The Accidental Princess

by Michelle Willingham

  Estelle began helping Hannah into the sage-green gown, and a moment later, signalled to Mrs Turner. ‘You, there. Fetch Lady Hannah’s silk fan from inside that trunk.’ Without waiting for a response, the maid began fastening a pearl necklace around Hannah’s throat.

  ‘Emeralds would look better,’ Mrs Turner suggested.

  Estelle sent the widow a tight smile. ‘I do not believe you are responsible for Lady Hannah’s wardrobe. Her mother has taken great pains to organise each of her gowns with the appropriate matching fan, jewels, stockings and gloves, and has made lists of what outfit should be worn upon which occasion. Your help is not needed.’ With a flourish, Estelle produced a small handful of papers.

  ‘Estelle, Mrs Turner is here at my request,’ Hannah corrected.

  Mrs Turner did not react to the maid’s arrogant tone, but instead, a light appeared in her eyes as though she were squaring off for battle.

  Estelle pressed the lists into Hannah’s hand, and she glanced at them before setting them down on the table. Orders of what to wear, what not to eat, how to greet the other first-class passengers…the reminders went on and on.

  Her mother was still trying to give orders, even while they were miles apart.

  Enough. Balling up the lists into a crumpled heap of paper, Hannah tossed them in the wastebasket. Her maid gave a cry of dismay, but left the lists alone.

  ‘Did you pack the emeralds, Estelle?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, my lady, but your mother’s orders were—’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Mrs Turner cleared her throat and turned a sharp eye upon Estelle. ‘Are you arguing with your mistress?’

  ‘Do you dare to criticise me?’ The maid puffed up with anger. ‘Lady Rothburne is one of the greatest ladies in all of London. I take pride in following her explicit orders.’

  Mrs Turner frowned and began looking around the cabin. She lifted a cushion, spying beneath it. ‘Well, I don’t see Lady Rothburne here, do you?’

  Hannah had difficulty concealing her smile.

  ‘If your lady wishes to wear emeralds instead of pearls, what does it matter?’

  ‘Emeralds are not proper for a young lady.’ The maid glared at Mrs Turner. ‘And you should learn your place, if you expect to remain in Lady Rothburne’s employ. I shall write to her about you, see if I don’t.’

  Hannah didn’t like her maid’s attitude. She’d considered getting rid of the woman even before now, but she’d had enough of this rudeness. ‘Estelle, if you wish to stay, you will obey my orders.’

  Mrs Turner drew close. ‘May I help you with that clasp, Lady Hannah?’

  Hannah turned, and Mrs Turner unfastened the pearls, replacing them with an emerald pendant Estelle grudgingly gave her.

  ‘Go and find some refreshments for Lady Hannah,’ the matron suggested to Estelle. ‘A glass of lemonade, perhaps, or a bit of cake.’

  ‘Chocolate cake,’ Hannah breathed, like a prayer.

  ‘Chocolate, then.’

  ‘But Lady Rothburne has strictly forbidden—’

  Mrs Turner shut the cabin door in the maid’s face. Dusting off her hands as though they were well rid of her, the widow offered a broad smile. ‘I’ve been wanting to thank you for granting me a place to sleep.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ Hannah struggled with her stockings, and Mrs Turner helped her to adjust them.

  The widow added, ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you should get a lady’s maid who is a bit more loyal to you than to your mother.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  Mrs Turner fussed over her, helped her finish dressing, and exclaimed over the gown. When Hannah was ready, the older woman smiled. ‘He really does like you, you know. My Michael. He spoke of meeting you at the ball that night. You made quite an impression upon him.’

  Why a stranger’s words would make her stomach flutter, Hannah didn’t know. She picked up her fan, feeling like an awkward fifteen-year-old girl once again. She resisted the urge to ask what he’d said about her. It didn’t matter.

  And if she told herself that a hundred times, she might actually start to believe it.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Hannah saw the Graf von Reischor waiting to escort her to dinner. He murmured a compliment in his native language. Before Hannah could respond with her thanks, Mrs Turner followed behind them, adding, ‘Yes, she does look lovely, doesn’t she?’

