“Mage-made,” Whitney said, showing them off with a wave of her hand. “Pretty, aren’t they? You should see my dress for the royal ball! It practically glows in the dark!”
“Gorgeous,” Ronan agreed, feeling even more deprived than before.
“Well—see you inside. Shall we meet for breakfast? I heard the chef is amazing. Ta!”
Ronan hadn’t the heart to tell her she would be dining in the common area, and not the lavish dining room. The ship was the size of an island; perhaps when they arrived in London, she could say she’d caught the flu and couldn’t leave her room during the entire journey.
“Miss? You want these tickets or not?” the officer asked, rapping on the glass to catch her attention.
“Yes—I mean—no—I mean…” Ronan shook her head, rattled, trying to figure out her options. She could go back home and yell at her parents, or get herself to England as planned. There was no time to waste; the sooner she arrived in London and accepted a proposal, the sooner she could pay off the debts against the house and estate. Vera had hinted more than once that her own impoverished status was due to a family fortune brought low—that she, too, had been raised in splendor, only to find herself in ashes.
No. No. No. She would find a match, and a title, and the magic to go with it. She had to, she had to, she had to.…She wrung her gloves in her hands until they were soiled. Another expense she could not afford. She wiped her palms on her skirts and tried to compose herself.
“Is something the matter?” asked a young man behind her, who must have heard every word. He regarded her with an amused smile, as if he found her situation to be very entertaining.
She turned to him and did not smile back, as he looked a bit…battered. He had a black eye and a bruised cheek, dark messy hair, a strong chin; he could be handsome, although it was hard to tell underneath the battle wounds.
“Miss?” the ticket officer asked again.
Vera bustled over. “The porter wants his tip. What shall I tell him?”
“Just please—please—give me a moment,” she pleaded with everyone. “Let me think.” Whitney and her mother were on the gangplank. If she took the second-class tickets now, they would know how far she had sunk. Perhaps they would spread the word in London; everyone would know the truth about the Astor situation, and Ronan would not be invited to the best parties, which would dash all her hopes even before she had set sail. But she could not stall any longer. It was second class or stay in New York. “Fine, give them to me.” She took the tickets, stuck them in her purse and walked toward the dock.
“All right, miss?” She looked up to see that the roguish young man with the swollen eye had followed her. “You look as if you need some help,” he said.
What business was it of his? “I’m quite all right, thank you,” she said coldly. She did not speak to strange young men who loitered around docks. He looked almost terrifying with those bruises on his face. She looked around for Vera. What use was a chaperone if they did not chaperone?
“You don’t have to run away,” he said. “I don’t bite. Unless I want to.”
Her blush deepened. He truly was a sight to look at, but even with the broken nose and face, there was something compelling about him—his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, that dangerously crooked smile.
“I’m afraid no one can help me.”
“No one?” he asked. He had an accent she could not place. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Then don’t be,” he said reasonably.
She laughed, she couldn’t help it. He looked funny, all beat up like that. What did it matter who she spoke to now? She saw Whitney giving her an odd look, and Ronan waved her handkerchief gaily, as if she spoke to uncouth young men at the docks all the time. “What happened to your face?” she asked.
“It fell on a fist.” He shrugged.
“That happens a lot?”
“Enough.”
“You say that as if you enjoy it,” she said tartly.
“Perceptive and beautiful,” he said. “I like that.” His blue eyes sparkled and there was merriment there, and possibility. What cheek to speak to her so frankly! She was hot all over, but for a different reason now. Ronan had never met a boy quite like him before. All her suitors had been of the starchy variety, and after the parade of uglies she’d had to memorize, his handsome (if bruised) face was very appealing. He was not good-looking so much as striking: the sort of man you could lean on, could count on, who could do hard work and not be afraid of it. She thought of the aristocrats with their wobbly chins and soft hands, and wondered what it would feel like to be pressed against his body.
“What else do you like?” she asked, feeling incredibly daring all of a sudden. It was not the kind of question a lady of gentle birth would ask.
His eyes lit up at her challenge and he moved closer to her. Startled, she dropped her parasol. He picked it up and handed it back just as Vera finally appeared, bustling toward them like a ship with a full head of steam. She gave the boy a sharp look. “Do excuse us.” She took Ronan’s arm and led her away, as the young man returned to his party by the ticket window. “My dear, you know it isn’t proper to talk to strange young men,” she reprimanded with a scandalized air.
“What does it matter? Where we’re staying, I’m sure there will be a lot more of them,” Ronan said crossly. “Let’s go.” She motioned to the porter, and together they walked up to the entrance of the ship.
The ship’s conductor glanced at her tickets and told the porter, “The first-class parlor suite.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
But the conductor had already moved on to the next group and when he handed her back her tickets, she noticed they were indeed for first-class berths. She stared at them in disbelief. How had that happened? She was certain she had been holding second-class tickets—why was she being led to the first-class suite? Ronan was about to correct the mistake, but decided it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Better to accept it as her due all along, and pretend as if nothing had been the matter.
