Royal Weddings: An Original Anthology

by Stephanie Laurens

  Important to your ego, you coxcomb.

  “Paymaster of the Forces is one of the most consequential posts in the government. If it goes to Northrop Hayes, God only knows how much he’ll siphon off to line his own pockets. The money is to be used for the good of the troops.”

  She pursed her lips together.

  “What?” he demanded, cocking a fist on his lean waist.

  “You do realize we are going to a wedding, darling, not to some select committee meeting in the Lords?”

  “Of course I know it’s a wedding! Though one is sure to be equally dull as the other,” he grumbled with a fleeting, aggravated scowl.

  “Two people in love are going to pledge to spend the rest of their lives together. We must be happy for them. While it lasts,” she couldn’t help adding under her breath.

  At that, he shot her a searing look that reminded her she wasn’t the only one disillusioned about their match of late. “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he muttered. “Please hurry. We’re due at Carlton House in half an hour.”

  He pivoted and marched toward the door, then stopped abruptly, turning back to her. “I wish I knew why you’ve been so cross with me lately.”

  She stared at him in the mirror. Because you’re cheating on me. “Nonsense,” she replied.

  He looked at her, at a loss.

  Finding himself unable to break through her icy veneer of self-protection, Archer dropped his gaze and turned away. “Fine. I’ll fetch the carriage.”

  He stalked out.

  Elle measured out a silent exhalation, willing away a ridiculous threat of tears. The black on her lashes would make her look like a masked bandit if she succumbed to hysterics. True, more and more each day she felt like she could explode—but what was the point?

  For a man of Archer’s rank to take a mistress was inevitable, to be expected. Men of the upper classes cheated: It was a fact of life, like death and taxes. There was nothing to be done but to accept it, ignore it, endure it, and try to carry on.

  And he wondered why she did not like to speak about her feelings.

  But if it helped him deal with his experiences in the war, then . . .

  She sighed, very near her wits’ end. Nevertheless, she thrust her private suffering aside. Once again their duty must come first. The Sovereign, Society, the public waited. So what if her heart was dying?

  She rose, arrayed as the Countess of Archer in all her frosty glory, smoothed her skirts, and whisked her train out expertly behind her. A steely look came into her carefully painted eyes.

  Time to go.

  Cheering crowds thronged the streets of London as Lord and Lady Archer’s coach-and-four rolled under the grand portico at the front of Carlton House.

  They were stared at as they arrived, but Elle was prepared for this, which was why she had chosen a gown to complement his uniform. Her dark blue robe was made from Spitalfields silk—ever the patriotic choice—adorned with rich gold thread and scarlet embroidery work at the hem. It had short sleeves and a long train over a white satin slip, and was fastened in front by a gold brooch of diamonds and rubies.

  Archer handed her down proudly from the coach, sketched a charming little bow to the throng in answer to their huzzahs for one of the heroes of Vittoria. Then he escorted her into the Regent’s glittering home, where, apparently, His Royal Highness’s estranged wife, the bride’s mother, had not been invited. A particularly bad match, that.

  But tonight, Elle observed, as she made her curtsey, the Regent was all smiles, proud father of the bride.

  The ceremony began at nine sharp in the Crimson Drawing Room. The Archbishop of Canterbury stood before the makeshift altar. There were only fifty guests or so; Elle still wasn’t quite sure how Archer had got them invited.

  As the music played, the royal bride arrived. Princess Charlotte was at her most beautiful, her apple cheeks beaming with joy as her father handed her over to the young, serious, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. It was well known the two young people, opposite as they were, had become inseparable.

  A love match, thought Elle, watching wistfully.

  Memories of her own wedding day at the quaint little stone church near their country estate stirred as the couple exchanged their vows.

  “To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health . . .”

  All of a sudden, Archer reached over and took her hand. Elle glanced at him in surprise and an immediate rush of painful hope. He gazed into her eyes with such tender determination aimed frankly at their marriage that a lump rose in her throat.

