“A lucky chance, then.” Max smiled at Ella, but her returning smile was hesitant. Clearly he was pushing her too hard. “After all, you were right, this costume is magnificent.” That got him a more natural response. Ella let out small, delicate, but clearly audible snort.
“Of course I was right. I’m a genius.”
“Well, Madam Genius, I hope you are pleased with how I wear it.”
“You’ll do. Make sure your valet properly shines your shoes. I wouldn’t want my magnificent work undercut by scuffed footwear.”
Max saw the twinkle back in her eyes. So, he could tease her all he liked, but no serious remarks? Very well.
“Surely, with your apparent brilliance, you’ll be wearing something amazing as well?” Max made it a question, and wondered if she would answer him.
“Mmmm... yes, surely I will.”
So, no, she wasn’t going to tell him. Ah well, he would see it in just a few days.
“Of course, all this brilliance and magnificence and genius will go to waste if we stand in the corner by the food all evening.”
Ella furrowed her brow. “That’s true. Perhaps I shall have to dance with Mr. Minglesall.”
“Ahh...”
“And you, of course, could dance with Mrs. Minglesall. Or Beatrice, my other stepsister. Prudence will be busy dancing with a certain young red-headed man, I dare say.”
“Of course, but...”
“Or you could dance with my stepmother; I assume she won’t be dancing every dance with her hoary old sea dog.”
“I really think... Hoary old sea dog?”
“Exactly. She could hardly dance every dance with him, could she?”
“Ella,” Max said her name with great dignity and gravity, “do you suppose that you might consider dancing with me?”
Ella’s eyes sparkled at him. “With you?”
“Indeed. Balls are generally considered to be occasions for dancing, and we are, after all, acquainted.”
“Indeed.”
“So?”
“I’ll check my dance card.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“It is agreed by all here present that, immediately following the holy royal ceremony, a progressus will advance through the city to the palace and the immediate coronation of Christopher Maximillian Wellesley will occur. He will thereafter be known as His Royal Highness, Christopher Maximillian, Prince of Albion.”
Max leaned over to his father “Is it over yet?”
“We’ve got several more pages. Just sit still.”
“But I’m stiff, and sore.” Max whined on purpose. “These chairs are the epitome of discomfort.”
“Hush, boy. You’re an important person, and she’s an even more important person. A public vetting of the betrothal agreement is traditional. And the more you mutter the slower he reads.”
“... further agreed that any and all issue from the union will be considered legal claimants for the throne of Albion, given precedence by order of birth...” the Chancellor was indeed slowing down, while glaring daggers at Max. Max just smiled winningly at the man, since it was guaranteed to irritate him thoroughly. It wasn’t that he disliked the Chancellor personally, he just had reservations about anyone whose position existed for the sole purpose of adding pomposity to events. The throne room was full of overdressed, overheated courtiers, and it was getting stuffy. Max was pretty sure the Chancellor was the only one who cared about the formalities anymore; everyone else just wanted to leave.
“What would he do if we just walked out?”
The duke smirked. “Probably have an apoplectic fit.”
“That seems like reason enough for me, let’s go.”
“Cease and desist, oh fruit of my loins. First of all, the king commanded our presence because he wishes to meet with you later. Second, a certain amount of boredom is the price we pay for rank and privilege. Last and most importantly, however, the man is practically speaking backwards now. If you don’t shut up we’re never going to get out of here.”
Max glanced up to the dais where Vivienne was seated on the right hand of the king. The circular platform rose three steps above the rest of the chamber, and a giant banner with the Rose of Albion embroidered on it hung behind the king’s throne and the smaller, but highly ornate, chair that had been permanently installed there on Vivienne’s sixteenth birthday. The Chancellor stood on the first step down, orating the betrothal agreement, and from that position he could see neither the king nor the princess. Max could: quite clearly, actually. Vivienne was looking at him with one raised eyebrow, clearly blaming him for this interminable reading, but the king was glaring at the Chancellor. That alone was enough to entertain Max for the rest of the reading. Every time he saw the king’s scowl fade, Max would fidget, and the Chancellor, in turn, would slow down again, bringing the king’s glower back in full force. When Duke Nathaniel realized what his son was doing, he started to shake silently with laughter. Vivienne, too, caught on, and her lips began to twitch. The king finally realized something must be affecting the Chancellor, but when he whipped his eyes to Max he found the duke’s heir sitting composedly in his chair, listening with an air of great interest.
