Be My Prince

by Julianne MacLean

“Stop, Alexandra!” he shouted, following her up the wide staircase to the east wing. “I have told you the truth. There is nothing between us. Lady Ainsley walked into the court chamber without being announced and caught me off guard. I assure you I did not invite her, and I certainly did not welcome her.”

  Alexandra stopped and faced him. “How can I possibly believe that? You were in love with her once, and she broke your heart. You were gone from my bed for nearly two months, enjoying yourself in another country where celebrations abounded. Your letters were too few and far between. What am I supposed to think?”

  He fought to keep his voice calm. “You must simply trust me.”

  She laughed at that. “How about I box your ears instead?”

  “Go ahead then. Take your pleasure.” He spread his arms wide. “If it will alleviate your anger, I will be happy to oblige.”

  Without hesitation, she slapped him hard across the face.

  The force of it rattled his teeth.

  He took a moment to wait for the stinging shock of the strike to pass; then he met her gaze directly.

  She was covering her mouth with a hand and appeared positively horror-struck. “Oh, God. I cannot believe I just did that.”

  They said nothing for a moment; then Alex turned to look down the long corridor, as if to make sure they were not being watched. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Believe that I have been faithful to you.”

  Her chest was heaving. “That is not going to be easy. You are returning to Vienna again soon, and they say she will return there as well.”

  “They, they, they. What will it take to earn your trust? Because I must go back to the congress. I cannot be absent from the negotiations.”

  Her eyes burned with resolve. “Then forbid the countess from leaving the country. You’re the king. Command it.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Again they stood in silence, saying nothing while the air between them sizzled with hot sparks of tension.

  “I must go back now and see if she is still in the court chamber,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Alex needed no further convincing. “I doubt she’ll be there.”

  Together they returned, both of them unsurprised to find the room empty.

  Alex walked to the table and picked up the brandy glass. “Is this hers?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Nicholas walked in just then. “Someone said you requested my presence.”

  Randolph watched his wife stride forward and hand Nick the empty glass. “The king had a visitor,” she explained. “But perhaps I will let him convey the scandalous details, for I do not wish to hear about it again.”

  With that, she walked out, and Randolph waved his brother closer.

  * * *

  On his next two excursions out of the palace and into the city proper, Randolph was greeted with a less than enthusiastic response from the citizens of Petersbourg.

  Normally he was accustomed to crowds cheering and red roses dropping onto the roof of his coach, but as the year drew to a close he grew increasingly mindful of the changing tide of the people’s affections.

  They called out for the queen as he drove by, and certain anonymous individuals printed humorous caricatures of his recent escapades abroad. The most notable was a depiction of his fainting swoon onto a chaise longue as the beautiful Countess of Ainsley removed her mask at a ball and reminded him of their broken engagement.

  False rumors abounded—that he had entered into a clandestine affair with his former fiancée—and nothing seemed to quench the appetites of the gossipmongers. His denials only served to stoke the flames of that fire, while Alexandra enjoyed a great show of sympathy and support from the masses.

  “You don’t think my wife is using these rumors of my infidelity to gain popularity, do you?” he asked Nicholas one afternoon in the Privy Council Chamber while he paced around the session table. “Good God, forget I said that. I am exhausted and my head is pounding. I am not thinking clearly. Has anyone seen or heard from Lady Ainsley since her visit here?”

  “No,” Nicholas replied. “She did not go home to her husband, nor did she return to her family. She is still missing.”

  “Have you checked the bottom of the palace well?” Rand asked with a dark note of concern.

  Nick lifted his gaze. “The palace has been thoroughly searched. Repeatedly.”

  Rand continued to pace. “She is a danger to herself, and quite possibly to the queen. Who knows what she might be capable of? She was not rational, Nicholas. We must find her.”

  “I understand.” Nick gave a polite nod and backed out of the room.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Nicholas returned to the Privy Council Chamber, where Rand was replying to correspondence regarding the Vienna Congress.

  “The Dowager Duchess of St. George has requested an audience with you,” Nicholas announced.

  Rand sat back in his chair. “She is my mother-in-law. She does not need to request an audience. She will see me at dinner.”

  Nicholas lifted a suspicious brow. “I suspect it is a matter of some confidentiality.”

  Rand wished there was something he could do about the constant pounding in his skull. A headache had been plaguing him all day. “She didn’t tell you what it was about?”

  “No, and I did not press the matter. She is family after all.”

  Rand sighed and massaged his temples. “Send her in.”

  A moment later, the dowager entered the chamber and curtsied. Randolph set down his quill, rose from the chair, and greeted her warmly. “Good afternoon, Lucille. Tell me, what brings you to the dull offices of the king’s chamber on such a pleasant winter day?”

  She giggled awkwardly. “It is indeed a lovely day, Your Majesty.”

  He inclined his head as he approached. “You seem unsettled. Is something weighing upon your mind?”

  God help him if she wished to reprimand him for what had happened with Lady Ainsley in this very room or the gossip that had resulted after the fact. If he could do something about it, he would, but he couldn’t control the minds or tongues of the masses.

