How to Propose to a Prince (8 page)

Berkeley Square

T
he next morning, Elizabeth opened her eyes to find herself tucked into her own tester bed. At least, she assumed it was morning. The room was awash in smoky blue light. She could just make out a tray bearing a steaming cup of tea and a plate of sliced green apples sitting on the table beside her.

But then the curtains were suddenly thrown open and there, standing before the window in the bright sunlight, was Cherie.

“How did I get home?” A painful throb pulsated in Elizabeth’s temple. “I c-can’t remember.”

Cherie raised her gracefully curved eyebrows,
as if coaxing her to try harder to recall the events of the night before. While the tiny maid waited, she poured Elizabeth a dish of tea and guided it into her hands.

Raising the teacup to her lips, Elizabeth let the steam waft over her face. She breathed in the welcoming scent of the tea and immediately recognized it.

Hyson!
What was Mrs. Polkshank thinking? Hyson was far too dear for a mere family member’s breakfast. The expensive leaves were meant to be reserved for taking tea with prominent guests. No wonder the household expenses were increasing. Such wastefulness! Well, she would have to speak with Mrs. Polkshank about it this very day.

Then it happened. Brief flashes of images unexpectedly appeared in her mind’s eye. A small crowd of gentlemen huddled around her, lifting her. Opening her eyes in a dark rocking carriage. The thudding of a heart. Rubbing her nose because a jingling red swath of fabric was tickling it. Strong, capable arms carrying her. Being laid upon her bed by…by—

“Good heavens!” Elizabeth jolted upright, sending the tea in her cup sloshing over the side. Cherie stretched out her hands and rescued the dish. “The prince brought me here?
He laid me in my bed?” She stared incredulously at the maid.

Cherie smiled, then shrugged her shoulders.

“No, he was injured. Impossible. Impossible!” Elizabeth thrummed her fingers on her lower lip. But the images were so clear. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the maid’s tiny wrist. “Did it happen, Cherie? Did it? Or was I dreaming?”

The maid shook her head. The edges of her lips pulled downward. It was clear she didn’t know.

But someone in this household must.

Someone had let her, and whoever brought her home to Berkeley Square, into the house. She would have her explanation within the hour. From someone.

“Cherie, please, help me dress.” Elizabeth threw her legs over the edge of the bed and started to stand when a wave of dizziness forced her to immediately sit down upon the mattress again. She raised her eyes to the startled-looking maid. “I am well, Cherie. No cause for worry. I just need to move a little slower until I am fully awake.”

Cherie offered her the dish of tea again, which she took without hesitation. Maybe Mrs. Polkshank was right in brewing the full-bod
ied, pungent hyson tea this morn. Yes, it was probably just the thing for her weakened constitution. How wise Cook was.

Cherie watched her drink the hyson with an expression of mixed worry and surprise, until the only thing left in Elizabeth’s teacup was a few twisted tea leaves.

She needed to know how she arrived here, and that the prince, indeed, was well. And she would have her answer. Only this time she decided not to be so hasty. She handed the maid her teacup, then slowly stood, crossed the bedchamber, and eased down before her dressing table.

When she peered into the mirror, she understood Cherie’s aghast expression. Dried blood matted the hair on the entire right side of her head.

Good heavens! She must have been far more seriously injured than she’d imagined. So much blood. Her hand trembled as she raised it and pulled back several thick strands of copper hair so she might observe the wound.

Leaning forward toward the silver of the mirror, she peered closely at it. No plaster had been applied, which surprised her for there was such a large amount blood. Mr. Manton, however, had administered some sort of foul-smelling
ointment to the crusting dark red scrape, about the length and width of her pinkie finger.

Her stomach turned a bit, which unnerved her.

When assisting her father over the years, she’d never had an aversion to the sight of blood. She even stopped a spurting wound by turning a tourniquet tightly whilst the doctor stitched a farmer’s leg gash closed. In all her life she had never even blinked at the sight or smell of blood…well, perhaps once when a spray fanned across her face, but she would have done the same had the liquid been water, so that incident foretold nothing.

But this time it was different. This time it was her own blood.