  The Graf turned, staring at the widow. ‘Do you speak Lohenisch, Mrs Turner?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ A curious smile rested upon her lips. ‘Why ever would you think that?’

  The dining room was exquisite and could hold nearly four hundred first-class passengers. Long tables set with white linen tablecloths gleamed with silver and bone-china plates. Above, an ornate brass chandelier provided lighting while potted tropical plants added a splash of greenery to the tables.

  Several guests were already seated, and the gentlemen rose at the sight of her, Michael among them. He wore black evening clothes and a white cravat. His dark hair was sleek and combed back. Even with his grooming, there was an air of impatience about him, as though he were uneasy about being here. He looked like he’d rather be dining in steerage than among the elite.

  Hannah nodded politely to the other women after the Graf von Reischor introduced her. One of the ship’s butlers poured her a glass of water and another of wine.

  She’d never been allowed to taste spirits before, and she wondered what it would taste like. Would it lure her into a life of sin and greed, the way her mother insisted?

  But when she saw that no one else had touched theirs, Hannah restrained herself.

  The Graf began introducing her to their dinner companions. ‘The Marquess of Rothburne is a close friend of mine,’ the Graf explained. ‘He asked me to escort Lady Hannah to her cousins’ home in Germany. She received so many offers of marriage, her father thought it best that she take some time away from London to make up her mind.’

  Hannah nearly choked on her soup. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected him to say. After a few more introductions to those seated around her, one of the gentlemen offered her a warm smile, then nodded to the Graf. ‘I hope she has not made a decision as of yet, Graf von Reischor.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ came a clipped voice. The Lieutenant sent the would-be suitor a warning look, and Hannah’s fingers curled over the stem of her wine glass. What gave him the right to be so rude? He was behaving as though he had some sort of claim over her. The glare in his eyes held a shadow she didn’t recognise. Not exactly jealousy, but something that made her skin prickle against the fabric of her gown.

  The first course was served shortly thereafter, a bowl of turtle soup. Hannah noticed the Lieutenant subtly observing her and the other gentlemen before lifting his own spoon. Surely he must have attended formal dinners before? But then, her father’s ball was the first time she’d ever seen him among her social peers.

  Michael sat across from her, and she felt his gaze, like a forbidden caress. There was also a sense of reluctance, as though she were a temptation he didn’t want.

  Hannah reached for her glass of white wine, taking a first sip. It held a slight tang, a sweetness that didn’t taste sinful at all. When she glanced over at Michael, he lifted his own glass, and she found herself watching his mouth, remembering his kiss.

  The memory pooled through her skin, past her breasts and between her legs. He was staring at her as though he didn’t care who was watching. In a ship such as this, there were a hundred different places to hold a secret liaison. And no one would know.

  Across the table, he didn’t take his eyes from her. She recalled the warmth of his lips, wondering if she would taste the sweetness of wine upon his mouth.

  ‘Lady Hannah?’ the Graf prompted her. She hadn’t heard a word of his questioning. She took another sip, and managed a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. What was it you were saying?’

  ‘I was introducing the Lieutenant to our dinner
companions,’ he replied. ‘This is Lieutenant Michael Thorpe, an officer in the British Army,’ the Graf said to the others.

  A spoon clattered from a woman’s hand into the soup tureen. Hannah turned in curiosity and saw a dark-haired woman with a large ruby necklace and matching rings upon her fingers. She covered her blunder by pretending as though someone else had dropped the utensil.

  ‘You said you are travelling to Lohenberg?’ a stout English gentleman enquired. ‘My wife is from that country.’ He offered a nod toward the woman who had dropped the spoon, then raised a quizzing glass to one eye. ‘You look familiar to me, somehow. Have we met before?’

  ‘He looks like the King of Lohenberg,’ his wife answered. Though she kept a smile fixed upon her face, her answer held a cold tone.

  Lieutenant Thorpe’s knuckles clenched upon the spoon. He looked as though he’d rather take a bullet through his forehead than endure this dinner. But he didn’t rebut the woman’s claim.

