The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  “Yes, she was lovely,” she said mistily.

  “When did she die?”

  “When I was a little girl. An accident with a horse. Papa married her because she was a princess, but I think they fell in love afterward. I always like to think so, anyway.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his gaze on her.

  “Papa always wanted to replace them with real diamonds, but I did not want him to, for then it would not be Mama’s tiara anymore.”

  She took a deep breath and returned to the subject at hand. “But I must sell some of these jewels and I need your help to do so, as I don’t know my way around London yet.”

  “Why do you need money?” he demanded.

  She stared at him. “What a stupid question! Because I do. I’m going shopping tomorrow, for a start.”

  “You won’t need money for that. Have them send their accounts to me at this address. And for any trinkets, here.” He started to peel banknotes off.

  “No, stop it,” she told him. “That’s not fair. Why should you be out of pocket for my clothes?”

  He said through gritted teeth. “Because you are to become my wife and a man provides for his wife.”

  “I will be a paper wife only,” she began, then said hastily as a speculative look suddenly lit his eyes, “and if you try to demonstrate that I am flesh and blood, Gabriel, I will smack you! I am being serious here and you promised me this afternoon that you would not ride roughshod over my opinions.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I am merely discussing options with you,” he explained.

  “Well, listen to this: I owe you enough as it is, without owing you the very clothes on my back. I have my pride, just as you do.”

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  “And as well as clothes for myself and Tibby and Nicky, I will need money to cover the expense of the wedding reception.”

  He folded his arms again. “That does not concern you.”

  “It does,” she argued, frustrated. “If this was a normal wedding, my family would pay for the wedding and the reception. It’s traditional: the bride’s family pays.”

  “Yes, but you are a widow without close family. Besides, my aunt will have a fit if anyone—you or I—tried to reimburse her. It is her pleasure, her gift to us.” The stubborn line to his jaw was back again.

  “There is no us.”

  “Isn’t there?” he said. “It looks very much like there is to me. It is the whole point of this marriage.”

  She frowned, wondering if he really did mean that. And why he kept referring to it as a marriage, when really, it was just a wedding. “But—”

  “No, you are quite right, at the moment we are two separate entities,” he said angrily. “This is us.” And he kissed her. Thoroughly. And very possessively.

  She emerged from the embrace flustered but determined not to show it. She could handle it—him.

  “Stop it—you will not distract me from my purpose. If you won’t help me sell my jewels, I’ll find someone who will.”

  He glared at her for a long moment. “You’re an infuriatingly stubborn woman,” he said at last. “Very well, hand the blasted things over. It will take some time to effect the sale, so in the meantime have all your accounts sent to me at this address—and yes, I’ll keep a separate account for you if you insist—and take this for pin money.”

  She tucked the banknotes he passed her into her reticule and gave him the jewels. The pearls, too. They would fetch a very good price, she knew. A woman making a paper marriage for political reasons with a man she had known less than two weeks could not afford to be sentimental.

  He saw the pearls among them and his face darkened. He carefully separated them from the tangle of jewelry she’d given him and dumped them back in her lap.

  “I might agree to sell some of your precious trinkets, but not these,” he growled. “There is a limit.”

  “Didn’t you listen to a thing I said?” she began.

  “I listened to everything,” he said shortly. “And I’ll sell these other blasted bits and bobs, since you insist—though it goes very much against the grain. But the pearls your father gave you for your sixteenth birthday are not for sale. They are for your daughter, or your granddaughter. You will not sacrifice everything, dammit!”

  He stalked out of the room, leaving her with a lap full of pearls and a lump in her throat.

  In the morning they woke to soft, steady drizzle. The weather would not affect the shoppers, but the plans to take Nicky and Jim for a riding lesson in the park had to be postponed. However, as a visit to the Tower of London to see the wild beasts, followed by an excursion to Astley’s Amphitheatre was to take its place, the boys were not too cast down.

