The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) (4 page)

Papillon’s oddly muffled
grrrr
drew his attention, and Alexsey looked down to see the dog trotting beside his horse, a slipper in her mouth.

Remembering the girl’s bare feet, Alexsey pulled his horse to a halt and swung down. “So she dropped one of her shoes, did she?”

He took the slipper from Papillon, noting that it was well worn but of good quality, perhaps passed on by a generous mistress. The toes were scuffed and the heel worn down, but it showed perfectly the outline of the wearer’s foot. Each of her toes had made a pocket in the thin leather, and he could almost trace her foot. “Perhaps I shall order her a new pair of shoes. That would be generous and might make an impression. What do you think, Papillon?”

Papillon sat on her haunches and cocked her head to one side.

“
Da
,” he agreed reluctantly. “It is probably too much. She might feel she owes me something, which is not what I want.”

As he went to tuck the shoe into his pocket, something fell from the toe—a small roll of paper that had been pressed into the front to make it fit better. “So even this little shoe is too large. Roza has a dainty foot,
nyet
?”

Papillon yawned.

Alexsey laughed and untangled the wad of paper. It was a piece of a letter written to a firm in London; something about a patent.
Intriguing. This must be her handwriting, for it is like her—slanted against the normal way of doing things.
He folded the paper into a neat square and tucked it and the shoe into his pocket. “I will find her again and then, there will be more kisses.”

Whistling a merry tune, he returned to his horse, Papillon bounding behind him.

Lucinda had no family, no gentle mother to teach her the ways of a woman, no strong father to protect her from the wiles of men. She was utterly and completely alone. More alone than any woman, man, or child should be.

—
The Black Duke
by Miss Mary Edgeworth

Something hit the side of Bronwyn’s book and then fell into her lap.

She moved her book and looked down. Someone had thrown a roll.

Faking a scowl, Bronwyn peered over the rim of her spectacles to find Sorcha and Mairi across the breakfast table, the picture of innocence. One of them was reading, while the other poured herself more tea.

The decidedly virtuous looks on her stepsisters’ faces would have aroused her suspicion on the best of days.

Bronwyn marked her place with a playing card and closed her book. “I suppose you two hoydens think that was funny.”

Mairi giggled and then tried to turn it into a cough, but failed miserably.

Sorcha gave her sister a half-exasperated look.

Bronwyn had to grin. “I thought as much.”

Mairi hurried to say, “It wasn’t me! Sorcha did it.”

“Tattletale!” Sorcha couldn’t contain a gleam of humor.

“Well, you did.” Mairi chuckled. “And it hit perfectly, right on the corner and then
bop
, straight into your lap!”

Bronwyn smiled. She loved them dearly. They were both lovely, with blond hair, blue eyes, and graceful figures. They were also the perfect height to wear the current fashions with ease. All things she was not.

Still, they shared the important things. She smiled as her gaze fell on Sorcha’s novel. Mairi had just finished the book the day before and had handed it to Sorcha on entering the room. Despite their mama’s best efforts, they were both enthusiastic readers.

Bronwyn could still remember the day they’d arrived and how agonizingly nervous she’d been to meet her new mama and sisters. Papa had courted Lady Malvinea for only a few weeks before marrying the younger widow and bringing her and her daughters to Ackinnoull.

Bronwyn shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d known her father had been lonely in the years following her mother’s death. Still, during that time they’d settled into a comfortable pattern. She’d had free rein to run the house and to live as she wished, providing Papa wasn’t disrupted from working on his inventions. Her life had given her plenty of time for her books and dogs and roaming the vast woods that surrounded Ackinnoull, and she’d been happy.

All had been well until a new vicar and his wife had arrived. The vicar’s wife hadn’t been happy with Bronwyn’s unmarried state and lone forays into the countryside. Her disapproval had turned into true dislike when Bronwyn had ignored the woman’s cow-handed attempt at matchmaking Bronwyn with that lady’s lack-witted brother. After that, the vicar’s wife had made it her business to criticize Bronwyn every chance she got.

Bronwyn ignored the woman’s venomous comments, but Papa wasn’t so immune. The day after her sixteenth birthday, Bronwyn had returned from a long walk to find the vicar and his wife leaving Ackinnoull. Papa wouldn’t say why they’d come, but the effects had been immediate.

