How to Propose to a Prince (2 page)

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
Gorblimey
. She knew who was standing there, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Anne covertly sunk an elbow into Elizabeth’s side. “Turn around,” she whispered almost undetectably.

Slowly, Elizabeth swiveled her head in his direction, following its momentum with her body a scant second later, until she faced him fully and met his piercing gaze.

She could not help but stare.

Lud, from such close proximity she could see a ring of clear blue edging the silvery gray of his eyes. She gasped and a shudder shook through her. Any doubt as to his identity evaporated in that instant.

This man standing before her had been plucked directly from her dream.

There was no question. He was the gentleman she would one day marry.

Anne whirled about, likely having heard her surprised reaction to the man. Her sister blinked with astonishment when she, too, discerned the unusual color of his eyes—exactly as Elizabeth had described. Anne clapped a hand to her chest. “I—I beg your pardon, sir, it seems neither of us had been aware of your approach.”

“I do apologize, Lady MacLaren. I did not mean to startle you…or Miss Royle.” He exhaled a ragged breath as though somewhat embarrassed. “Miss Royle had asked…and, well, I only meant to explain to her that your wedding, Lady MacLaren, was reported in the
Times.
”

“And every other newspaper in the realm,” the young shop clerk blurted. “I saw at least four caricatures of you both. It would be hard to mistake your faces. Why, Lady MacLaren, your betrothal ball at Almack’s is still the talk of London.”

“Bertrum!” Mr. Hamilton hissed, and poked a finger toward the storeroom. “There is a shipment to be inventoried. Please see to it at once.” Hamilton, the elder, looked to his customers. “I beg your pardon. Do forgive my son.”

Bertrum Hamilton, realizing he had forgotten his place, turned dejectedly on his heel and slowly started for the back of the shop when Elizabeth’s would-be fiancé unexpectedly called out. “Young man.”

Bertrum turned and met his father’s reproachful gaze. Receiving a hesitant nod of consent, he approached them again, his head hanging low. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Royal Highness. How may I serve you?”

Your Royal Highness?
Elizabeth gasped again, and looked immediately to Anne, whose golden eyes had gone wide.

“Your Royal Highness? No, no, you mistake me for another.” A distinct ruddiness swept the gentleman’s cheekbones.

“Have I?” Bertram’s brows migrated toward
the bridge of his narrow nose. “I do beg your pardon…s-sir.”

Elizabeth’s prince turned from the clerk, straightened his back, and his chest expanded as he prepared to address the women. “Please excuse me, Lady MacLaren, Miss Royle, but your comment about the tiaras being fit for a princess caught my attention. And I believe you were correct in your assessment. The tiaras are beautiful.”

“Yes, they are.” Elizabeth beamed at the prince. A bead of water dripped from a tendril of hair and into her lashes, making them flutter madly. Gads, she must appear the veriest of ridiculously charmed misses.

His eyebrows lifted slightly and he returned a bemused smile. “When I approached, my dear ladies, I had only thought to request a small favor. I should not have even thought it, or spoken to you, but now that I have, I am duty-compelled to make myself known to you both. I am Lansdowne, Marquess of Whitevale.” He bowed deeply. “I do hope you will forgive my earlier impertinence.”

From the periphery of her vision, Elizabeth saw the young clerk roll his eyes disbelievingly.

Within a clutch of moments, Anne had po
litely introduced them both. “My lord, what favor did you wish to ask of us? It would be an honor to assist you in any way possible.”

“I—I…” He gestured for the clerk. “That tiara, there. The one the ladies were viewing.”

Young Bertrum Hamilton reached into the jewel case and lifted a glittering diamond tiara from a tuft of black velvet. “This one, my lord?”

“Yes.” He took the jewel-encrusted tiara from the clerk and then held it out to Elizabeth. “Might you try this one on for me…for just a moment or two? Please.”

Elizabeth nervously forced a polite smile and nodded. She reached for the tiara, but Lord Whitevale suddenly waved her hand away.

“Would you allow me, Miss Royle?” he asked.

