by Bec McMaster
From London, With Love
Bec McMaster
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Shadowbound
Royal Family Tree
Also by Bec McMaster
About the Author
Afterword
For my readers.
London Steampunk would only ever have been a glimmer in my eye, if not for your support.
This one is for you.
Chapter 1
The queen was not amused.
In fact, the Duke of Malloryn was counting on it.
“What do you mean by ‘we need to discuss succession plans’?” she repeated, in a very clear, very precise voice that may have made others quiver.
Malloryn eased back in his chair, feeling the weight of seven pairs of eyes coming to rest upon him. The Council of Dukes had come together to discuss the rebuilding of parliament following the bombing of the Ivory Tower, and he’d managed to throw in this little agenda item at the last moment.
It was hardly unplanned.
“Precisely that, Your Majesty,” he said. “You have no legitimate heir, and Lord Balfour came awfully close to killing you six months ago—”
“He failed,” she snapped.
“You’re not invincible, Your Majesty.” He caught a glimpse of several of the other councilors exchanging glances—most notably the Duchess of Casavian and her husband, Lord Barrons. They’d be two of the more important ones to convince. Mina was the queen’s dearest friend—and loudest supporter—and if he didn’t have her vote, then the queen might escape his latest ploy. “We’ve spent the last dozen or so years trying to overthrow a tyrant. We succeeded, but weeding out the last of his supporters has taken some doing. For the first time in… God, over a century, London has peace, but it’s so newly forged and you are the figurehead of that peace. If something happens to you, then it shall be war again. I’m tired of war. I want to take a bloody holiday with my wife without the palace going up in flames. And as much as none of us would like to discuss the unthinkable, the truth remains: You have no heir.”
Only several bastard cousins who would squabble over the crown like a pack of bloody magpies.
“And since you have no intentions of marrying and providing one, something must be done. You must name one of your cousins as your heir.”
“My cousins are illegitimate,” she replied through clenched teeth. “And the Countess of Drewsbury went to great lengths to produce a forged marriage certificate between her grandparents in an attempt to place herself on my throne all those years ago. I will burn the damned throne before I let her sit on it.”
He leaned forward, trying not to smile now she’d taken the bait. “You have other cousins.”
“Eugene?” The queen’s voice rose. “He’s an idiot. And his sister, Imogen, would be the one pulling his strings.”
“While we can agree on the first,” he pointed out, “I doubt Princess Imogen would be the one in command.”
Queen Alexandra’s eyes narrowed. “A regency, Malloryn? We’ve already had one of those, and it ended badly.”
“Eugene’s your best option. If something happened, he’d be declared non compos, and a regent appointed.”
“Imogen would never allow it.”
He merely crossed his palms over his middle and arched a brow. “Accidents happen, Your Majesty.”
“You are not going to murder my cousin, no matter how greedy and grasping she may be,” the queen said, pushing to her feet and slamming both hands on the table. “And you are not going to sit that idiot on my throne.”
Excellent. His lashes hooded over his eyes. “You won’t marry. You won’t provide an heir. You won’t name an heir. What are we meant to do, Alexandra?”
The queen’s lips pressed together firmly. She was so bloody stubborn, and while he could understand her aversion to marriage, the realm didn’t have the luxury of it.
“I see,” she said coldly. “All this talk of heirs. Of Eugene. Of Imogen. This all bloody goes back to marrying me off, doesn’t it?” Then she laughed. “You want me to marry, and if the halter won’t work, then the prod might. I can’t believe I actually thought you were seriously thinking my cousin might be a potential king.” She stabbed a finger in the air. “Don’t think you can fool me. I know exactly what you’re up to, Malloryn.”
He allowed a faint smile. I quite doubt it.
Help came from an unexpected source. “As much as you dislike the idea, Alexandra,” Mina, the Duchess of Casavian, murmured, “Malloryn does speak the truth. There have been several assassination attempts on you in the past year alone. We can wrap you in a suit of armor, we can guard you day and night, we can do everything we can to protect you, but all it will take is one stray bullet and England will be facing another civil war.”
The queen looked at her dearest friend with an aghast expression. “You want me to marry?”
Mina looked up, and it was clear something silent was exchanged between them. “Some of us do not have the luxury of forgoing such alliances,” she said softly. “But this time, the choice will be yours. This time, the power will be yours. This time, your husband need only be a consort in truth.”
The queen quivered with suppressed fury as she cut the room a sharp glance. “And the rest of you?”
Lynch, the Duke of Bleight, looked troubled. “I’ve been on those streets and I’ve seen civil war up close. The potential to return to those days is simply too great a risk. I must concur with Malloryn, Your Majesty.”
“As do I,” said his wife, Rosalind.