As they made their way up the gangplank, Ronan saw the young man with whom she had been conversing. He was walking onto a lower deck with an older gentleman.
“Second class,” Vera hissed. Making it sound like not just a statement about his ticket, but a verdict on his character.
“Vera, a moment ago we were second class,” she said, still wondering about her sudden change of fortune. Could it be at all possible that the handsome young stranger had something to do with her new tickets somehow? Was he a thief? Or a lord in disguise? She shook the thoughts from her head—he was obviously neither. Just a handsome, but nosy, pest. Ronan chastised herself for having an overactive imagination. Perhaps the mistake was that she had not been given her correct tickets in the first place, because anyone could see she clearly belonged in first class.
On the lower deck, Oswald was admonishing his ward. If he could have hit him with the newspaper he was holding, like a master reprimanding a puppy, he would have. “Wolfgang, what have you done with our tickets? Why are we booked in a lower-class cabin? I can’t help but think this must be your doing,” he rumbled, his tone dark. “You do realize the beds are stacked on top of each other—they are called ‘bunks’—and we have to share a privy with a dozen men? And that there is only one bathtub for the whole lot?”
The prince’s smile was glorious. He liked the spirited American girl, and had decided to save her from embarrassment on a whim. “I met a damsel in distress, Oz. She needed the rooms more than we did. Come on, you always said I should be open to new experiences.”
Leopold of Prussia was a fine royal specimen. He looked kingly already as he entered the formal state room in his dress uniform of grays and reds, an array of gold medals pinned to his chest, so tall and proud; a lone scratch on his cheek was his only souvenir from the battle he had won so handily. He looked at e
ase and exuded confidence—a natural aristocrat, with his brilliant golden hair and generous smile. There was a gasp from the gathered ladies of court—one could practically hear them swooning—and the men were just as embarrassing, subtly edging each other out of the way to be closer to him.
“My princess, it is lovely to see you again.” His voice was like honey, full of sweetness and affection, and his smile was kindness personified. Even his hand was warm and comforting as it held hers. Only his lips were dry as they brushed the back of her hand, and Marie was relieved because it meant he was not as perfect as he looked. Maybe Aelwyn was right—she should give him a chance. She shouldn’t hold his perfection against him. Some people were as bright as the sun; if the majority of her own days were gray, it was not his fault.
“My prince,” she said demurely as she took back her hand. “Welcome back to London.” They were standing in front of the full audience of the entire court, from the lowliest page to the haughtiest ladies-in-waiting, innumerable cabinet ministers, the ageless Merlin, and the ancient queen. This was the formal reception of the future king of the empire, and certain rituals must be observed. The grand hall had been given a dazzling shine, from the marble colonnades to the granite floor to the array of crystal chandeliers that marched down the length of the room.
They bowed to each other and, with a signal from Eleanor, Marie took his arm so that she might introduce him to their loyal and noble subjects. Their courtship would be a choreographed performance, from initial meeting to the royal wedding. She saw Eleanor beaming at the two of them, and the queen smiled at Leo in approval before taking his father’s arm herself and introducing the Prussian monarch to her lords and ladies.
When they had greeted every member of the court as well as the Prussian delegation, Marie led Leo to the end of the gallery to show him the famous view of the gardens. “Do you remember? You used to run in those mazes,” she said, pointing to the topiary.
“I remember a certain little girl chasing me.” He smiled.
“Oh, that wasn’t me you remember. I had crutches then.”
Leo’s forehead wrinkled. It was obvious he didn’t remember her at all, which was just as well. “My mother tells me you were very brave at the battle,” she said. “That you held the Box yourself and loosed it upon the field. You could have been killed! Our Merlin says the Pandora is the world’s deadliest and most dangerous weapon, one that only the most talented sorcerer can wield.”
“Is that so?” the prince asked politely. “I don’t mean to contradict your Merlin, but it just happened that I was closest to it, and any of my men would have done the same.”
He was being a little too modest, as a lesser man would have surely been killed by the horrors from the Pandora’s Box. She smiled at him serenely. “I know that cannot be true. Not every soldier keeps his head in battle; most are just trying to stay alive. And very few can stand up to such powerful magic.”
“You have an interest in the field of war? That is uncommon in a princess,” said Leo, walking around the room with his long, loping stride.
“Do you think it strange?” she asked, struggling to keep up with her much shorter legs.
“No. Not at all. I find it charming.”
“I don’t mean it to be charming. I am simply interested, that is all,” she said, a little unsteadied by the edge in his voice. “I mean—I am just being myself. I am not trying to pretend to be what I am not.” She halted their walk and looked him in the eye.
He raised his eyebrow. “I see.”
They resumed their stroll in painful, awkward silence. Marie wondered at her outburst. She had only meant that she was not flirting with him, that she was sincerely interested in the art of magical warfare. Her realm and reign were protected by a great and powerful magic, so it seemed only reasonable to try and understand its workings. She glanced at his handsome profile, remembering the arrogant young boy who had paid her no attention in years past. If he remembered their childhood antagonism, he made no sign of it. He was playing the part of besotted lover; his eyes were pure adoration. Across the room she saw Gill, his back to the wall, his eyes blank, his posture straight: a true soldier of the Queen’s Guard. Then he caught her eye and winked. She hid a smile behind her fan that, unfortunately for her, Leo did not fail to notice.