Once more Elizabeth nodded mutely. Her hands were trembling so fiercely that she probably would not be able to position it upon her head properly anyway.

She did not say a word. La, she barely breathed, for fear she would shriek with excitement. Her heart pounded as he raised the glittering tiara and eased it into the curls of her red hair as he settled it atop her head.

Her dream was coming true. She knew it!

Well, half true at least. So, Lord Whitevale
was not a prince. But that was of no consequence. Here she stood with a sparkling diamond tiara on her head placed there by the man of her dreams.

Who would have ever thought such a wretchedly miserable day would become so brilliant? She lifted her lips at the thought, earning a reciprocal smile from Lord Whitevale—one that warmed her chilled body from the tips of her damp toes to the crown of her head.

Then, without warning, he gently plucked the tiara from her head and turned to the clerk. “Yes, this is it. Will you have this sent to Cranbourne Lodge this very day? And enclose this, will you?” He withdrew a letter from inside his coat and handed it to young Hamilton.

The clerk bowed. “Yes, Your Royal Highness—I mean, yes, my lord.”

“My thanks, Miss Royle. You have made my decision for me,” Lord Whitevale said. “I have no doubt this will suit her perfectly.”

Her? It will suit her? Just who is he speaking of?

Utterly confused, Elizabeth peered up at him, waiting for an explanation, but he did not condescend to supply one. Instead he bid her and Anne good afternoon, then abruptly quit the shop and followed his footmen into the dense rain.

“Bertrum,” Hamilton, the elder, whispered rather loudly. “Why did you insist on referring to Lord Whitevale as His Royal Highness?”

Bertrum did not bother lowering his voice. His tone told Elizabeth he meant for them to hear his words. “Because that is who he is. I saw his procession arrive two days ago. I was in the front of the crowd that had gathered for the spectacle and I saw him clearly. And here, look at the signet in the wax sealing his letter.”

Abruptly, Bertrum pressed the letter flat to the glass case and held a small lamp to it before his father could snatch the missive away. “I knew it. Look at it closely. His signature is visible through the foolscap.”

“I do apologize, ladies,” Hamilton the elder stammered. “I assure you, this is not the way I conduct business. Every purchase is entirely confidential.”

Elizabeth didn’t care a fig about that. She pinned her new friend Bertrum with the gravest of gazes. “Who is he…really? Please tell me. I must know.”

Appearing most proud of his deductive abilities, Bertrum lifted his chin. “That gentleman, Miss Royle, was none other than Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield.

Elizabeth’s legs wobbled as if to give out from
beneath her, forcing her to grapple for a nearby chair. “You do not mean…
Prince
Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield?”

Bertrum grinned. “Indeed, I do.”

Anne paled and she redirected her gaze to Elizabeth. “Didn’t we hear chatter, at the Kirk musicale I believe, that Princess Charlotte has recently set her cap for Prince Leopold?”

“Oh, ’tis not just chatter, Lady MacLaren,” Bertrum interjected. “The
Times
reported that there have been secret discussions in Parliament about just such a union between the families. Though, not all members agree. I, for one, would choose Prince Leopold for Princess Charlotte. Did you notice the size of him—why, he is a born leader if I ever saw one.”

“Bertrum!” Hamilton the elder snapped.

A throbbing began in Elizabeth’s head as she realized what this revelation truly meant to her. She brought her fingertips to her temples, hoping to rub away the ache. But she knew it was useless.

Her rival for her intended’s affection was none other than the Princess of Wales.

Lord, help her now.

The Clarendon Hotel
London

“D
amned wretched of you to send me out in this bloody awful weather.” Sumner Lansdowne, Marquess of Whitevale, added a final splash of brandy to each of the two heavy crystal glasses before him. He turned and handed one to his cousin beside him, then raised the other glass to his own lips and drank.

“’Twas all in the name of love.” Leopold, Prince of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield, silently chuckled into his glass before looking sidelong at Sumner. “Someone had to go out. Besides which, it was you who insisted that I remain in this gilded gaol of a hotel…where it is safe.”

