, I have a question,” Amelia said before she could lose her nerve.

  “What is it?” Arthur asked gently.

  “We’re engaged now. But I don’t know what you want or expect or if there’s a page in the princess manual back in that room that will tell me if I’m supposed to sleep with you tonight.”

  Arthur looked away. “Whatever you want.”

  That wasn’t an answer. Though it did serve the purpose of reminding Amelia where they’d left things that morning in Arthur’s rooms, before he’d pulled away and the rest of the world descended on them.

  “Nothing you do is solely about what you want, or you wouldn’t be marrying me,” Amelia said. “Now we share that burden. Clarity would be helpful, I think.”

  “We hardly need to get started on producing an heir before the wedding,” Arthur said. His hand twitched before he lifted it and traced a fingertip along the cuff of Amelia’s sleeve. “So you must tell me what you want instead.”

  Amelia had to tear her eyes away from the sight of his hands if she was going to do anything but fall into his arms right now. Or demand that he answer the question first. She took a deep breath. “I became engaged to the Prince of Wales today. I’m already more than a little overwhelmed, and I feel the attention of your guests keenly. Perhaps too keenly. Can we just not tonight?”

  “Of course,” Arthur said.

  Amelia thought he looked almost relieved. But his fingertips lingered at the inside of her wrist.

  Chapter 11

  PRINCE ARTHUR AND LADY AMELIA PLAY HOUSE AT ST. JAMES’S

  20 March

  Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII.

  It’s four a.m. Can’t sleep. At ten, we leave for London. To finalize the prenuptial agreement, to present me to the King and Queen as the future princess, for the official announcement, and for the rest of my fairytale life.

  Charlie’s meeting us at St. James’s Palace. Where I’ll be staying for the next week. With Arthur, because it’s his royal residence in London. I told Charlie not to tell anyone, not even Mum and Dad, that he was coming. I couldn’t tell him why, but I’m sure he knew.

  *

  “You have to read it,” Arthur said, not for the first time. He brandished the tablet at her. Behind him, mud-colored fields sped past the windows.

  “Do I have to read it now?” Amelia pushed the tablet — with the wretched prenuptial agreement — back at him.

  “No, but it’s been two days. You haven’t even looked at it.”

  “I haven’t needed to, because every time he thinks I have a question, your solicitor explains things to me. In very small words.” Amelia wanted to discuss none of this. Especially not in the back of the car that was driving her and Arthur to London, privacy screen between them and the driver or no.

  “And I know you’re clever enough to understand it all, which is why I’m telling you to read it.”

  “No. Also, you’re a fool, because I may be very smart but I’m not a solicitor.”

  Arthur gave a sigh of exasperation and tossed the tablet down between them. “Fine. It can wait ‘til we’re in London.”

  “Thank you.” Amelia had no intention of reading it once they were in London, either.

  She turned her head to look out the window so she wouldn’t have to look at Arthur. Now that they were leaving the relative safe haven of Gatcombe to return to the capital, everything that she had agreed to this weekend seemed more overwhelming by several orders of magnitude. It may not have been fair to blame Arthur entirely, but as far as she was concerned, the entire situation was completely his fault.

  “Oh,” Arthur touched her hand lightly to make her look at him.

  “Yes?”

  “If you don’t like to read in cars — if you get carsick — you could have just told me.”

  “I don’t get carsick,” Amelia said shortly. “I just don’t want to read it. It’s bad enough that I’m signing my life away for the sake of destiny and my people. I understand this is a deal with the devil, but I don’t need to saturated in the revolting and surely insulting terms of it.”

  “I’m hardly the devil.”

  “No. Not you,” she admitted. “Not entirely, at least, Lancaster aside. Just — everything else.”

  Arthur didn’t say anything, but he curled his hand around hers. Amelia felt her cheeks go hot and looked out the window again. Her desire and affection for him were necessary to ensure her future would not be miserable, but those feelings were also inconvenient. She wanted to stay annoyed with him, but he was rubbing small circles into the back of her hand with his thumb. His touch sent frissons up her arm and into her stomach where they bloomed, warm and pleasant like a drug against the impending public relations nightmare.

