Princess in Love

by Julianne MacLean

  “Your Royal Highness, Your Grace…” The innkeeper bowed to them both. “Welcome. It is an honor to serve you this evening. I have your rooms prepared, if you will follow me this way.”

  He led them upstairs to two rooms, side by side, small but cozy and clean, with polished brass beds and freshly laundered sheets and quilts.

  Rose took one look at the soft, dry bed and the brick fireplace, freshly kindled and waiting to be lit, and nearly wept with joy, for she was exhausted after the numerous charity events and speeches in Bath, followed by a near-fatal carriage accident, and the unexpected arrival of a man she would have preferred never to see again.

  She ran her tongue over her swollen lip and held her wrist close to her chest. Lord Cavanaugh had insisted she be seen by a doctor, and though she’d put on a brave face, she was beginning to feel grateful for that. It would be best to ensure she hadn’t broken anything, or at the very least, to be prescribed something to numb the pain.

  “The maid will be up shortly with hot water and fresh linens,” the innkeeper said. “Would you like supper trays sent up, or would you prefer to join the marquess in the private dining room?”

  Rose was about to select the supper tray, but the dowager was quicker to respond. “We would be delighted to join the marquess. Please thank him for arranging our accommodations and tell him we will be downstairs directly.”

  The innkeeper bowed and retreated.

  “What a charming gentleman,” the dowager said, as she stood in Rose’s doorway and glanced about the room, which was identical to her own.

  “Are you referring to the innkeeper or the marquess?” Rose asked.

  “Why, the marquess, of course,” the dowager replied. “How lucky we were to be rescued by such a man. I daresay we must toast to our good fortune. Now if you will excuse me, I must dress for dinner. I am positively famished.”

  Rose smiled in agreement, rubbed a hand over her throbbing wrist, and shut her door with a frown.

  * * *

  Two hours later, after they dined on a moist and mouthwatering main course of lamb with spiced gravy, roasted potatoes, and carrots dripping in cinnamon butter, their private table in the back room was cleared for dessert. By that time, Rose was feeling no pain in her wrist on account of the sumptuous full-bodied wine that had accompanied the meal.

  While Lord Cavanaugh described his treacherous voyage across the North Sea on his way to England, a sweet apple brandy was served to the table, along with raspberry cream cakes and sugared plums.

  The dowager’s cheeks were, by now, beyond rosy, for she had enjoyed the wine a little too much and became unmindful of her obligation to be a strict and moral chaperone. During dinner she permitted Rose’s glass to be refilled more than once, and Rose soon found herself laughing openly with the marquess about the infamous kitchen incident of 1811—when her father’s dog escaped into the palace courtyard with a giant block of cheese in his jaws, and the cook chased after him with a rolling pin, tripped over her skirts, and fell tumbling into the reflecting pond.

  The dog was forced to sleep in the wine cellar that night, while the cook, unfortunately, was dismissed. Though it was not such a sad occasion when all was said and done, for that particular cook possessed no sense of humor. The dog certainly didn’t mourn the loss of her.

  For that brief period of time at the table during dessert, Rose managed to forget about her awkward history with Leopold, and simply enjoyed herself. Soon she began to wonder if it might be possible for them to be friends after all. She was engaged to another man now, which provided a certain protection from Cavanaugh’s attentions and attractiveness. If she could move past the humiliation of his rejection and accept him for what he truly was—a dangerously charming flirt who was too handsome for his own good—it might very well be possible. For she certainly did enjoy his conversation. Nothing about that had changed, and she doubted it ever would.

  Eventually she found herself relaxing in her chair while quietly observing him talk to the dowager about her beloved Italian Gardens at Pembroke Palace.

  It was probably a mistake to enjoy watching him like that, but the delicious aroma of the apple brandy, mixed with the spicy warmth of it as it touched her lips, put Rose in a reflective mood.

  A carriage pulled up outside the window just then, and a man got out. Leopold stood up and pulled a white lace curtain aside. “That must be the doctor.”

  A moment later, the door to their private dining room swung open and the doctor was shown in. He was an older gentleman with white hair and spectacles.

  Rose set down her cup. Introductions were made, and the doctor joined them at the table. He ordered a glass of claret and conversed with them for a few minutes before inquiring about Rose’s accident.

  “I am sure it is nothing,” she explained as she rubbed at her arm.

  He peered at her over the tops of his spectacles. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He adjusted his spectacles on the tip of his nose, then turned her arm this way and that while pressing on her wrist bone with the pad of his thumb. “Any pain here?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Here?”

  “No.”

  “Does it hurt when I bend it like this?” He flexed her hand and straightened her wrist.

  “Ouch. Yes. That is quite painful.”

  The doctor removed his spectacles and sat back in his chair. “Well, madam, I do not believe anything is broken, but you did some damage. It is as you thought, a mild sprain, and you are sure to experience some discomfort over the next few days. I should like to wrap it if you don’t object, to provide you with some support and comfort. Try not to move it more than absolutely necessary and it should heal quickly. You will be right as rain before you know it.”