“You’d be a fool to venture into public after yesterday’s event.” Sumner leveled a grave gaze at Leopold as he brought the crystal to his mouth and slowly sipped the brandy.

“The bullet might have been meant for you, Sumner, have you considered that?” Leopold’s left eyebrow arched as he posed the ridiculous notion. “Or, simply a reveler in the crowd firing his pistol into the air. Must you take this so seriously?”

“Yes, I must. And so must you, Leopold. Your life may well depend upon it. We have no choice but to exercise utmost caution during this mission…that is…during our stay in London.”

“A mission, eh, cousin?” Leopold’s lips twitched upward. “You make it sound like a military campaign. Need I remind you that I am in London to woo a woman, not to usurp the throne.”

“And I am here to ensure you survive. That, cousin, is my mission.” Sumner tipped back his glass and drew a long draught of brandy, then roughly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

As much as Leopold pretended to dismiss the danger of his presence in London, he was nothing if not brilliant and calculating. Sumner
was well aware that he knew the risk to his own life by simply appearing, without royal invitation, to win the hand of the Princess of Wales—especially when another held so much support within the most powerful echelons of Parliament.

“Or you could dismiss these threats and enjoy yourself in London,” the prince muttered.

Sumner slammed his glass to the table. “Leopold, we must proceed under the assumption that the shot was directed at you—and was quite possibly fired by someone associated with those who sent the threatening letters.”

“Always my protector.” The prince glanced down and pensively swirled the brandy in the glass. At least Leopold had heard him. “Look here, Sumner, I know you are only doing your duty, but this is extraordinarily difficult for me. I am used to driving the charge across the field, not cowering in the treeline.”

“You are not cowering. You are being prudent.”

“So you say.” Leopold let his gaze trail across the room, where he fixed it to the great window centered along the east wall. It might as well have had bars over the glass.

Sumner exhaled, all too aware of how much it irked Leopold, a highly skilled soldier in his
own right, to be watched over and ordered about by his cousin. To be forced to remain far from danger. But the occurrences over the past two months had made a personal guard for the prince a sad necessity, and Sumner was the only logical and practical choice. His reactions were swift, his English was perfect, his gun skills keen, and his loyalty to the Coburg family unmatched. The Coburg family knew that he would put Leopold’s life before his own, which was precisely what he had been entrusted to do.

“Letters…” As though something had suddenly occurred to Leopold, he shifted his gaze to Sumner. “Speaking of letters, my good man, you included mine with the—what did you choose?—I suppose I ought to know so I can respond knowledgeably when she comments on my gift.”

“A tiara.” Sumner sighed beneath his breath, remembering the sight of the beguiling Miss Royle wearing it. “It was a tiara…fit for a princess.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a distinct air of bored disinterest. “I am sure you made a suitable choice. But, you did include the letter, did you not?”

“Yes, I
did.
” Sumner nodded, amazed at how fluidly his cousin’s attention had shifted from
attempts on his life to Princess Charlotte. “And, I was promptly mistaken for you,
again.
”

Leopold’s expression darkened as Sumner eyed him from the roots of his dark hair to the tips of his gleaming boots. “Frankly, I do not see the resemblance. You are at least a hand’s length shorter in stature.” Sumner grinned as he took a lingering taste of his brandy.

“And with your warrior’s shoulders and muscle-knotted arms,” he went on, “you lack the elegance and refinement I possess in abundance.” Leopold looked haughtily down his aristocratic nose at his cousin, then pursed his lips and waggled his dark eyebrows.

Sumner tried to stop the guffaw charging up his throat, but Leopold, always so formal in public, just looked so damned absurd. Carmel-hued spirits spewed out all over the twin rows of glasses positioned atop the satin wood table before him in a fit of laughter and coughing.

Sumner caught a glimpse of movement and glanced up at the two liveried footmen positioned just inside the door. “I do apologize, gentlemen,” he said. “I am afraid my cousin is severely lacking in manners.”