  Lady Gosforth had sent for Giselle, her own mantua maker, to come and measure up Callie and Tibby, and to choose designs for the wedding dress and other dresses.

  Giselle, an elegant, acidic-looking Frenchwoman, had flung up her hands in horror. “Mais milady, ce n’est pas possible—such short notice!”

  Lady Gosforth raised an eyebrow. “Not even for a royal wedding, Giselle—the ‘secret’ royal wedding of Princess Caroline of Zindaria?” She made a careless gesture. “In that case we will have to call on Madame—”

  Giselle visibly melted. “A royal wedding? Non, non. I speak without thinking,” Giselle said hastily, her sharp black eyes assessing Callie swiftly. “I have just recall that I ’ave a cancellation. I ’ave assistants to take care of other matters.” She snapped her fingers and the assistant leapt forward with the tape measure. “I will devote myself to the princess.”

  Callie and Tibby were caught up in a whirlwind of designs and choices. Callie had to be firm, refusing to order the number of dresses Giselle and Lady Gosforth assured her was necessary.

  Giselle soon regretted her sudden cancellation, as the princess seemed regrettably uninterested in the latest kick of fashion.

  “They are too heavily ornamented,” Callie insisted. “Look, this design looks more like a wedding cake than a dress.”

  But after some discussion, they finally were able to agree on the design for her wedding dress. It was to be was made of café au lait satin, very simply cut with a little lace at the sleeves and neck. Giselle became passionate about a border of frilled and plaited white and coffee satin around the hem, neck, and entirely covering the short sleeves, but Callie put her foot down. She agreed to a plaited border, but no frills.

  “I don’t want to look dowdy and unfashionable,” she told them, “but my dresses will be of my own choosing. And not frilly. I am not a frilly person.”

  Giselle gave a sniff that indicated she entirely agreed. It was not a compliment. Royalty, the sniff gave them to understand, was not what it used to be.

  They visited silk warehouses with Giselle, where they selected dozens of lengths of fabric to be made up. She and Tibby tried them out, holding up swathe after swathe of colored material—silk and satin for Callie, Tibby stubbornly maintaining she needed bombazine, cotton, and wool.

  They preened like young girls over all the colors, and Callie bullied Tibby into a blue silk dress for her wedding, saying, “It brings out the color of your eyes, Tibby,” and then unguardedly, “Oh, Ethan will love that on you!”

  Poor Tibby blushed furiously and put the blue silk aside. Callie ordered it secretly.

  She felt dreadful about her slip. Tibby had a tendre for the big Irishman, she knew, but they both knew there was no possibility of a match between two such different people with such different backgrounds. It had been careless and cruel of her to suggest there could be anything between them.

  Callie ordered dresses in bright, brilliant colors; morning dresses in rose and green and peach. She ordered a walking dress of green and gold cambric and another in sky blue; an emerald pelisse with scarlet and white trimmings; a blue spencer with white satin frogging that quite wrung her heart, it wa
s so beautiful.

  Her favorite of all her new purchases was a scarlet cloak in fine wool with a hood and black silk velvet trim, to replace the cloak she’d left on the ship. She held the fabric up against her and examined it in the looking glass, and heard, You look like a delicious bonbon wrapped in that red thingummy…

  She flushed at the memory and was about to choose a green fabric instead, but changed her mind. She’d never worn scarlet before. Why let his words stop her? Besides, she liked feeling like a bonbon.

  They bought stockings in silk and cotton; ordered new corsets and purchased chemises, petticoats, drawers, and nightgowns.

  “You aren’t going to buy those!” Lady Gosforth exclaimed at one point.

  “Yes, why not?” Callie had selected several cotton nightgowns and one of flannel. “They will last well and be warm.”

  Lady Gosforth was so shocked she could not speak for a full minute. “One doesn’t buy a nightgown for warmth and durability! Not at your age, and not when you are about to become a bride!”