After that day, Papa had seemed to see her differently, asking her silly questions: if she didn’t want to wear prettier gowns, if she missed attending assemblies and balls, and, strangest of all, if she ever thought of marrying. She hadn’t, for there were no eligible men about, and she was far too busy assisting Papa and reading every book she could find. Yet somehow, saying so hadn’t calmed whatever fears her father now had.

Not long after that, Papa left for Edinburgh, and when he returned, he announced his marriage to Lady Malvinea.

Though he never admitted it, Bronwyn knew he’d married for her sake, to give her a mother who would help her develop more genteel habits. The thought that he might be disappointed in her weighed heavily and had stiffened her resolve to please her new mother, whatever effort that might take.

When Lady Malvinea and her daughters had arrived at Ackinnoull in a carriage followed by two wagons piled with furnishings and clothes, Bronwyn had been torn between apprehension and hope. The thought of having a new mother was awkward—but sisters? She had never wanted anything more.

Within a very short time, ten-year-old Sorcha, eight-year-old Mairi, and sixteen-year-old Bronwyn had formed a deep bond. The younger girls admired Bronwyn’s independence, something they’d never been allowed. For Bronwyn, having two little sisters who shared her sense of humor and her love of reading was a dream come true.

Sadly, things hadn’t proceeded as smoothly with her new mother; she and Lady Malvinea had clashed from almost the first moment. Bronwyn had thought of herself as already grown, while Lady Malvinea felt a decided need to mold her into something more pliable.

To be fair, Bronwyn was far too used to going her own way, and she’d had to fight the urge to argue about every “improvement” Lady Malvinea wished to make to Bronwyn, Papa, and the house. Sometimes Bronwyn’s struggle to contain herself was far more visible than it should have been, but she’d been as conciliatory as possible.

Unfortunately, her stepmama had been unable to return the favor. Lady Malvinea, driven by a need for constant affirmation by members of “high society,” believed she knew best, and no amount of argument or common sense would ever convince her otherwise.

It might have helped if Papa had stepped in to smooth things over between his daughter and his new wife, but he’d spent years avoiding unpleasant reality and saw no reason to change that now. The more Bronwyn resisted her stepmother’s attempts to “civilize” her, the more Papa stayed in his workshop, until they only saw him for dinners, and even then only on occasion.

It took time, but eventually Bronwyn realized that for all Lady Malvinea’s flaws, she truly wished for Bronwyn to be happy and successful. The problem was that to Lady Malvinea, that meant a successful marriage to a man of title, birth, and property.

But Bronwyn couldn’t be something she wasn’t, and her explanations merely irritated Mama. She and her stepmother might have continued their struggle except for one thing—Sorcha.

At eighteen now, Sorcha was tall and graceful, and possessed the sort of rare beauty that had caused the meteoric rise of Elizabeth and Maria Gunning, young ladies of Irish decent who’d achieved legendary social success many years before. Mama often spoke about them with awe.

Sorcha loved balls, flirtations, and the latest fashions. She was her mother’s daughter in every way, except for her love of reading and her strong sense of humor. Bronwyn might wish her sister didn’t see marriage as her one and only path to happiness, but Sorcha was adamant. And with her looks and natural charm, it wasn’t difficult to imagine her finding a worthy, titled husband who would treasure her for the rest of her life.

Bronwyn’s only fear for Sorcha’s plan was Mama. Although she wished for the best for her daughters, Mama was often blinded to a person’s true nature if they possessed both wealth and a title. Bronwyn had witnessed it time and again, and she had no desire to see Sorcha unhappily wed. So, hoping to protect her stepsister from any sort of disastrous consequence, Bronwyn had become involved in her stepmama’s search for a mate for Sorcha. A fortunate side effect of this involvement was that Bronwyn and Mama now found themselves on much more charitable footing.

Together, they’d exhaustively searched out events for Sorcha to attend so she could gain some polish before her presentation to society, had honed the household budget so that funds could be found to buy the silks and satins so necessary for a proper wardrobe, enlisted their housekeeper’s help in saving the trim from some older gowns for reuse, and—oh, the million little things that would make Sorcha’s debut a success. And all too soon, Mairi would be old enough for the same. Though she was not quite as pretty as her sister, her liveliness promised to make her equally sought after.

Bronwyn set the roll on her plate. “I assume there’s a reason you’re launching rolls at me?”

“Oh yes!” Sorcha set down her teacup, an eager expression on her face. “I heard the most wonderful news, and I wanted to tell you before Mama came down.”

“She tried to get your attention three times,” Mairi said, buttering her toast. “You didn’t even blink.”