“I?” Leopold’s eyes rounded.
“I lack in manners?”
The prince whirled around to look at the footmen and the maid hurrying into the room.
“He is to blame.” Leopold turned back to face his cousin and rose up on his toes to look Sumner straight in the eyes. “I, sir, am the very model of a superbly mannered nobleman.” He dropped back upon his heels and peered at the footmen as if to ensure they had heard him.

Not that it should have mattered to him in the least, but the constant mistaking Sumner for the Prince of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfield seemed to rankle Leopold to no end.

The maid, eyes demurely downcast, scurried over to tidy up the table, while the footmen settled the brandy-spattered glasses upon a tray for removal. When they had finished, the footmen bowed deeply and the maid dropped a low curtsy before Sumner, and then all three tipped their heads in acknowledgment to Leopold before backing out of the room.

“Did you observe that? Did you?” Leopold huffed. “Why is it that even when we are standing side by side, people assume that you are the prince and not I?”

“I told you,” Sumner grinned before finishing his sentence, “it’s my commanding stature.” He clapped Leopold’s shoulder and drew him toward the two gilded chairs positioned on either side of the hearth. “Which is why my plan will work perfectly.”

“Very well.” Leopold huffed a breath from his lungs as he sat down and leaned against the tufted backrest. “Tell me, what is in that clever military mind of yours?”

Cavendish Square
Lady Upperton’s library

Elizabeth tried very hard to avoid looking into Lady Upperton’s faded blue eyes as she accepted the dish of tea from her. She couldn’t bear one more expression of skepticism from someone she cared about, and especially not from her own sponsor. “I know this is exceedingly difficult to believe, Lady Upperton, but I am quite certain he is the man I will marry. Even Anne is so convinced.”

“Impossible.” Lady Upperton lifted her own teacup to her lips and sipped from it while peering doubtfully over its rim at Elizabeth. “The word swirling Almack’s card room last week was that Prince Leopold has secretly come to London to seek the hand of the Prince Regent’s daughter, Charlotte…and that she is most amenable to the young man’s attentions—especially after the debacle of an engagement her father had orchestrated with that skinny goose, William of Orange.”

Elizabeth swished her index finger from side to side. “I do not believe it. The
Times
reported that Princess Charlotte is no longer in London. But Prince Leopold is. Anne and I saw him.”

The foglike steam rising up from Lady Upperton’s cup had a dreamlike quality about it, and it sent Elizabeth’s mind spinning back to misty Pall Mall—and then to the moment when she peered up into the prince’s silver eyes as he placed the tiara on her head.

No, he would not marry Princess Charlotte. He would marry
her
. She knew it in every part of her being.

Never before had she felt such an instant connection with another human being as she had with him. When she looked into his eyes for the first time, she’d had the oddest notion that he was the part of her that she had been missing all of her life. The piece that filled the aching hollow in her soul. But how could she ever make anyone understand this? There were no words to express the connection she felt with him.

“So, dear, you saw Prince Leopold?” Lady Upperton settled her dish of tea on the table before her and did her best to appear very confused. “Please do forgive me, sweeting. I thought you told me you had met…one
Lord
Whitevale
.” She lifted her snowy eyebrows and widened her eyes expectantly—as if she did not anticipate what Elizabeth’s reply would be.

Elizabeth tensed. Must she explain what had happened again?

“Lady Upperton, I told you, he only said he was Lord Whitevale, but the shopkeeper proved beyond doubt that in truth he was Prince Leopold. He showed us the royal seal, and the prince’s signature was clearly visible through the vellum…” She dropped her voice to a murmur. “…when the shopkeeper held a lamp to it.” Elizabeth chucked her chin. “I tell you, the gentleman I met in the shop is the man I will marry.”

“Oh, Elizabeth.” Lady Upperton sighed, momentarily resting her face in her tiny hands. When she looked up again, her exasperation was clear. “Put your fanciful hopes out of your mind, gel. If Prinny accepts Prince Leopold, a union between the two families is a surety.” She leaned forward and placed her hand atop Elizabeth’s. “You must accept this, my dear.”