Max’s innocent countenance in the face of the king’s suspicion was more than his father could take, and he faked a coughing fit. He hurriedly excused himself from the hall, but the assembled nobles could hear his ringing laughter from the hallway.
“...inasmuch as these documents constitute the agreed wills of the parties concerned...”
The duke returned, but it was obvious he was still snickering under his breath. Now Vivienne was delicately holding her handkerchief in front of her face. It was a valiant attempt to remain composed, but everyone in the hall was aware that she was wracked with giggles. One by one all of the assembled nobles began to titter softly. No one knew the joke, but merely the fact that the princess and the current Duke of Yarrow were laughing during what was supposed to be a solemn ceremony was enough to set them off. Even Vivienne’s ever-present guard was snickering at his post. Soon only three people present were not laughing: the beleaguered Chancellor, the scowling king, and the unrepentant rascal who had started it all.
***
The king was divesting himself of his robes of state, while dressing down Max.
“...a disgraceful commotion during the official vetting of the betrothal. I have no idea what you were doing, Christopher, but I know you were up to something.” He gave Max a stern look, but the younger man looked back at him serenely. Finally the king sighed and gave a wry smile. “I hope you make Vivienne laugh that much when you’re not needling an official of my court.”
“Oh he does, father, he does.” Vivienne had gotten just as much amusement out of watching her father harangue Max as she had out of watching Max irritate the Chancellor, but she didn’t really want any strife between them. A few words in Max’s favor now would smooth it all over. “In fact, you could say that’s why I agreed to marry him; for his love of fun.”
Max rolled his eyes where no one but the princess could see. “Love of fun,” indeed. More like “willingness to go along with her completely insane ideas.”
“Fine, I’ll forgive the man. This time. Now, run along, Vivienne, I wish to speak to Max and his father in private.”
Vivienne looked affronted. “He’s not the prince, yet, your Majesty. What could you possibly be discussing with him that you wouldn’t discuss with your heir?”
The king raised his eyebrows at his daughter. “This isn’t a chat about affairs of state, Vivienne. It’s a good, old fashioned, man-to-man talk between a father and his future son-in-law. Now go entertain yourself elsewhere.” Vivienne gave a low curtsy to her father and then skipped from the room. As she shut the door the king called after her, “And no eavesdropping!”
King Regal settled himself in a chair, and gestured for Max and Duke Nathaniel to do the same. Then he propped his chin in his hand and gazed upon Max, saying nothing. After a few moments of this
Max started to squirm. He glanced at his father for help, but his father was looking at him, as well. Max chose to let his own eyes roam about the king’s private sitting room, taking in the fine black oak furnishings and truly gaudy red-velvet, tassled cushions. It reminded him of a Baroque whorehouse, and Max almost asked the king if that was the inspiration, but thought better of it. The silence was wearing, though, and he finally opened his mouth to blurt out something—anything—when the king began to speak.
“Tell me why you asked my daughter to marry you, Christopher.”
“What?” It wasn’t really an appropriate response to an inquiry from one’s monarch, but Max had been completely unprepared for that particular question.
“Indulge my curiosity. Vivienne has made her choice, and I’ve promised her I’ll honor it, but I never thought there was anything more than friendship between the two of you. Vivienne won’t tell me, she says it’s not a suitable conversation for a father and daughter to have. But you are not my daughter. You’re my subject. So, tell me, why did you propose to Vivienne?” The king’s voice was sure of his own authority. He didn’t question that Max would answer him.