“Your ploy worked; I’m now listening.” She tore open the roll and reached for the butter. “What wondrous news are you so anxious to share? Is there a new hat in Mrs. MacLeith’s window in Inverness? Or a new pair of shoes on—”

“Sir Henry is opening Tulloch Castle!”

Bronwyn stopped buttering her roll, a vision of deep green eyes flickering through her mind and causing her heart to race. “Och. Yes.”

“And he’s bringing dozens of guests!” Mairi added excitedly.

“
Dozens
, Bronwyn.
Eligible
guests.” Sorcha couldn’t have looked happier.

Mairi leaned forward. “Sorcha means eligible
men
.”

“How lovely. We shall have something to look forward to.” Bronwyn took a bite of her roll and then reopened her book. Since meeting the huntsman in the woods, she’d done her best to not think about those confusing moments, for they had bothered her. Had she been too brash? Too forward? Those thoughts had pinched, but the ones that had really tormented her . . . Should she have stayed for more kisses? And if she had, what might have happened then? It was the last thought that had kept her awake far too often since that day.

“Bronwyn?” Mairi’s smile had faded. “Don’t you think that’s exciting news?”

“Oh yes. Quite.” She traced a finger down the page to find the last line she’d read; she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the words.

“Wait a moment,” Sorcha said. “You’re not at all surprised. You knew about this!”

“How could she?” Mairi asked. “
We
didn’t know until this morning. Mama only found out because Cook spoke to the housekeeper at Tulloch Castle.”

Sorcha nodded. “Mama said Mrs. Durnoch didn’t know Sir Henry and his party were coming until she received a letter a little over a week ago. So how did
you
know?”

Bronwyn put her book on the table. “I was going to tell you this, but I forgot.” It had been a waste of time trying to forget the stranger in the woods; dreams and thoughts were far more unmanageable than she’d realized.

“What did you forget?” Mairi asked.

“A few days ago—three or four—I ran into a huntsman in the woods, one of Selvach’s. The man mentioned Sir Henry and his party might arrive soon.”

“And you didn’t mention it to
us
?” Sorcha demanded.

“I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth.” At Sorcha’s quizzical look, she added, “I’d never seen the man before, and after I’d thought about it, it seemed far-fetched. Sir Henry
never
visits Tulloch.” Plus, the more Bronwyn had thought about her meeting with the huntsman, the more it had all seemed like a very vivid, but impossible, dream.

“I was shocked to hear the castle’s being opened, too,” Sorcha said. “Perhaps Sir Henry is planning on gathering his family and friends at Tulloch for a few weeks before heading to Inverness for the Northern Meeting?”

The Northern Meeting was the grandest social event in Scottish society. Started in 1788 by a group of gentlemen as a way to enliven Scottish society, which had been demoralized by the sanctions following the Jacobean uprising, the meeting was aided liberally by the Duchess of Sutherland, who had added activities and balls for the ladies to attend. Held without fail every year in Inverness during the month of October, the meeting was a roaring success from the beginning, and had grown to include elaborate balls and fancy dinners, punctuated by bagpipe competitions and military drums. It was the highlight of the Scottish season, and Sorcha was to be presented there for her debut.

Sorcha continued, “Whatever Sir Henry’s reasons are, Mama is certain he’ll be holding at least one dinner, and perhaps even a ball!”

“We can’t wait!” Mairi gave a little hop in her seat.

“Yes.” Sorcha smiled. “But Bronwyn, why didn’t you tell us about this huntsman? You could have at least mentioned him.”

“Oh!” Mairi’s eyes widened and she leaned forward. “Was he
handsome
?”

Bronwyn had relived those moments in the forest so many times, had imagined going beyond them, and had seen the huntsman’s face in her dreams so often that she was certain she could draw it from memory. “I don’t recall.”

“You don’t remember
anything
about him?” Sorcha didn’t look as if she believed a word.

“He . . . he was . . . tall.” Bronwyn quickly took a bite of her roll to keep from having to answer any more questions.

Sharing those moments, even talking about them to her sisters, seemed . . . intrusive. As if she’d lose something precious—which was silly.
It’s just a memory, but it’s
my
memory.

When her sisters continued to watch her, she forced a shrug. “He had dark hair and wore a shabby jacket. That’s all I remember. I was going to tell you what he said about Sir Henry’s arrival, but only after I visited Mrs. Durnoch at Tulloch to confirm the story.”