  Forsaking all others.

  Could there be a chance she was wrong? That he was faithful? Dared she hope?

  Just come to me, she told him with her gaze. I know you suffer. I love you. I’ll make it go away.

  “. . . To love and to cherish . . .”

  She dropped her gaze from Archer’s to fight once more the tears that threatened to be her undoing tonight. But she held on more tightly to his hand.

  Till death do us part.

  The match was made, the ceremony concluded a short while later, and everyone applauded while the exuberant princess hugged her father. Congratulations went round, and the guests were invited to mingle about and take refreshments. Further celebration would continue at Buckingham House.

  Archer looked from across the drawing room as Ellie went to work like some gorgeous genie on the goal that he had set for her. He hoped she’d find a way to mention his ambitions. The prime minister got to choose the man for such appointments, but a little royal influence never hurt.

  She was paying her respects to Queen Charlotte, Prinny’s mother, since the Regent was surrounded, and it said a great deal about his wife, Archer mused, that she could charm even the old, no-nonsense, German queen.

  This majestic personage, stalwart as a seventy-four-gun ship of the line, gave off a formidable glory like burnished gold, accepting Ellie’s curtsey with a nod.

  Watching their exchange from a distance, the vows just spoken echoing through his mind, Archer wondered not only at the guts of the young wife making her move for her husband, but at the strength of the aged Queen as well, nursing her royal husband through his madness.

  Who knew what private suffering Her Majesty had endured, seeing her lifelong mate turn into a raving madman, even forgetting who she was? And yet she had been resolute, finding doctors to try to reclaim his mind, while she did aught in her power to save his pride.

  Archer did not doubt that Elle would have done the same for him, and who could say? She might have to, at the rate he was going. She was good as gold, that one.

  Even now she was carrying out a task for him that he knew she found distasteful. Politicking at a wedding, yes, it was rather crass, he supposed, but the country’s postwar finances were in too dire a state to trust a corrupt schemer like Northrop Hayes with the military purse strings.

  Then, as Archer waited for her to return with her report, he suddenly learned he was not the only man watching her.

  “Mein Gott!” exclaimed a colorful grand duke from the Continent, lifting a monocle to his eye. “Who is zis radiant creature?”

  Archer glanced over in surprise, then he let out a low, wry laugh. “Er, Your Royal Highness, that is my wife.”

  The mustachioed German turned to him, startled. “Why, you are a lucky man, my lord.”

  “So I am,” he agreed in a murmur.

  With a polite bow, the chagrined foreign nobleman took hasty leave of him. Archer glanced around the room, wondering in annoyance who else here might be ogling his lady. Then he returned his full attention to her, watching her work her usual magic on all who crossed her path. To be sure, he knew the power of that smile better than anyone.

  How many battles had he survived only to be slain in some ballroom six years ago, when he’d first laid eyes on her? She had been barely eighteen at the time.

  The wide-eyed little blonde had stared at him wi
th such somber admiration that he felt as if he could do anything with her by his side. And so he had married her.

  It had seemed a perfect match. But lately . . .

  Well, he did not know what to think. Her presence was a clear golden light that had become as vital to him as the sun, but he had the most awful feeling he was losing her. Her affection. And he did not have the slightest idea what to do about it. Affairs of the heart were not his forte! Or perhaps it was all in his head, for she never complained. This was a woman who had barely uttered a cry of pain in the agonies of childbirth.

  To be sure, she was a good soldier. He had chosen her because he knew courage and integrity when he saw it—traits he had learned to spot in his men in the war. Elle was not just astoundingly beautiful, she had a core of steel. Ah, but this same stoic quality made her so reserved, so dutiful and conscientious, that he sometimes found her difficult to read—and even harder to approach.

  She wore her calm, cool etiquette like a shining suit of armor, impenetrable. God alone knew what the woman was feeling.

  If anything.