  What was that about? Hannah tried to catch Michael’s attention, but he kept his gaze averted, almost as if he were hiding something.

  ‘Why, you’re right, m’dear.’ The stout man beamed and speared a bite of asparagus. To his companions, he added, ‘I was privileged to have met His Majesty, King Sweyn, when he was visiting Bavaria last summer. Splendid mountains there, I must say.’

  The Graf introduced them. ‘Lady Hannah and Lieutenant Thorpe, may I present the Viscount Brentford?’

  Lord Brentford greeted her heartily and presented his wife Ernestine and his daughter, Miss Ophelia Nelson.

  ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Lady Brentford,’ Hannah said. Offering a smile of friendship to the younger woman, she continued, ‘And yours, Miss Nelson.’

  ‘Delighted, of course,’ the matron said, though she didn’t look at Hannah when she spoke. Her wide smile emphasised a double chin, and she added, ‘Ophelia has just been presented to the Queen and will enjoy her first Season after we return to London.’

  Michael didn’t respond, and Hannah kicked him under the table to get him to look at the young woman. He sent her a nod of acknowledgement, but a moment later, Hannah felt his shoe nudge against her stockinged calf.

  Mortified, she reached for her water glass and took a deep swallow. Only to find out that it was wine she’d drunk instead. She clamped her mouth shut to keep from coughing, and the spirits burned the back of her throat.

  Though the Lieutenant didn’t look at her, his foot moved against hers once again. Though it was nothing more than a casual touch, the caress distracted her from the dinner conversation. Like a silent admonition, he touched her the way a secret lover might.

  Hannah kept her knees clamped together, pushing her ankles as far beneath the chair as she could. He seemed to sense the effect he had on her, and his lips curved upwards.

  The Viscount nodded towards his daughter, sending the Lieutenant a knowing look. ‘Ophelia is quite talented and has the voice of an angel.’ Hannah supposed the Viscount was waiting for someone to suggest that Miss Nelson offer entertainment later that evening.

  When neither the Graf nor the Lieutenant responded, Lord Brentford continued, ‘Perhaps she might sing for the King of Lohenberg, if the opportunity presented itself on our journey. If someone were to…suggest it.’ The Viscount gave a pointed look toward the ambassador.

  Miss Nelson turned to the Graf and offered a shy smile.

  ‘I have no doubt that Ophelia will have her opportunity one day,’ Lady Brentford interjected. She patted the young girl’s hand and discreetly slid the wine glass away from Miss Nelson’s place setting. ‘It is my country, after all.’

  Without an invitation, the Viscountess launched into a dissertation describing the principality. ‘And of course, the winters are simply enchanting.’

  ‘No, it’s quite cold in the winter,’ the Lieutenant interrupted. His eyes were distant, as though he’d spoken without thought.

  The Viscountess stopped short, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she continued, pretending that he hadn’t spoken at all.

  Hannah caught the Graf’s discerning gaze, and he shook his head discreetly. More and more, she was curious about their journey. She suspected the military orders did not reveal the entire story.

  ‘Forgive me, Graf von Reischor,’ Viscount Brentford interrupted, ‘but I’ve heard rumours, and I wonder if you could verify them. Is it true that Fürst Karl is going to be crowned king within the next few weeks?’

  The Graf set down his fork and regarded Lord Brentford. ‘King Sweyn has been ill, but we do not know for certain whether or not a new king will be crowned.’

  ‘How exciting,’ Miss Nelson breathed. ‘I suppose there must be many men in line for the throne, even for so small a country.’

  ‘There is only one Crown Prince,’ the Graf admitted. His gaze turned to Michael, and Hannah felt an icy chill shiver through her. ‘And one true heir.’

  Chapter Ten

  Michael endured the remaining hour of dinner, hating every moment of it. He watched the other guests to determine which forks to use, how much of the food to eat, and whether or not he was supposed to drink the contents of a bowl or wash his hands in it.

  What bothered him most was the sheer waste. The ladies picked delicately at their plates, tasting a bite of fish or a spoonful of soup before the course was taken away. It was as if eating were out of fashion.