Max swallowed hard. He was going to have to be very careful to blend just enough truth with his lies.
“To be honest, your Majesty, I didn’t.” The king raised an eyebrow, but said nothing and gestured for Max to go on. “Vivienne asked me.”
“Did she tell you why?”
Of course she had, but Max couldn’t tell the king that... or could he? “Yes, your Majesty, she did.”
“Well..?”
“It had come to her attention... that is, she had noticed... it seemed to her as though you were introducing her to a number of young men.”
“And?”
“She didn’t want to marry any of them.”
The king gave a regal sigh. “Christopher, I would very much like to conduct this conversation in all haste, in order to have it over with as soon as possible. Do you suppose you could string together more than two sentences at a time?”
“My apologies, your Majesty, I’m just feeling a bit awkward.” Max took a deep breath. “Vivienne wasn’t interested in any of the young men she was meeting, but it was becoming clear to her that you wanted her to select one. She’s a practical woman, so she thought of all the appropriate young men in the kingdom and came to the conclusion that she would rather marry her lifelong friend than a young man she cared nothing about. So she asked me if I would marry her.”
“So, you don’t love her?”
“On the contrary, your Majesty, I love your daughter dearly. I would do anything for her.” That was nothing but the pure truth, although perhaps not in the way the king meant.
“And do you think she loves you?”
“She adores me.”
“Why have neither of you considered marriage before, if you love each other so much?”
“I suppose,” Max answered slowly, “because neither of us had considered marriage, period. We’re both rather young, after all.”
The king arched a brow at him. “That hardly sounds to me like a couple madly in love with one another.”
“Your Majesty, she is a princess and I am the heir of a duke. Both of us have been raised to be practical, not mad.” Obviously it hadn’t worked, otherwise Max wouldn’t be sitting here lying through his teeth to his sovereign, but in theory it was sound.
“True enough, I suppose.” Max sat and waited for another question, but none was forthcoming. King Regal looked at him a long time with a thoughtful frown, and then finally spoke. “Very well, Christopher, you have my permission to withdraw. I am grateful to you for satisfying my curiosity.”
Both Max and his father bowed low, and then made their way out of the retiring room and back towards the public areas of the palace. As they strolled down the beautiful marble hallways, Duke Nathaniel cleared his throat.
“You’ll need to watch your step with the king, my boy.”
“Pardon me?”
“Married couples fight, lad, it’s the way of things. You and Vivienne will probably fight more than most, since you’re both strong willed and you enjoy teasing each other. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the king is very protective of his daughter, and since he is king he could make your life very unpleasant if he doesn’t like the way you’re treating her.”
Max didn’t know what to say. He wanted to reassure his father, but could hardly let him know that his ability to make Vivienne happy wasn’t really an issue.
“I don’t think Vivienne would run to tell her father, even if we did fight.”
“Maybe not, Max, but she wouldn’t have to. Her royal father is going to be keeping a very close eye on you. Just keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Emberton house was flooded with young men. From the late morning bells until the chimes in the early evening, two, three, or even more callers were perched on the dusty furniture in the parlor. Millicent was delighted. Some of the gents were wealthy, some were merely comfortable, but all found favor in her eyes. Beatrice held court, for these were her dance partners come to call.
“Beatrice, Beatrice!” A thin young man with a piping voice and heavy wire-rimmed spectacles was trying to be heard over the laughter. “Would you do me the honor of reserving the first waltz for me tonight?”
“La, Nigel,” responded the object of his adoration, “you’re the third chap who’s asked me. How can I possibly satisfy all of you?”
“If anyone could, you could.” This pronouncement was accompanied by an adoring gaze. Nigel had never met a woman as blunt and unpretentious as Beatrice, and he found her enchanting.
“I don’t want to waltz with you at all,” said Tony Sharp, a tall fellow with a roguish grin. “I want a polka. You’ve got such energy, Miss Beatrice, we’ll set the ballroom on fire.”