Leo Barrons drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze slanting toward his wife, even as his face remained impassive. “In this instance, I agree with my wife.”
Malloryn turned to the remaining two council members.
“I ain’t one to force a lady where she ain’t want to go,” Blade replied, tipping his head toward the queen. “So it’s a no from me.”
“And a no from me too,” Sir Gideon snapped.
Four votes to two.
The queen could override them if she chose—the power was ultimately hers—but she rarely, if ever, did so.
“Rot you, Malloryn.” The queen tipped her chin up haughtily, then swept her skirts behind her. “If I am forced to take another husband, then so be it. But I shall be damned if it is one of your choosing. I will make my decision by the end of midsummer. Send whatever invitations you wish, trot out your prospective suitors, wine and dine your foreign princes…, but the choice will be mine.”
“I would never expect anything else,” he conceded, feeling the faint stir of victory shiver through him.
It was done.
And perhaps, when this was all over, she’d forgive him.
But right now, she swept from the room, her shoulders squared as if she faced a firing squad and her face as stony as he’d ever seen it.
Malloryn released the breath he’d been holding. Excellent. The first roll of the die had been cast, the game now afoot. He only had to maneuver the last little piece into place.
And right on cue….
“You play a dangerou
s game, Malloryn,” said Sir Gideon Scott, pushing his chair back with a squeal. “Didn’t our last prince consort do enough damage for you?”
Malloryn schooled his features, and deliberately quirked a brow. “Perhaps the queen will finally find happiness? Do you not wish that for her?”
Sir Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, I wish for my queen’s happiness. But forcing her into another marriage, when she’s barely recovered from the ordeal of her last one? It seems nothing short of cruel.”
“Ah, now, Sir Gideon,” Malloryn chided. “Not all marriages are prisons. Some are quite joyful.”
“Did he just say marriage was joyful?” Barrons joked to Mina. “I fear Malloryn may have been inserted with that mind-controlling chip that Lord Balfour was using last summer. Quick. Someone shock him with a stunner to see if we can short-circuit it.”
“If anyone comes near me with a stunner, then I’ll shove it up their—”
“This is no joking matter.” Sir Gideon still seemed flushed. “Perhaps you should see to her,” Sir Gideon suggested to the Duchess of Casavian, his voice softening a little.
Mina winced.
“I should,” she said, “though she may not welcome my presence just yet, after I voted against her wishes.” The duchess’s brow furrowed in misery. “Perhaps it would be best if you went after her, Sir Gideon? You were the one to vote no.”
“Blade also—”
“Think she ain’t wantin’ to see my sorry mug,” Blade said bluntly. “I don’t mince around the palace much. You’re ’er friend, ain’t you?”
Sir Gideon glanced toward the door, then cast Malloryn one last dark look. “She won’t forgive you for this.”
Malloryn merely shrugged. “I think she will.”
The door swung shut behind Sir Gideon.
Silence reigned in the council chambers, and Malloryn deliberately refused to meet anyone else’s eyes.
“You’re playin’ dangerous games,” Blade said, pushing to his feet. “You sure it’s gonna end well for you?”
Malloryn merely smiled. “I think I’ll be forgiven once all is said and done. They just need… a nudge.”
“Your Majesty.”
The queen paused in the hallway, closing her eyes briefly against the stab of pain that lit through her chest. Just a single moment of grief before she resumed the mantle of the throne. Sweeping her face clean of expression, she turned to confront her tormentor.
“Sir Gideon,” she replied.
He strode toward her, his face stern. “I’m sorry. I tried.”
“That’s quite all right,” she murmured as he paused five feet away from her. “You are only one voice. And Malloryn is clearly pursuing an agenda, if he has the rest of them in his pocket.”
“Apart from Blade.”
“Sir Henry votes as he wishes,” Alexandra murmured. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed having him on the council. It was, as Sir Henry would have said, like setting the cat among the pigeons.
Or some grammatically slaughtered version of that sentence.
Silence fell across the pair of them like a shroud.
She hated these sudden lingering silences.
Once upon a time, they might have shared a certain period of quietness, simply enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company, but ever since her sojourn at Sir Gideon’s country manor six months ago, the quiet seemed filled with all the memories they dared not speak of.
“I think—”
“You can overrule them—”
They both stared at each other.
Sir Gideon tried again. “You’re the queen. You’re the only one who can override a council vote. If you don’t wish to marry, then that option is entirely yours.”
Alexandra turned to the window, staring down at the vast gardens of Kensington Palace. “I could,” she admitted softly. The second they’d cast the vote, it was what all her instincts had urged her to do. Cast the vote back in Malloryn’s smug face and let him choke on it. But she was the queen. She was England, damn it. And while the woman’s heart that beat in her chest wanted to hit something, the part of her that was a queen had to look at the proposition from all angles. “But Malloryn does have a point.”