There was a shrill scraping sound yanking their attention to the cold hearth. There, a bookcase opened like a door and a dark secret passage became visible. The air suddenly was sucked from the room and into the mouth of
the secret doorway, as surely as if the library itself had inhaled.

Lady Upperton’s fluffy white eyebrows lifted again and a smile elevated the corners of her painted lips. “Ah, he’s here at last.”

From the darkness of the secret passage, Lord Gallantine’s lean, aged form stepped through the door and into the candlelit library. He adjusted his auburn wig and then gave a firm tug to each bottle-green sleeve of his once fashionable coat.

He looked up at the two women and then fixed his gaze upon Elizabeth, and there it remained pinned as he approached.

His tone was not jovial at all. In fact, he seemed oddly aggravated with her. “What is this twaddle I am hearing, gel?” he asked, sounding more than a little annoyed. “A prince? A bloody prince?”

Elizabeth rose and dropped the elderly gentleman a curtsy. She grimaced. “No twaddle at all, my lord.”

Gallantine shifted his attention to Lady Upperton so quickly that the older woman startled. “Have you been able to talk any sense into her?”

Lady Upperton shook her head. She tossed her hands in the air defeatedly. “She has con
vinced herself, and will not hear any argument as to the complete impossibility of the notion of a royal marriage.”

A small squeal of frustration slipped out between Elizabeth’s teeth. “That is because I have yet to hear an argument that proves me wrong.”

“Really?” This comment seemed to intrigue Lady Upperton. “Then do allow me to oblige you by providing one.”

Elizabeth nodded hesitantly. She always had to watch herself around Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes. She had been warned about them by her sister Mary shortly after their first meeting with the elderly quartet. They were all so kind, charming, and good-natured, that it was only natural that others would drop their guard when they should be on their highest alert—for there was no more cunning group in all of London than Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes of Marylebone.

“For the sake of argument, let us say that the gentleman you met was, in fact, Prince Leopold,” Lady Upperton began.

“He
was
!” Elizabeth blurted.

“Now, now, do let me finish.” Her sponsor raised a hand, prompting Elizabeth to close her mouth. “So we will assume that the man was
Leopold. Were you aware that the Prince Regent has ensconced his daughter in Cranbourne Lodge in Windsor…which is not so distant from London, as you well know.” Lady Upperton crossed her arms and waited for Elizabeth’s reaction.

“C-Cranbourne Lodge in Windsor?” She swallowed the lump that had risen into her throat.

“If I am not mistaken—but then, I am old and my memory sometimes fails me…” Lady Upperton straightened her back and her gaze became as keen as a razor fresh from the sharpening leather. “…that the tiara, the very one the man set upon your head, was to be delivered to Cranbourne Lodge?”

“Y-Yes, it was,” Elizabeth stammered as she nervously scratched the side of her neck. This bit of news did complicate matters.

Just a little.

Gallantine, who had seated himself, adjusted his auburn wig upon his head. “Now that you understand that the prince likely intends to marry Charlotte, and not you, may we get on with the business of finding you a proper match?”

Elizabeth lowered her head and peered at the tea leaves swirling in the bottom of her cup.
Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, she knew she had dreamt the future. How could she be expected to simply ignore her prophetic dream and seek a match with another? It was an impossibility.

The timbre of Gallantine’s voice changed, and belatedly Elizabeth realized that he was still addressing her.

“There is a private ball at Almack’s tomorrow evening,” he was saying. “The guest list is quite the talk of Mayfair, you know.”

Elizabeth glanced up from her teacup and nodded. “We are attending. I remember. Lady Upperton has already selected the emerald satin gown for me to wear for the occasion. Madame Devy promised to have it delivered on the morrow.”

Gallantine slapped his hands to his knobby old knees and pushed upon them while leaning forward for the momentum to stand upright. “Perfect. There is someone Lord Lotharian, Lilywhite, and I would like for you to meet.”

Elizabeth glanced down again and focused on the curls of steam rising from her cup as she rolled her eyes.
Good heavens
. She had told them her course was clear. She would marry the prince. There was no doubt in her mind.