“Cherie, I should like to wash my hair.” With a disgusted sigh at her own appearance, she dropped the matted locks she held back into place.

The maid shook her head vehemently and her dark eyes peered pleadingly at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror.

“Lud, Cherie, please, see to heating the water. Please.” She exhaled a hard breath. “You know very well that I can’t leave the house looking like I just escaped a mad assassin’s knife. I must bathe and don my finest morning
dress if I am to inquire about the prince’s health this day.”

Cherie nodded, bobbed a quick curtsy, and then hurried from the bedchamber.

Elizabeth turned her head and gazed at the position of the grazing. Hmm. Her wide-brimmed straw bonnet, the one embellished with pale roses and a stunning green satin ribbon, would cover it perfectly.

She smiled at herself in the mirror and pinched her cheeks to liven her pallor. How lucky she was to have such a keen sense of style.

Two hours later

Descending two flights of stairs proved more difficult than Elizabeth had anticipated; it made her head bobble, and each minuscule movement hurt as surely as if someone had thumped her skull. No matter. She would simply ask Mrs. Polkshank to locate the willow powder for the pain in her head, after she thanked her for the invigorating yet-too-costly-to-use-for-such-purposes hyson tea. Then she would be out the door and headed for the Clarendon Hotel, where she had heard whispers that the prince, and likely his cousin, were lodging.

She had just settled her hand on the newel post and stepped to the floor in the entry passage when she heard Lord Gallantine’s voice call out from the parlor.

“Do not think it, my dear,” he said in what, surprisingly enough, sounded like quite a stern voice.

Elizabeth grimaced. That he would be angry with her, especially after her ordeal last evening, made no sense. So she pushed Gallantine’s nonsensical warning from her head. He was likely speaking to Cherie anyway…or someone else. Certainly not her. He probably had been informed that she was dressing and did not even know she was present on the first floor yet. And so she decided to hurry to continue her quest for the willow powder before making her way into the parlor to see to her caller.

“Elizabeth, dove,” came Lady Upperton’s sweet voice. “We heard your footfalls on the stair treads. Do come into the parlor.”

Blast.
Elizabeth froze in her steps and squeezed her eyes closed. She would have come, right after partaking of the willow powder. Slowly, she opened her eyes and sighed heavily. After checking her appearance in the mirror—the wound was perfectly concealed beneath a double twist
of hair, pulled up and then pinned at the back of her head—she hoisted a pretty smile and, holding her head as level and steady as possible, glided into the parlor.

Her head jerked painfully the moment she saw that not only were Gallantine and Lady Upperton present, but so were Lord Lotharian, Lilywhite…and, of course, her dozing great-aunt Prudence. “I do apologize. I had not realized anyone had called and wished an interview with me.”

“Is that so, Elizabeth?” Lord Lotharian peered at her through narrowed eyes. “After our charge is chased by a gunman through the streets of London—with Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, no less—and then shot, why, pray, might we come to speak with you?”

A flush heated Elizabeth’s cheeks. “It’s only a flesh wound. As you can see, I am well enough.” She swallowed. “Has…anyone heard about the prince’s condition this day?”

“Only that he survived. But then you know that, don’t you, gel?” Lotharian said, still observing her in that unsettling way of his.

“Yes.” She lowered her gaze, hoping to disengage Lotharian’s overly focused attention. “I only wondered—”

“You might have been killed, Elizabeth!”
Lilywhite snapped, drowning out her words. He hastened over to the tantalus, and though it was still quite early in the day to be drinking, by the
ton
’s or anyone else’s standards, he poured himself a glass of brandy. “Anyone else like a calming bit of liquid sustenance?”

Her great-aunt’s eyes opened immediately. “I would.” She raised her hand and beckoned for a glass. Lilywhite obliged her almost instantly, and she took the brandy and began sipping happily.

Elizabeth settled herself in an empty slipper chair near the doorway. “H-How…did you hear about last night’s incident?”
Oh. Right. Edmund
. Forgetting herself, she slapped her palm to her head. “Damn!” She looked up and was immediately met with shocked looks from the elderly group. “Please forgive my outburst. ’Tis my head…very, very sore.”

