Accidentally Wed to the Prince

Chapter One

The sovereign prince of Thrudheim, Magnus Kristiansen III, knew his shirt was too tight as soon as the garment was lifted onto his broad shoulders.

Magnus caught the eye of Olav, his long-suffering valet, in the mirror. ‘You were right. This is a little…snug.’

Magnus had stubbornly refused to order new clothing for his trip to England. The plan was to choose an appropriate bride and leave as soon as possible. He had no intention of attending more than five social engagements and had planned his wardrobe accordingly.

Vanity is a sign of weakness! His father’s critical words still echoed through his mind even after his death, and Magnus supposed that was why he had ignored Olav’s repeated requests to measure him for new clothing.

A foolish decision, not only because of his current predicament but also because trying to please his father had always been a futile endeavour, and Magnus still had the scars to prove it.

Olav gave a resolutely dignified response, not showing even the slightest irritation that he’d been proven right, and would now have to rectify the problem Magnus had created. ‘I shall arrange for new clothing as soon as we return from London, Your Serene Highness.’

Magnus glanced out of the nearby window at the elaborate and well-tended garden of Elms Park, the country seat of the Duke of Beckton.

He had to admit it was a welcome respite from the heat and increasing stench of London’s streets.

Besides, there were plenty of aristocratic young ladies attending Beckton’s house party.

He might even achieve his goal tonight: have his bride picked out and the wedding planned before the new shirts were even ordered.

‘There is no need, Olav. They will serve my needs as they are, especially as I do not plan to remain in England for long.’

His younger brother, Prince Hans, decided to tease him from the safety of his chaise-longue. ‘For your sake, Magnus, I hope the English ladies aren’t as ugly as their prince regent, or you may wish to leave before Olav unpacks.’

They’d arrived at Elms Park late in the afternoon, because of a long and tedious dinner with the prince regent the night before.

Most of the house party guests were busy getting dressed for the evening ball, so they’d only been welcomed by Beckton and his family before being shown to the guest rooms, reserved for royalty.

Magnus had been glad of it. They could make their formal introductions tonight at the ball, which would be for the best considering his brother’s current perverse and contrary behaviour. Hans was eighteen, very much still a fool in his opinion despite being fully grown.

There were ten years between them, but their upbringings had been very different.

Hans, arriving so much later, had meant that he was the only child his mother had been allowed to spoil and treasure, while Magnus and his twin sister, Helga, had suffered the teachings of their father—a brutal upbringing.

The chasm between Magnus and his younger brother had only deepened in the two years since Helga had left and their parents had died.

Hans blamed him for everything: Helga’s arranged marriage and, he suspected, even their parents’ deaths—as they’d been forced to move Helga’s wedding forward because of him, and so they’d sailed during the winter storms—ultimately leading to the sinking of his parents’ ship on their return home from Norway.

As Magnus was buttoned into his shirt and waistcoat, he wondered if Hans would eventually let go of his resentment towards him. Probably not, and who could blame him? Was Helga well? Did she also still hate him? He’d not heard from her since her marriage, so he presumed so.

‘Beauty is not my first priority in choosing a bride,’ Magnus answered his brother firmly.

‘Then, what is?’ Hans asked, taking a plum from the nearby fruit bowl and biting into it with relish, not caring about the squirt of juice on his collar.

Olav hurried over and draped a napkin over the young prince’s chest, before returning to Magnus and asking quietly, ‘Would you be so kind as to…breathe in, Your Serene Highness?’ Magnus did as he was told, and the final buttons were slipped into place.

Hans sniggered. ‘You do look a little uncomfortable, brother. Not too dissimilar to the prince regent. What do they call him here? Prinny? It suits him. Last night, I swear he was one cough away from firing his buttons across the dining room in an open act of war.’

Olav looked horrified by the suggestion.

‘Your Serene Highness, your years of military service have simply strengthened your physique. This formal attire was made when you were still a youth at Oxford.’ He gave a pointed look at Hans who had been too young to serve in the navy—at least in Magnus’s opinion—the one thing he’d battled with his father about and surprisingly won.