  A troubled frown flicked over Archer’s face. Sometimes she seemed entirely indifferent to him, and this made him indignant. Didn’t she know that he could have easily found female attention elsewhere if he wished it?

  But he didn’t. He only wanted her. They shared a house, but these days lived a thousand miles apart. She was so cold, so perfect. He longed to break through her layer of ice, but in truth he feared she might find the more passionate, soldierly side of his nature revolting. Vulgar.

  So, what else could he do but put his blond goddess on a pedestal as the mother of his children, and show his regard in the usual way, by letting her buy whatever the devil she wanted?

  Besides, a gentleman ought not bother his lady too much about his baser needs, after all, and it was just as well, for he was so exhausted from one bad night’s sleep after another and all his endless responsibilities that, though a man in his prime, he was too bloody tired for sex.

  Nightmares of blood and smoke woke him up more nights than not, but rather than ponder the hell he’d survived, he kept himself extraordinarily busy. Aside from his usual parliamentary duties, he served on three select committees and sat on the board of twelve different organizations. Most of the time he refused to hand off the work to his aides, secretary, solicitor, and land agent, the way most other peers did. He’d been born a younger son and had always expected to work for a living. He didn’t mind it.

  At least exhaustion helped to keep him faithful.

  “Good evening, Lord Archer,” Juliana, Lady Margrave, purred, sidling up beside him without warning.

  He stepped back to offer a tense bow. “Madam.” He scanned behind her. “Er, where is your lord tonight?”

  “Indisposed. Again,” the raven-haired seductress drawled. “Awful flare-up of the gout.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Archer clipped out.

  “Yes, he’s so much fun, isn’t he? But no matter.” She shot him an unmistakable look. “I’ll just have to find amusement elsewhere this evening.”

  He stared coldly at her. It isn’t going to work.

  Elle’s rival from their debutante days smiled back at him with the same smug mockery he had seen in her eyes the first night he had refused her months ago.

  Northrop Hayes had put her up to it, of course, trying to bring him down with a scandal. The pair were as thick as thieves. But unfortunately for them, he had no intention of taking the bait.

  He had no time for a mistress, and the lowering truth was, he was madly in love with his unattainable wife.

  Archer turned away from the temptress yet again, shaking his head cynically at her efforts. “I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty, madam.”

  Elle withdrew from her brief audience with the Queen, decidedly pleased with herself for her success. When Her Majesty had kindly asked after her family, she had managed to drop a modest hint about Archer’s pursuit of the Treasury post. The Queen had nodded with approval, agreeing that he would be an excellent choice.

  She could hardly wait to tell him. But when she turned around and saw him with that woman, Elle froze, the breath knocked from her. She could barely believe her eyes.

  How dare you talk to her in front of me? How dare you acknowledge her here?

  She looked away, beyond furious, instantly sick to her stomach. But when her stricken gaze happened across Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold so joyously in love, her heart simply broke, shattering like glass.

  And her long pent-up explosion was suddenly at hand.

  Emotion overtaking her like an arson’s blaze rolling over a village, she strode blindly out of the Crimson Drawing Room, stumbling out to the gardens of Carlton House, where she stood gasping for air in the darkness of the night.

  “My lady!” Archer was right behind her. He had seen her face turn ashen. He rushed over. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “Yes,” she wrenched out.

  “Shall I call for a doctor?”

  “Call for this.” She turned around and whacked him across the face with all her strength.

  Archer staggered back in astonishment, seeing stars. Part of him wanted to laugh. Good God, he hadn’t been punched like that since the old days, horsing around in the barracks. He shook his head to clear it. “What the deuce was that for?” he exclaimed, lifting his hand dazedly to his cheek.

  “You’ve got your stupid post,” she half snarled, half sobbed. “Go and celebrate it with your mistress.”

  “What? Ellie! No, wait—”

  “You think I’m blind?” she wailed.

  “No, it’s not what you think!”