  “Under normal circumstances,” she said, “it would be the gentleman who would approach you in such a situation, but I am at my wit’s end, sir. I wish to be married, you see—to Mr. Carmichael—but he is convinced you will oppose the match, and neither of us wishes to proceed without your permission.”

  She cleared her throat and chewed on her lower lip.

  “Is he afraid to come to me himself?” Rand asked.

  An awkward silence ensued. “Well … He was a devoted servant to Alexandra’s father, and he fears that you have not yet accepted him as a loyal subject. I’ve tried to tell him that you are a generous monarch and will forgive what has gone before. He does not know I am here. He refuses to pursue the matter with you, but I wish he would. If only you could give him some encouragement.”

  Rand frowned. “You want me to encourage him to propose to you?”

  Her eyes squinted into a sheepish, pained grimace. “If it would not be too much of an inconvenience.”

  Randolph regarded her carefully. “You are in love with him—that is quite clear to me, Lucille—but do you trust him?”

  Too much had happened of late. It was still a mystery who had admitted the Countess of Ainsley to the palace and arranged for Alexandra to walk into the room at the exact moment when Elsbeth was on her knees before him.

  And he had not forgotten that Lucille had been in the corridor seconds later.

  “Yes, sir, I believe so,” she replied. “He is very kind to me.”

  Rand was not sure if the dowager was brilliantly cunning or sadly naïve.

  “I will not oppose his suit,” Randolph replied, “if he comes to me himself and asks permission to seek your hand. I would be most pleased to see you happy and settled, Lucille, but he must come to me of his own free will. I will not press him.”

  With another p
ained grimace, she curtsied again. “Thank you.”

  She walked out, and while he absently massaged his aching temples he wondered if the second half of the day would be as surprising as the first.

  * * *

  That night Alexandra lay in bed and waited impatiently for her husband to come to her. They had not made love since their explosive argument over the Countess of Ainsley. Since that day, he had grown increasingly distracted, stressed, and fatigued, and Alex worried that he no longer found her attractive. Or perhaps he thought her a jealous shrew for slapping him so hard.

  When the hour grew late and still he did not knock on her door, not even to say good night, her impatience got the better of her. Rising from bed and donning her dressing gown, she picked up a candelabra to light her way through the palace corridors to his apartments, for surely it was time for a cease-fire. Perhaps she had been too demanding in terms of his affections. Other wives turned a blind eye when their husbands took mistresses. Some said it was the behavior expected of a king.

  Her heart began to pound heavily as she stood outside his door. There had been so much tension between them lately. She wondered if their lives would ever be free of scandal or mistrust. And what in the world was she going to say to him?

  Softly she knocked, but received no reply. Was he even there?

  With growing unease, she knocked harder.

  Still, no one came to answer, not even a servant.

  As she stood in the dark corridor with the candelabra gently flickering, she placed her hand on the brass knob but hesitated, for she had no right to enter her husband’s bedchamber if he was not there—especially when she was tempted to pry around.

  To search for what? Evidence of an affair?

  She had been making every effort during the recent flood of gossip to remain rational, but the chatter was not easy to ignore. Especially when her husband refused to make love to her. He had never complained of fatigue before. What had changed?

  Glancing over her shoulder to ensure there were no witnesses, she slowly pushed the door open and tiptoed inside.

  The oak-paneled chamber was pitch-black and chilly. There was no fire crackling in the hearth, no sign that her husband had been there, though it was past two in the morning. Where the devil was he? And with whom?

  Raising her candles over her head, she squinted through the gloom and spotted the desk. She moved around the foot of the massive canopied bed, which had not been slept in, but halted abruptly when she saw the chair knocked over onto its side.

  A sharp pang of fear spiked into her as she swung the light around and saw her husband collapsed on the floor, lying on his stomach, just below the bellpull.

  Rushing forward, she set down her candles and rolled him onto his back. “Randolph!”

  She searched his body for signs of injury but found nothing. No bruises or blood. Slapping him lightly on the cheeks, she shook him and fought to wake him, but he did not regain consciousness.

  With a terrible rush of dread, she scrambled to her feet and tugged on the bellpull. “Help! Someone!” she shouted. “Come quickly! The king is ill!”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Alexandra knelt at Randolph’s bedside with her hands clasped together in prayer, willing him to regain consciousness and begging God to deliver him from the deadly illness that had taken his father’s life such a short time ago.

  The palace physician was suggesting it was a hereditary affliction. He had no name for it but claimed the symptoms were the same.

  “It is a cancer that spreads quickly through the humors,” the doctor whispered in the melancholy silence of the room.

  Alexandra did not believe it. She glanced across at Nicholas and saw a muscle flick at his jaw.

  He did not believe it either. She was certain of it. But did he suspect foul play? And if so, would he blame her?

  “Nicholas, come with me to the chapel.” She rose to her feet. “We must pray together.”

  He regarded her with suspicious eyes, then bowed in agreement and waited for her to lead the way.

  They left Rose to watch over Randolph in his deathlike slumber and walked together, without speaking a word, down the wide carpeted corridor.