“Then you may have a polka, Mr. Sharp,” replied Beatrice, “if you will fetch me punch afterwards, and dance attendance until I have caught my breath.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“I won’t be able to dance much.” Mr. Clifton had twisted his ankle sadly while alighting from his coach after the last ball. “But I would be delighted if you were to join me for a hand of whist.”
“Well, then, Mr. Clifton, you had best teach me the basics this morning, otherwise we shall be trounced at the ball.” This announcement by Beatrice caused every able-bodied man in the room to spring up and begin setting out small tables. After several rounds it became clear that Beatrice had a knack for cards, and the gathering went on to teach her the rules of other games. While all the men were turning out their pockets, searching for coins to use as stakes in a game of poker, one of them approached Prudence. She had spent the entire afternoon staring forlornly out the window while Beatrice entertained their callers.
“Miss Prudence, won’t you join the game?”
Prudence sniffed and didn’t move. The request came from young Mr. Worther, and though Beatrice had confided in her sister that she found him “a right bloody bore,” she still welcomed him every time he arrived. Prudence thought it likely that the warm reception was more for the box of fine chocolates he always brought, than for the man himself, but she didn’t fault her sister. Any man who thought chocolate was all it took to win a woman’s heart deserved to have his bribe eaten and himself discarded.
Besides, Beatrice always shared the chocolate with Prudence. It really was very good.
Alas, the source of the chocolate had not been dissuaded by her lack of response. “Please, Miss Prudence? You’ve been staring out that window since I arrived.”
“I am waiting for someone, Mr. Worther.”
“What sort of gentleman keeps a lady as lovely as you waiting? Where does he live? I’ll run round and fetch him for you.”
“I don’t know where he lives.”
“Of course, of course, quite the whirlwind, these days. I don’t know where half the chaps I’ve met are lodging. What’s his na
me, then?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Oh, one of those situations, is it? Danced with him but never learned his name, did you?”
“No, I never danced with him.”
“Full dance card, eh? Did he ask for permission to call when you didn’t have a chance to dance?”
“No, he didn’t ask to call.”
“Found out your name from a friend, then?”
“I rather doubt he knows my name at all.”
“Did he follow you home and find you that way?”
“Mr. Worther, as far as I’m aware he has no idea of who or where I am.”
“Pardon me, Miss Prudence, but if that’s the case, why are you expecting him?”
“I’m not, really. I was just hoping he’d show up, anyway.”
***
Ella was swaying gently to the music, wrapped in Max’s arms. It was dawn, and even the most dedicated waltzers had gone to seek their rest, but Ella and Max were still dancing. As they moved around the floor Max held her tighter, and tighter, until their bodies were pressed against each other. It was scandalous, but Ella no longer cared what anyone thought. When Max tilted her chin up and bent towards her she surrendered to the moment, and went up on her toes, eager for their lips to finally meet. Her heart pounded in her ears.
No, wait, that wasn’t her heart.
Thud. “Hello?”
Thud, thud. “Ella?”
Thud, thud, THUD! “Eleanor!”
Ella groaned and piled both of her pillows on top of her head. However long she had been asleep, it hadn’t been long enough. Birds had been singing in the trees outside when she had finally fallen into bed this morning. All of the costumes she had made were safely with their various owners, though, and she had even remembered herself, this time. Of course, her costume was only old clothing once belonging to her father, but she had saved time to alter it just a bit.
Ella truly wasn’t sure how she had accomplished all that work. For the past week she had sewn late into the night, every night. In the darkest hours it would feel like she and the mouse that inhabited her attic were the only creatures awake in the whole kingdom. Her fingers had flown while her mind wandered, and after a while she would find herself falling into a trance-like state. She would begin the evening with an impossible number of tasks, and sometime before dawn she would blink and realize, to her amazement, that she had accomplished everything. Once she had given the mouse an accusing look and demanded to know if he had been helping her, but he had just scurried off, and moments later she’d felt unbelievably silly.
Before the Midnight Bells Page 9