  “I do,” Callie said firmly and bought the nightgowns she’d chosen.

  Lady Gosforth gave a sniff that outdid Giselle’s in scorn for the state of royalty today, but Callie didn’t care.

  She wanted to splurge on the sort of clothes she’d craved, but was also aware of the need to conserve them and to have as flexible a wardrobe as possible. She was having fun. And she was answerable to no one. It was a heady feeling.

  The night before her wedding, Callie woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rain falling, pattering steadily on the window panes and gurgling down the gutters.

  It wasn’t the rain that had woken her. It was dreams. Dreams of kisses. Disturbing kisses that woke her in the night, hot and with her nightgown twisted around her.

  It was very hard to take a kiss calmly and politely, especially the way Gabriel did it.

  She wished he kissed like Rupert.

  No, she didn’t.

  She didn’t know what she wanted.

  Yes, she did. But it wasn’t going to happen. This was going to be a paper marriage, a maneuver, a chess strategy. As soon as Count Anton was defeated, it would be over. They would go their different ways, married but with separate lives.

  Would Count Anton ever be defeated?

  She slipped out of bed. She should not be dwelling on gloomy things. Just because it was night and raining didn’t mean she had to be dreary, too. She pushed her feet into the too-big slippers she still had from Mrs. Barrow and shuffled to the window. Drawing back the curtains, she looked out.

  The rain had softened from its initial heavy downpour. Now it continued in a steady drizzle, making constantly changing rivulets down the windowpane, trickles of water meeting and joining, then splitting again. Like people.

  Gabriel would go his own way one day, too. Pure disinterested gallantry would only stretch so far.

  The lights of the gas streetlamps glowed through the rain like fuzzy golden haloes glowing in the darkness. The rain dripped from the eaves, picking up the light of the gas lamps like a string of golden pearls.

  She glanced at her pearls, sitting on the dressing table where she’d dropped them, and picked them up. They were so long she used to wear them wrapped around her neck several times. Such pure, perfectly graded spheres. She ran them through her fingers, admiring the luster and sheen and feel of them, and remembering.

  The first time she’d worn them had been at her sixteenth birthday party. She’d worn them a few days later, at her wedding to the handsome, golden prince, the embodiment of all her lonely dreams.

  She hadn’t worn her pearls for years. Not since the day she’d visited Rupert in the woods.

  But they were beautiful. She recalled Gabriel’s words, The pearls your father gave you for your sixteenth birthday are not for sale. They are for your daughter, or your granddaughter.

  He was right, she decided. It was not Papa’s fault, nor the pearls, that Rupert had not loved her. She would keep them for her future granddaughter. And in the meantime she would wear them again, starting with her wedding tomorrow, a gesture of faith in the future.

  Fifteen

  Callie took a deep breath and stepped inside the church.

  And stopped, horrified.

  The church was full. Not standing-room-only full, but more than a hundred people full. Mostly sitting on the groom’s side of the church.

  It was supposed to be a small, private ceremony.

  Now she had more than a hundred witnesses for what she was about to do. She’d been feeling sick with nerves all morning. Now she started to shake.

  The music of the organ swelled. A ripple of anticipation went through the congregation and a hundred faces turned toward her.

  She wanted to bolt.

  “Come on, Mama.” Her son tugged her hand. Her little boy in his formal suit looked so handsome and earnest and determined. Nicky was giving the bride away.

  Tibby, her bridesmaid in blue, stepped forward. “Callie, what’s the matter?” she whispered.

  “I can’t do this, not with all these people there,” Callie whispered back.

  “Why not? It is the same thing, whether there is one or a hundred people watching,” Nicky said in a reasonable voice.

  Callie had to laugh. Men started young at this. Being rational when the problem was emotional. It settled her. In just such a patient voice he’d explained to her that west was where the sun set. When they were standing in the sea at midnight.

  “My wise, wonderful son,” she said and bent and kissed him on the forehead. He bore it manfully, then tucked her hand firmly in the crook of his arm and led her down the aisle.