  Rose smiled at him. “That is a relief, I must say. Thank you, Doctor.”

  He opened his leather bag and withdrew a rolled-up bandage along with a small bottle. “I suspect you may have some trouble sleeping tonight, but a few drops of this before you retire will help ease any discomfort.” He handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  He began to wrap her wrist.

  A short while later, Leopold escorted him to the door and thanked him for venturing out on such a terrible night, then returned to the table and sat down.

  “That was good of you to send for him,” Rose said.

  Leopold shook his head as if it were nothing. “Say no more about it. I am honored to be of service.”

  He picked up his brandy and swirled it around in the glass before tipping it back and finishing it.

  Rose watched the movement of his throat and couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from his beautiful mouth as he swept his tongue across his lips to taste the last few drops.

  For a moment, she felt as if she were floating in a dream, yet she wanted desperately to shake herself awake.

  Thankfully, the dowager gathered up her gloves just then and stood.

  “What a delightful evening it has been,” she said. “You have been most generous and hospitable, my lord.”

  Cavanaugh stood and bowed to her. “The pleasure was all mine, and please rest peacefully this evening knowing that I have sent assistance to your coachman. In the morning, we will evaluate the condition of your vehicle and make a decision about the rest of your travel arrangements. Needless to say, I am at your service and would be delighted to escort you the rest of the way to London, if need be.”

  He kissed the dowager’s hand. She smiled blushingly, then left the room and waited at the stairs for Rose to join her.

  Rose held out her good hand and Leopold bent forward to kiss it. His lips lingered hotly upon her knuckles, and a delicious pulse of awareness skirted down the length of her body.

  “Join me for another drink after the duchess has retired,” he suggested as his seductive eyes lifted. “I will wait for you.”

  Clinging to her good sense, she pulled her hand free. “That is not possible,
my lord. I must bid you good night.”

  As she passed him on her way to the door, he spoke in a low voice that was edged in command. “But there are things that must be said.”

  More than a little shaken by the request, Rose hurried to her room before she agreed to do something she might later regret.

  Chapter Four

  Leopold sat before the fire in the private dining room for two solid hours waiting for Rose to return. When she did not come, his mood turned increasingly foul. He attempted to drown it out by finishing what was left of the brandy and berating himself for wanting her—when she was the one woman in the world he should not want and could not have.

  It shouldn’t matter that she was over him. He should, in fact, be pleased about that. Nor should he care if she was still angry about his detestable behavior two years ago and thought the worst of him—because when he ended it, he’d wanted her to despise him, for it was the only way. He knew she possessed a passionate nature and would never give him up, and he couldn’t very well tell her the truth—that he’d been groomed all his life to hate her, and to knock her vulgar usurping family off the throne of Petersbourg.

  Yet since that time, he’d had no respite from the regret, for he never could succeed at hating her, and after seeing her tonight, he knew he still desired her as ardently as he had the first time their lips met.

  Just thinking about her sweet, delicious mouth caused a stirring of need in his loins that made him wonder what the bloody hell he was doing here, waiting for her to join him for a drink. It would only intensify this wretched torture and drag him through another round of agonizing sexual resistance, and in the end he’d be forced to repeat what he’d done to her the last time, which was to push her away. Incite her hate.

  Deciding that it was long past time to purge such thoughts from his brain, he rose from the chair and moved across the room in a hazy fog of frustrated desire mixed with too much wine and brandy. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, when he encountered Rose in the doorway, looking impossibly beguiling and quite thoroughly vexed.

  * * *

  Rose took one look at Leopold, gorgeous and godlike in the shimmering firelight, and wondered what the devil had been going through her head just now when she walked out of her room and descended the stairs.

  “I wasn’t going to come,” she explained, feeling defensive all of a sudden as she entered the room and shut the door behind her. “In fact, I was trying very hard to go to sleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking of your final words after dinner. Do you have something you wish to say to me, Leopold?”

  It shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t care at all—and she certainly shouldn’t be here alone with him for he looked rather menacing—but if she didn’t find out what it was, it would haunt her for the rest of her days.

  He gestured toward the two chairs in front of the fire. “Sit down, Rose.”

  With some hesitation, she moved past him. “I see that you’ve finished the brandy. Please do not ring for more. I do not wish to drink with you.” Clearly he’d already had enough, and for that reason she needed to keep her wits about her. “Nor do I want anyone to know we are alone here.”

  “Understood.”

  He locked the door behind her, which was not what she intended to suggest, but decided it was a good thing. Heaven forbid the dowager should find out about this.

  She sat down in front of the fire, her back ramrod straight, and folded her hands primly on her lap while her heart raced with trepidation. “Well, then. Let us fire a musket ball straight into the heart of the matter, shall we? What do you wish to say?”

  He took a seat across from her and stared intently with those pale blue eyes that never failed to quicken her blood. She glanced down at his virile body and could not help but admire the strength of his form—the broad shoulders, muscular legs, and large, capable hands. He was a heroic cavalry officer, a true flesh-and-blood warrior, and no other man fascinated her the way this one did, not even Joseph, her fiancé, which disturbed her greatly.