“Is that your guard?” he asked.
“Gill? Yes,” she responded innocently. “He’s a great friend of mine; he saved my life once.”
“Then I owe him my gratitude,” he said warmly. “For keeping my princess safe.”
“How is your brother?” she asked. Her feet ached from walking the length of the ballroom in her new satin slippers, but she knew she must keep up her end of the conversation for courtesy’s sake.
“He is well, thank you,” he said. “Father sent him to the Americas, and he is on his way back now. I shall tell him you asked about him.”
“Please do,” she said. “I look forward to seeing him again. Does he still box for fun?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Wolf should really be kept on a short leash. There are rumors that he fights for money. He could get himself in a lot of mischief,” Leo said with a forced smile, his jaw clenched tightly. His cheekbones looked so sharp they could hurt someone.
Marie remained silent, unwilling to bash her old friend. “Your English has improved.”
“Mon français, c’est encore mieux,” he said. My French is even better. “Et vous, mademoiselle, which language do you prefer?”
“Mama prefers that I speak French in private, but English at court. There is a saying we have in the empire: practical matters en anglais, and dreams en français.”
“A very wise saying,” Leo smiled. His demeanor relaxed. “I will love you, my English rose, and you will fill my French dreams.”
Marie burst out laughing, and Leo looked troubled. “Did I say something incorrect?” he asked.
“No it’s just—you don’t have to be so—” Marie could not stop laughing. She noticed a few courtiers looking alarmed at the sight of the princess caught in a fit of hysterical laughter. Marie knew she looked terrible when she laughed; her face went bright red, her nose especially, and more than once she had overheard her mother tell her ladies that she wished Marie would not laugh quite so loudly and so vigorously. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t queenly. Marie took a deep, shuddering breath to control herself. “I am sorry, Leo,” she said. “But let us not make this what it isn’t. You must marry me for my kingdom, and I must marry you for my mother. That is the way of our life, and I am sorry to have embarrassed you.”
Leo’s smile faded a little, and for a moment Marie worried that she had truly hurt his feelings. “My apologies that you find my emotions…amusing,” he said. “I hope that one day you will believe in the sincerity of my affections. Excuse me, my lady, I find I am quite worn from the travel after all.”
“Yes, please—don’t stay on my account. See to your apartments. We have chosen the south wing; it has the best view of Big Ben and Parliament. Your servants have already been housed downstairs. I do hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
“I imagine I will. Good day, Princess.” He gave her a curt nod.
She curtsied and watched him leave the room abruptly, followed by his entourage, who hurried to keep up with his long strides.
Aelwyn, who had been standing with the members of the sisterhood, walked up to her. “What happened? What was that about? Why did he leave?”
Marie rolled her eyes. Leo was only playing a role, nothing more. He had never shown much interest in her when they were young, and he was only pretending to now for the sake of the treaty. Her sense of despair deepened at the thought of spending the rest of her life with such a man. Even friendship seemed out of reach. They would slowly grow to hate one another, she could tell—if they didn’t already.
“What did you say to him?” her friend asked, concerned.
“Only the truth,” Marie sighed. “And he didn’t like hearing it.”
/> Aelwyn did not think Marie had made a good decision in ruffling the future king’s feathers by making sport of his soft words. She could guess at their conversation from the looks on their faces. He was only trying to do his duty, and should not have been mocked for it. Marie should take care. The young Prussian did not look as if he would take kindly to an impudent queen. A wife’s job was to placate her husband and learn to hold her tongue. It was the beginning of the twentieth century, but a girl could still lose her head—literally—for saying the wrong thing. The keys to the empire came through Marie-Victoria’s hand, but according to the points of the treaty, Leopold would be an equal sovereign once they were married. Unlike Marie’s father, Prince Francis, who had been born into the Danish and Greek royal families and whose title had been Prince Consort, Leo would be king, and kings had been getting rid of their pesky wives for ages.
Queen Eleanor dismissed her court, ostensibly to give King Frederick a tour of the grounds, but also in order to distract them from Leo’s hasty exit. The court began to file out of the room according to rank, and the mages standing in the back of the room were dismissed last. The brotherhood of Merlin, solemn-faced men in dark suits, exited ahead of the lady magicians in white habits from the sisterhood of Morgaine.
“Thank goodness that’s done,” said Sister Mallory, a moon-faced enchantress whose specialty was speaking to animals. “He’s handsome and says all the right things, but if you ask me, the princess is better off alone. I don’t trust the Prussians. Where could they have found that horrid weapon and learned the ability to use it?”
Sister White, who could conjure weather patterns, nodded. “Yes, if it hadn’t been for that, our boys would have won that battle, but there you go.”
“Can’t imagine the Merlin would bow down so quickly,” said Sister Mallory.