  He was happy for her to marry Gabriel, he’d told her when she’d first broached the matter with him. He’d thought about it for several minutes and then declared that Mr. Renfrew would make a very good stepfather.

  His words had shocked her. She’d taken pains to explain that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a formality, just a way of stopping Count Anton’s petition. Like a chess maneuver.

  Nicky was very good at chess, she was certain he understood what she was telling him. He nodded seriously all through her careful explanation, and he thought about it for a few moments afterward. And then his intense little face had lit up, and he’d made his decision: he approved.

  So here she was, marrying Gabriel Renfrew. He stood at the altar waiting for her, tall and solemn and unbelievably handsome, devouring her with his eyes; the sort of man who could steal a girl’s heart if she wasn’t careful.

  Callie was determined to be careful.

  She looked at the faces of the congregation as she passed.

  On the groom’s side of the church the only person she recognized was Mr. Nash Renfrew, who stood there with a tall, unsmiling man. He stared at her with coldly assessing Renfrew eyes; Gabriel’s estranged brother the earl, no doubt.

  She was curious about the few who were sitting on the bride’s side, and as she reached their pews they turned to look at her. She felt a lump in her throat as she saw their faces. Mr. Ramsey, Mr. Ripton, and Mr. Delaney stood together, the groom’s best friends, claiming the bride as part of their family. In the pew behind them stood Mr. and Mrs. Barrow, dressed in their Sunday best, Mrs. Barrow in a magnificent straw hat lavishly trimmed with flowers. She beamed at Callie and burst into tears. Barrow produced a handkerchief and handed it to her, and Mrs. Barrow leaned against him and sighed gustily at the bride. How wonderful it must be to have a marriage like that, to love for a lifetime.

  A woman in a magnificent purple turban turned: it was Lady Gosforth, clutching a wisp of lace to her eye and beaming at Callie. She looked as proud and as happy as if she were Callie’s own mother.

  Sitting with her was a group of other ladies, Lady Gosforth’s circle of intimate friends. She recognized their faces. She’d met them once or twice in the last few days. She couldn’t even remember their names.

  And yet, here they were, these ladies, pillars
of the ton, come to see her married, sitting on her side of the church, and smiling, moist-eyed, at the bride as if she weren’t some stranger with no family, but one of their own.

  Callie managed a misty smile back. Her eyes blurred with tears. Such kindness…Such kindness…

  And then they were at the end of the aisle and he stood there, Gabriel Renfrew, hand outstretched, watching her, waiting to claim her hand.

  His gaze caressed her, then he looked at her son and gave him a small nod of approval. Nicky’s chest puffed out proudly as he bowed and stepped back.

  More tears prickled at her lashes. Gabriel would make a very good stepfather. But it could not to be. Her future, eventually, was back in Zindaria, as mother to the prince. He had property and friends and family here.

  Behind him stood his brother Harry, his best man, looking somber. He had the Renfrew eyes, too, except his were gray, like the earl’s. Harry caught Nicky’s eye and winked. Callie felt a rush of gratitude at the easy acceptance these men had given Nicky.

  Gabriel took her trembling hand in his and they stepped forward to be married. His hand was warm and a little damp. She glanced at him. Surely he was not nervous, too?

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together…”

  Her thoughts drifted.

  “First, it was ordained for the procreation of children…”

  Children. There would be no children of this union. A paper marriage. Paper children.

  “Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication…”

  She stared at the hand that held hers so firmly, his large thumb rubbing back and forth across her skin.

  She heard Gabriel saying his vows, “…To have and to hold…to love and to cherish…”

  She didn’t want to listen. Paper vows, false promises.

  And then it was her turn to repeat after the minister: “I, Caroline Serena Louise, take thee, Gabriel Edward Fitz-paine Renfrew, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to”—mumble—“cherish, and to”—mumble—“till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”