England deserved better than the current instability of the realm, with no named heir and a handful of illegitimate cousins and power-hungry nobles waiting in the background to pursue a claim. Her realm had suffered so much more than she ever had, and she owed her people a stable, secure future.
No more civil wars. No more brutality and uncertainty.
If she was to truly forge the future she wanted for her people, then she would have to swallow down one more indignity.
“Malloryn’s going to drown you in potential suitors,” he warned.
She snorted. “Don’t think him a fool. Malloryn’s already chosen my future husband, I’ll bet my life upon it. He doesn’t gamble unless he’s got a certain hand.”
Sir Gideon’s lips thinned. “A foreign prince, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
It made sense to forge strong ties with another country, but she hated the way he could speak of it with such composure.
“Then I shall wish you luck,” Sir Gideon murmured. “I hope he’s someone you can forge a friendship with, in the least.”
The queen agreed.
But the woman inside her wanted to lash out.
Is that all you have to say to me? Good luck?
Can you not be just the slightest bit angry about it all? Or… jealous?
But that was not Sir Gideon’s way.
Especially not after the incident at Haver Hall.
Those lips had found hers ardently in the conifer maze in his gardens. If she pressed her fingertips to her mouth, she thought she might still be able to feel the tingle.
It had been a moment of madness—for both of them. Good sense giving way to desire, all the unconfessed yearnings of her heart spilling out of her like a torrent of need. And his touch, God, his touch…. So gentle, so reverent…. Until passion swept them both away, and Sir Gideon had pushed her back against the stone wall of the folly, pinning her wrists there.
Instantly, desire had faded.
That moment had taken her back into the past, and suddenly it wasn’t Sir Gideon’s mouth on hers, but the tainted memory of her husband’s dead fish lips—taking, consuming, demanding.
She’d fought her way free, and it was only then she realized she was in Sir Gideon’s garden, with the man himself—rather than enslaved by a ghost.
Sir Gideon had been horrified and apologized profusely. And the moment of madness had ended, leaving the pair of them in this never-ending dance of politeness and aloof silences.
“Friendship,” she whispered. Once upon a time, she might have wished for more, but she was no longer that foolish young princess. “Yes. Hopefully I may find friendship, at least.”
Sir Gideon bowed his dark head. “I’ll take my leave then, Your Majesty. I only came to ensure you were not upset.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He seemed to hesitate, as if there was something else he wished to say, but then the moment was lost.
And he was striding away from her, his broad shoulders straight and the edge of his dark hair tumbling to his collar, always a half inch in need of a trim. Her fingers seemed to constantly itch to stroke through it.
But she was the queen.
She could not afford to be a woman, especially one who yearned, no matter how much she wished to.
“Curse you, Malloryn,” she whispered. “Curse you.”
Chapter 2
It was an intricately plotted affair.
It ought to have been. The Duke of Malloryn had organized the entire thing.
The first ball of what Malloryn was affectionately calling “the husband hunt” commenced with a quadrille. Foreign dignitaries and princes abounded. Epaulets gleamed. Blud-wein spilled into elegant flutes. And through it all, the queen reigned with a smile on he
r face that never once touched her eyes.
“She’s hating every minute of it,” said a soft voice at his side.
“She’s doing her duty,” he replied.
His wife’s gilt hair gleamed beneath the light of a dozen chandeliers as Adele laid her gloved hands on the balcony and surveyed the ballroom. “As you did once, when you married me. Hopefully this ends the same way—with the queen desperately in love with her husband. And the favor returned by the groom.”
“Desperately? That’s a little gauche, is it not?” he teased. “I’m a duke. I do nothing ‘desperately.’”
“Considering I had you on your very knees in the rubble of the Ivory Tower, my love”—Adele cocked a haughty brow—“‘desperately’ is the precise term I would use.”
“Ah.” He couldn’t suppress a smile. “And how many times are you going to remind me of that proposal? I had one moment of weakness—brought about by the emotion of finally thwarting my nemesis, no doubt—and you’ve thrown it in my face ever since.”
“Every day,” she promised. “For the rest of my life.”
Malloryn stroked his finger and thumb down a golden curl that spilled over her shoulder, twirling it idly around his finger. He’d seen the marriages of his companions and had once thought them a combination of physical chemistry conspiring to lure the unsuspecting to their doom. He’d even succumbed to such madness himself, though he hadn’t realized affection held just as much weight as lust in bringing a man to his knees. Every day with Adele by his side brought new revelations—including the fact he’d never have thought to enjoy teasing her so much.
“I think you like seeing me kneeling as penitent before you.”