Cherie flitted into the passage with a tray holding a glass of cloudy water. Before she could enter the parlor, she was immediately halted by the butler MacTavish, who had only just taken up a sentry stance outside the door. He looked quizzically at the little maid until she gestured to her head and then to the glass.

Elizabeth, who, from the periphery of her vision, had been observing the whole delay in
receiving her much-needed willow powder, was about to spring from her chair and snatch up the glass when the butler entered the parlor and at last offered it to her.

She drank down the bitter powder, but knowing it would take some time to ease her pain, she began to consider joining Lilywhite and Prudence in a noon-time libation.

“Actually, ’twas Miss Margaret Mercer Elphinstone who communicated the astounding news of your adventures with the prince last night,” Lady Upperton revealed. “You remember her, do you not? Princess Charlotte’s lady’s companion?”

Elizabeth sat silently, trying to piece together the events that might bring Miss Mercer Elphinstone to Lady Upperton’s door.

“You have made her acquaintance. Yesterday, in fact,” Lady Upperton added. She lifted her fluffy white brows excitedly. “And you must have made quite an impression.”

“More, please.” Great-aunt Prudence raised her empty glass in Elizabeth’s direction. “Chop, chop, Lilywhite.”

Elizabeth, dumbfounded by Lady Upperton’s assertion, started to rise to refill her great-aunt’s glass herself when she felt Lilywhite’s heavy hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll it fetch for her, gel,” he said. “Fancy a refresher for myself, anyway.”

Elizabeth looked directly at Lady Upperton. “On my word, I do not know how I could have made an impression at all on Miss Elphinstone. Our time together was so short.” Nothing this day seemed to make sense to Elizabeth, and she began to wonder, fleetingly, if her injury had somehow rattled her brain. “Why did
she
contact you?”

Lord Gallantine rose from his place on the settee beside Lady Upperton and came to stand before Elizabeth. “You must have done something extraordinary, dear. Something
very
extraordinary.”

Elizabeth tilted her head back and peered up at him. “Why do you say that, Gallantine? You seem so confident in your charge.”

“Because, Elizabeth, she called at first light with a letter—from Princess Charlotte.” He paused then, as if Elizabeth might already know the contents of said missive. But she didn’t, and, lud, she wished they all would stop dancing the quadrille around the facts and tell her everything!

“The princess has requested that you join her at Cranbourne Lodge, temporarily…just until Michaelmas,” Lord Gallantine added.

“Join her—the princess?” Elizabeth shifted her head this way and that to peer around Gallantine, hoping, praying, someone could enlighten her as to this extraordinarily strange turn of events. “But why?”

“To act as one of her lady’s companions—like Miss Elphinstone, herself,” Lady Upperton offered.

“But why…
me
?”

“Well, we do not know, dear,” Lady Upperton admitted. “We had hoped that you could provide us with that vital information. Of course, we agreed to her request and sent Miss Elphinstone back to the princess with the happy news.”

That bit of news propelled Elizabeth straight to her feet. “Y-You agreed?”

“You leave the first of next week, if you are well enough. And it seems by your appearance this day that you already are fit. So, it is all arranged.” Lady Upperton was smiling proudly. “We knew it would be what you wanted. We knew you would be most delighted to get to know the princess. After all, you said it yourself—she is likely your half sister.”

Elizabeth sat down again, her strength drained from her limbs at this revelation. This was utter madness!

Yes, in recent months she had wondered
about Princess Charlotte, her likely half sibling. Had fantasized about what it would be like to live like a princess—had the circumstances of her birth been different.

But now…now destiny had become revealed to her. She was to marry the prince. She could not leave London and her future husband behind. Not now.

It seemed, however, that her guardians had already sealed her fate by agreeing that she would serve Princess Charlotte.

Lilywhite held a glass of brandy in the air. “Bet you’d like one of these now, Elizabeth, eh?”

Elizabeth raised her hand to take it.

God above, please let this all be a dream.

Within seven days she knew for certain that she was not dreaming. Her course was now very clear. During this week, she had received no word as to the prince’s condition. And when she slipped out of the house to inquire about him at the Clarendon Hotel, where he was reportedly lodging, she was politely told that the prince was not in residence at this time.