  *

  Amelia had passed St James’s Palace many times, but she had never had occasion to enter before today. As she got out of the car, in the shadow of the looming red brick clock tower, she suppressed a shiver of unease.

  Another of Arthur’s equerries fell in beside them as they entered the palace. Arthur had little to say to Amelia — and Amelia had nothing to say at all — but Arthur and the equerry spoke in low, urgent tones about meetings and timetables.

  Quickly, they left the public, newer, and gaudier parts of the palace behind them. Red carpet and gilt furnishings gave way to plain dark walls and chill stone floors. It was like going back in time, centuries of British architecture and history giving way beneath Amelia’s feet. Some of this palace was as old as Kirkham House; some of it was much older.

  At the door of a formal sitting room the equerry stood aside to let Arthur and Amelia enter first. Charlie was there, and, as soon as she and Arthur stepped inside the room, he leapt to his feet. He bowed to Arthur and strode over to Amelia, grabbing her into a tight, enveloping hug. She clung to her brother and the simple relief of having him there.

  “You must tell me if you’re happy,” he whispered urgently in her ear.

  Amelia gave a shaky laugh. “I’m finally suitable for something better than the children’s table.”

  He held her at arm’s length to look at her. “Amelia.”

  “It’s all a little overwhelming,” she admitted. “I will be, how’s that?”

  “Completely wretched,” Charlie said, “but I can hardly declare I don’t trust you.”

  “Or one of your dearest friends,” Arthur added from where they’d been ignoring him.

  “Yes, that too,” Charlie said. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out a hand to Arthur, who shook it with apparent relief. “But I’d be lying if I said this whole thing weren’t requiring a lot of calming breaths.”

  “Yes, well, join the club,” Arthur said. “Will you sit? And get my fiancée to read the things I need her to read.”

  “I really don’t need to read it,” Amelia said plaintively to Charlie. “What am I going to do, negotiate?”

  “That is generally how these things go, yes,” Charlie said.

  “But I’m not trying to better my position and I don’t need to better my means,” Amelia said. “My God, I sound like I’m in a Regency novel. — He has five hundred a year! Five hundred what?! — None of this means anything to me. I can feel all right with this, but then his solicitor starts telling me about baby bonuses. If you want me to be happy, either of you, don’t make me read that thing.”

  Charlie and Arthur exchanged a look over the top of her head. She hoped it was about how she was correct and not about how she was approaching a pa
nic attack.

  “She’s been like this all morning,” Arthur said.

  Charlie shook his head. “I’m not surprised.”

  "Okay, how's this," Amelia said. "Charlie, you're a solicitor. And my brother. You read it and tell me whether to sign it or not. And I authorize you to negotiate on my behalf, I guess. But please don’t, really, because I’m not a thing or a service, all right?”

  “I spent the weekend trying to make this document more favorable to you,” Arthur said quietly. “But there are some matters about custody of any future children, should our union be dissolved, that I would appreciate you being aware of before the public announcement.” He looked at his hands for a long moment before he looked back at Amelia. “If you prefer Charlie describe those sections to you, rather than read them yourself, I won’t object and will leave you two alone to do so.”

  Amelia considered for a moment that Arthur might actually be ashamed.

  *

  Once Arthur and his equerry left, Charlie and Amelia sat on opposite ends of a sofa while Charlie scrolled through the agreement on the tablet.

  “That’s not a good look,” Amelia said, trying to keep her voice light as the crease between Charlie’s eyes deepened.

  “He’s right,” her brother said. “You need to know what’s in here.”

  “Tell me then,” Amelia said. She crossed her legs at the knee and clasped her hands over them.

  Charlie glanced at her hands, then away; she wasn’t wearing her rings yet. She wouldn’t, outside the privacy of Gatcombe, until the official announcement. Too many staff to see, too many people who might call the papers.

  Charlie took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “In the event of the dissolution of your marriage —”

  “Would you just say divorce? Please?”

  “All right. If you get divorced. Arthur retains custody of your children. You would have periodic visitation rights, which will be negotiated with his social office and —”

  “No.”

  Charlie looked up at her.