  They descended the main staircase, ventured outside into the bitter chill of a hazy winter morning, and crossed the courtyard to the small stone chapel with a fountain outside the entrance. Everything was covered in a layer of fresh white snow.

  Nicholas opened the door for her, then followed her inside, where she could see her breath on the air.

  The door swung shut behind them and slammed hard.

  Alexandra walked quickly to the altar.

  Nicholas followed her up the center aisle, his boots pounding heavily over the flagstones, echoing up into the rafters.

  “Is anyone here?” he shouted as Alex whirled around to face him.

  The question was met with silence.

  They stared at each other fiercely.

  “You think I poisoned him, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I made no such accusation.”

  She regarded him discerningly. “Well, I think someone poisoned him. I don’t know who, but whoever it was probably poisoned your father as well.”

  Nicholas strode forward and caught her by the wrist. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing!” she replied, shaking herself free of his punishing, steely grip. “Except that the palace physician is a bloody fool. I watched him examine Randolph. He did nothing but look at his pupils, listen to his heart, and form his diagnosis.”

  “You have some knowledge of medicine you wish to convey?”

  “No,” she explained, “but I am quite certain that an otherwise healthy young man found unconscious in his bedchamber—a man who is a king and has many enemies, and has recently been the victim of malicious gossip and slander—should not be diagnosed so quickly. Are you not also suspicious?”

  He stared at her a moment, then turned his eyes toward the stained-glass window beyond the altar. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep intake of breath; then he regarded her with dangerous resolve.

  “We are of the same mind,” he said.

  She let out a sharp breath of relief, then turned toward the altar. “Then pray with me, Nicholas, for I fear for Randolph’s life.”

  He hesitated a moment, then knelt down beside her, bowed his head, and clasped his hands. “I will gladly pray,” he said, “but it will take more than prayer to stop the damage from this oncoming storm. I believe we are facing another revolution, madam, but this time, it is being waged with a hidden blade.”

  She shot him a quick look. “As long as you do not think it is my blade.”

  He closed his eyes in prayer and did not respond to the accusation.

  * * *

  After leaving the chapel, Alex returned to her husband’s bedside.

  Thank God, her prayers had been answered. He was sitting up in bed.

  “Randolph!” A cry of relief broke from her lips.

  She hurried to his side and bent to kiss the back of his hand. “I was so afraid I’d lost you. What happened? Where was your valet? I found you on the floor in your bedchamber. Do you have any recollection of anyone coming into the room? Were you struck down perhaps?”

  He was dressed in a white linen nightshirt that was open at the neck, and his hair was damp with perspiration. He shook his head on the pillow and regarded her coolly. “No memory. The doctor tells me I collapsed. He says I suffer from the same affliction that killed my father.” His blue eyes met hers with steely skepticism. “I cannot believe it. Does it not seem odd to you that all this tragedy has befallen my family since the day you set out to become queen?”

  Alexandra sat back. Her stomach turned over with sickening dread.

  “What are you suggesting?” She glanced over her shoulder, fearful that someone might hear him. He was not making sense.

  “Not so long ago, I was adored by the people,” he said with bitter rancor. “Now they see me as
a villain while you have won their sympathy.”

  “You are confused, Randolph,” she gently said, arranging the covers around him. “I do not wish you ill. I love you, and I want you to get well.”

  He stared at her as if he had not heard a single word; then his eyes rolled back in his head and his body began to convulse.

  She tried to restrain him but could not manage on her own. She shouted to the doctor, who was just outside the room, “Help us! Please help us!”

  He immediately came running.

  * * *

  “We are seeking a second opinion,” Alexandra said to Randolph, after he had recovered sufficiently from the seizure.

  He had no memory of the hurtful words that had passed between them beforehand, and she was grateful for that. Yet their quarrel had injured her deeply, and she shuddered inwardly at the remembrance of it. She felt a terrible wretchedness in her heart. Did he truly believe she wished him ill? Would he ever be able to trust her?

  “Nicholas and I have already made arrangements,” she explained, “and he has gone to speak to some young medical men at the university. We believe they may have more current knowledge about diseases such as this, or perhaps they have some experience with the most modern treatments.”

  “I will welcome a new diagnosis,” Randolph replied, “other than what that quack doctor has concluded, for that did not end well for my father.” He shut his eyes and wet his lips. “Bloody hell, I am so damn tired. Will you fetch me a drink of something?”

  She stood up to pour him a glass of water.

  “My mouth tastes like metal,” he added.

  Alex stopped abruptly and turned. “I beg your pardon?”

  He opened his eyes. “I am thirsty.”

  “You said your mouth tastes like metal,” she added. “Are you aware that your father complained of the same symptom? He mentioned it when I visited his bedside. Have you told the doctor about this?”

  “Yes. He said it’s nothing.”

  “Hmmph.” She poured the water into a glass. “You can be sure I will seek a second opinion about that as well. Drink up, Randolph. You must get your strength back.”

  All of a sudden, he reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Promise me you will be careful,” he said with desperate intensity in his eyes. “You must guard our child.”