  “Don’t lie to me, you scheming politician! I saw you!” She shoved him hard, tears streaming down her face, making dark smears under her eyes. “Weeks ago! I saw you with that harpy in the alcove at Apsley House. I hope she makes you happy. You can go to the devil, I’m going home.”

  He knew she meant their country house in Hampshire, where their two wee sons were being cared for by their nurse. She had not wanted to leave. He was well aware that if Ellie had her way, she’d spend the Season looking after her children and her garden and never come to Town, but he had summoned her for the royal wedding.

  “I want to see my children! At least they care about me.” She spun around, but Archer grasped her arm and gently turned her back to face him.

  “Ellie, stop. Listen to me. If you’re talking about Lady Margrave—”

  “Oh, are there more?” she cried.

  “No! There are none! I never touched her.”

  “You really think I’m an empty-headed fool, don’t you?” She threw off his hand and backed away.

  “You know that’s not true. I happen to know you’re smarter than most men.”

  “Well, that’s not saying much,” she huffed. Pivoting, she walked deeper into the breezy night garden to avoid the few curious guests and servants by the terrace doors.

  He followed, offering her his handkerchief as he caught up to her so she could wipe the black off around her eyes. “Listen to me, please. It was a trick they concocted. Bloody Northrop Hayes put her up to it to try to damage me politically. You know that woman’s trouble, and she’s always hated you.”

  “Mutual.” She yanked the handkerchief out of his hand and marched on, her train flowing out behind her over the graveled path.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to you about it because I didn’t want to upset you! I had no idea you already knew. Good God, that happened months ago and you never said a word! You’ve been festering on it all this time? At least now I know why you’ve been so cold to me. Ellie, stop!” He touched her elbow then stepped in front of her, and stared deeply into her eyes. “What would I want with anyone else when I have you? You’re my wife. You’re everything to me.”

  She blinked away the fresh tears that briefly starred her eyes. “No, Archer. Your ambition is all you care about.” She shook her head. “You’re so bent on
trying to be the hero of the world in order to prove yourself to him. To your father—a dead man!”

  He scowled.

  “Your father’s dead—as is your elder brother. The contest’s over! You can quit trying to make up for being born the younger son! It’s too late for them now ever to admit your mettle. But you still have me.” She paused, taking in his anguished look. “And you know I’ve always been your greatest admirer. Please. Do you even see me anymore? Would you even notice if I did it back to you—took a lover?”

  “Don’t you dare,” he whispered.

  “Why not?” she flung out. “What do you care, as long as I’m discreet? You won’t touch me.”

  He stared at her in tangled fury. “I’ve done aught in my power to treat you with respect.”

  “Maybe a little too much respect, my lord.”

  He stared at her in shock. An admission of physical desire, from Lady Frost? But she could not be seriously thinking of taking a lover.

  She must know he’d kill any man who touched her.

  No, she was only saying this to torture him. Because she thought him false.

  “Eleanor,” he ground out, “if you want me in your bed, you have only to say the word. For my part, I have never been unfaithful to you in mind or body since the day we wed. I’m sorry I’ve been distracted. But this accusation is daft! What proof do you have? There is none! How dare you question my honor? When have you ever known me to break any kind of oath?”

  She searched his face uncertainly.

  “Come, you are friends with all the gossips, are you not?” he demanded. “If it were happening, do you really think they’d miss it? Have you heard any such talk?”

  She faltered. “Well—no.”

  “I have no mistress, nor do I want one! Unfaithful?” he barked. “I don’t even have the time!”

  “You don’t have time for anything!” she angrily agreed. “Not even your sons! If you don’t start making time, you’re going to end up as much a stranger to them as your own father was to you!”

  Her warning struck home, for he knew full well it was the truth. Not for the world would he repeat that pattern. Archer lowered his gaze, sobered. “I know I’ve been too busy. And I may have been neglectful of you and the boys, but you need to know above all that I’ve never been untrue. I swear this to you on my life.”