  She shouldn’t have come.

  But she needed to know.

  “You’re still angry with me,” he said, his eyes serious.

  “Yes, of course I am, but that is yesterday’s news.”

  He relaxed back in the chair, and she wondered exactly how much brandy he’d consumed. “But I thought tonight was different,” he added. “It felt like old times. You seemed cheerful and it gave me hope that you have finally forgiven me.”

  Rose sat back with a resigned sigh. “Why does it even matter? Two years ago you made your feelings quite clear. You did not wish any further contact with me. I accepted it, and as I told you before, I have moved on. Besides, even if I wanted to, there could be no turning back.”

  He regarded her with curiosity. “How do you mean?”

  There was no point keeping it secret. He would know soon enough, and she wanted him to know. Yes, by Jove, she did. Perhaps it was wicked of her, but she wanted to jab him with it—or at the very least, damage his monstrous pride.

  “It has not yet been announced,” she explained, “but the truth is…” She paused and lifted her chin to bask for a moment in this very splendid array of satisfaction. “I am engaged to be married.”

  His head drew back. “Good God, I had no idea.”

  She scoffed. “Why? Is it so difficult to imagine? Did you believe I would pine away for you the rest of my life, and never give my heart to another?”

  Now it was his turn to appear flustered, and she took great pleasure in it.

  When he seemed unable to provide an answer, she relaxed her offensive charge and took a deep breath. “I’ve shocked you.”

  “Yes, I suppose you have.”

  They gazed at each other in the flickering firelight, and when he looked at her that way—with such intimate familiarity—she had to fight hard not to fall back under the spell of his captivating male beauty, mixed with all the unforgettable memories of their brief affair two years ago. Certain moments would be etched in her mind forever.

  She’d once imagined their love would last a lifetime and they would never be apart. She’d believed, quite mistakenly, that he felt the same way.

  How quickly dreams could be crushed. How quickly one could go from bliss and ecstasy to the throes of deathlike despair.

  “Who is he?” Leopold asked.

  “Archduke Joseph of Austria.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Heir to the throne?”

  “Yes. My father arranged for us to meet eight months ago, and we have corresponded ever since. He is a good man, Leopold. You would approve of him.”

  It was the truth. Joseph was decent and honest and their union would strengthen Petersbourg’s political ties with Austria. It would be a successful marriage on all fronts.

  Leopold sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I see. Well, then.” He looked up at her with dark and broody displeasure. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Rose, but I would be lying if I said I approve.”

  She scoffed again. “Why? Is there no one else, besides you, who is good enough?”

  She meant to be sarcastic, but when his penetrating eyes narrowed, she realized with a jolt of shock that he might still entertain some measure of desire for her.

  It was quite possible that tonight had not been a meaningless flirtation simply to swell his masculine pride. It was quite possible that he, too, had not forgotten the past … that there might still be something more simmering beneath the surface.

  All at once, she felt as if she were back in that swerving, out-of-control coach and needed to grab on to something.

  “It’s not that,” he explained. “I’ve always known you could have any man you wanted. You are a beautiful woman and the daughter of a king. I cannot reiterate enough how it frustrates me to think that you wanted me once, but that it simply could not be.”

  “Could not be? Please, Leopold. I would have married you in a heartbeat, and my father would have allowed it because he
dotes on my every wish. You know that. Don’t pretend otherwise and act as if I were the one who rejected you.”

  He took both her hands in his, and the physical connection nearly stole her breath. His hands were large and strong, so achingly familiar …

  Why was he doing this?

  “I pretend nothing,” he said with an intensity that caused every nerve in her body to quiver and burn. “At least not now, but two years ago I was not free to propose, and I need you to understand that.”

  She struggled to keep her breathing steady. “What do you mean … you were not free to propose?”

  At last, the answer came.

  “Since birth,” he said, “I have been pledged to another.”

  Her stomach dropped like a stone.

  There it was. The explanation she had longed for on so many nights when she was weeping into her pillow, dreaming of this man’s hands upon her body, his lips upon her mouth, his vows before God at the altar.

  Why hadn’t he told her this before? How could he have broken her heart in the cruelest manner and led her to believe he did not care for her? That he did not desire her?

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked. “Why did you treat me with such cold indifference, as if you had lost all affection for me? Do you have any idea how badly you hurt me?”

  He spoke firmly. “I couldn’t tell you then, and I shouldn’t be telling you now because I haven’t even met my betrothed yet. We are secretly engaged but have never set eyes on each other.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “No.”

  It sounded very clandestine. She swallowed uneasily. “Then why are you telling me?”

  He sat back, looking all too gorgeous and dangerously seductive. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ve had too much brandy.”

  Rose sat back also. “I see.”

  A log shifted in the grate and a flurry of sparks exploded into the chimney.

  Her heart was racing. The inside of her belly was on fire. She had not expected to ever have this conversation with Leopold Hunt. She didn’t know what to say, what to make of it, how to manage it.