  The men adjourned with brandy and cigars, the ladies retreating to their own saloon after the dinner was concluded. Michael took his moment to escape, though the Graf had ordered him to return for the parlour games.

  He had no intention of letting the Lohenberg ambassador dictate what he would or would not do. He wasn’t a trained animal to be led about on a leash.

  With each moment, his resentment rose. The eyes of everyone at dinner had bored into him, and when Lady Brentford had mentioned his resemblance to the King, no doubt they thought he was a bastard son. Michael hated being the centre of attention, much less the subject of gossiping tongues.

  Outside, the sky was black, the white sails taut with wind while the paddle wheel churned through the water. The promenade deck was partially shielded from the winds, but the rocking of the ship sent several guests falling over. Raucous laughter accompanied one poor woman’s misfortune as her skirts went flying.

  Michael gripped one of the ropes leading to the foresail. Though the sea had turned rough, his mind was in greater turmoil. He didn’t want to believe that his childhood had been a lie, that his parents were not whom they seemed to be. Surely the strange, fleeting memories that caught him from time to time were nothing but dreams. They had to be.

  He caught a glimpse of Mrs Turner strolling around the deck, and he took a step towards her. It wasn’t good for her to be alone. But before he could reach her side, Lady Hannah appeared, followed by her maid. She wore no outer wrap, only her sage-green gown. In the frigid air, she rubbed her arms for warmth.

  ‘Lieutenant Thorpe,’ she asked quietly, ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your resemblance to the King of Lohenberg. I saw the way the Graf was watching you.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Merely a coincidence.’

  She stepped in front of him, preventing him from going any further. ‘He thinks it’s true, doesn’t he? The Graf believes you’re connected to the royal house of Lohenberg.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’ve never set foot in the country.’ He strode past her, but Hannah dogged his footsteps.

  ‘You said it was cold there, in the winter.’

  He had no idea what she was talking about. ‘As I said, I’ve never been to the country before.’

  ‘Are you lying to me? Or to yourself?’ She touched his arm lightly.

  ‘I’m a soldier, nothing more.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  No, he wasn’t certain of anything. Nothing except the way she made him feel. Michael inhaled the light c
itrus scent she wore. Lemon and jasmine mingled together, seductive and sweet.

  ‘Go back to your cabin, Hannah,’ he ordered. It was all he could do not to kiss her again. This time, if he touched her, he wouldn’t hesitate to try to seduce her.

  ‘The evening isn’t over yet,’ she said. ‘The entertainment will begin shortly. And whether or not you’re too afraid to join us, I intend to participate.’

  ‘Hoping to find a husband, are you?’

  She shot him a dark look. ‘Whether I am or not doesn’t matter to you at all, does it?’

  ‘It matters.’ His palm cupped her cheek, his gloved hand sliding against her skin. Ripples of desire erupted all over her skin. She wanted him to kiss her. He tempted her in all the wrong ways. Or perhaps, all the right ways.

  It took all of her willpower to break free of him. ‘Run away, if you’re too afraid,’ she taunted. ‘Or join us. The choice is yours.’

  Hannah had played a few parlour games during boarding school. Blind Man’s Buff and charades were quite popular. But as these games involved men and women, she supposed they must be rather different.

  A group of twenty gentlemen and women met in the Grand Saloon. The ship’s waiters had arranged several chairs in a circle, and a small table stood at the front. Hannah spied a pocket watch and a slipper upon the table, while other guests were rummaging through their belongings. They would be playing Forfeit, she realised.

  Each player would surrender a personal item to be auctioned. In order to get it back, he or she had to perform a forfeit, such as singing or dancing. Viscount Brentford had claimed the role of auctioneer, and from his amused expression, it seemed he was looking forward to the position of power.

  A moment later, the waiters brought a large screen to shield the contents of the table, allowing guests to walk behind it, one at a time, to deposit their forfeited item. Reaching into her reticule, Hannah chose an embroidered handkerchief, keeping it hidden in her hand. After she passed behind the screen, she added it to the pile of gloves, shoes, jewellery and cravats.