Perhaps his mother had intervened on her youngest son’s behalf as well?

Hans had always been her golden boy. Magnus tried to ignore the pain and resentment that thought stirred up within him.

Olav continued mildly, ‘These clothes would probably fit the younger prince far better.’

‘Forget that! I am not as miserly as my brother. I will not parade around in hand-me-downs like some pauper!’

Magnus ignored his brother and focused on his reflection instead, stretching and flexing his muscles to check the strength of the fabric.

He had to admit that he’d gained significant bulk since he’d first had this formal court attire made, and it did look as if the seams were straining a little more than they should.

He sighed. ‘Fine, get a couple of new shirts made. But only alter the jacket and waistcoat. It would be a shame not to show off the skills of our Thrudheim seamstresses.’

Hans rolled his eyes, no doubt thinking him a penny-pinching tyrant.

It wasn’t that Magnus cared so much about the expense of new clothing, more that he hated waste.

Especially as, at home, he preferred more relaxed and comfortable attire.

Clothing that he suspected the English nobles would consider far too informal for civilised society.

There was also his Thrudheim naval uniform, of course, which he tended to wear on special occasions.

But he doubted the British would welcome seeing him in a uniform they’d once fought against.

Thrudheim had been honour bound to side with their Danish allies in the Napoleonic Wars.

Denmark had been neutral at first, but they’d been dragged into the fight eventually.

Denmark’s war with Britain had cost them a significant amount of territory including Norway, which had gained independence for a short time before being forced into a union with Sweden.

Thrudheim had given so much to ensure independence. Magnus had given his blood and sweat to Denmark in their war, and Helga’s unhappy marriage had secured Norway’s and Sweden’s friendship.

Peace had been won, but at a heavy price.

Thankfully, Magnus had managed to negotiate the continuation of Thrudheim’s independence and sovereignty. But it had been hard-fought: the British prince regent had made his concerns over Thrudheim’s loyalty crystal clear last night, namely that only an English bride would reassure him.

‘So, returning to my earlier question,’ said Hans, drawing Magnus’s attention back to the present and away from the political nightmare that troubled him daily.

Hans finished his plum and tossed the napkin and stone on the gilded table.

A footman quickly removed it and disappeared.

‘What are you looking for in a bride? So that I may better help you choose.’

‘I suppose I should tell you my requirements. Mainly so that you can learn what sort of lady is appropriate to take as a wife.’

Hans scowled at that comment, and Magnus could well understand why.

Sonja, a Thrudheim lady who had once been Helga’s confidante, had now set her sights on Hans, despite being closer in age to Magnus.

Of all of Hans’s dalliances, Sonja was most definitely the worst. She was the reason he had insisted Hans join him in London—hoping a bit of separation would help empty his little brother’s mind of scheming women.

‘Naturally, good breeding must come first,’ Magnus began firmly.

‘The English princesses are all spoken for. So, a duke’s daughter would be ideal, or an earl’s, or possibly a viscount’s at a push.

A connection to the English royal family would help politically, and ideally she should be from a large and robust family—as she will likely be able to produce an heir quickly. ’

‘Lucky lady!’ Hans answered dryly.

As always Magnus ignored his brother’s churlishness and fed his arms into his tail-coat while Olav began buttoning him in.

‘Next, she must possess intelligence and maturity. She will become Her Serene Highness, Princess of Thrudheim, and she will need to be a confident and eloquent speaker. Calm and thoughtful in manner, whilst also being warm and gracious in countenance.’

Hans sneered as if Magnus had described the queen of all dullards.

Olav reached around his waist to attach his ceremonial sword.

A quick assessment in the mirror, and Magnus decided he was satisfied with his appearance.

The silk waistcoat and tail-coat were sapphire blue, with silver embroidery, fringed shoulders and silver buttons.

The Thrudheim wolf within a silver star was pinned to his chest. His breeches and gloves were as white as snow, and his black knee-high boots gleamed in the candlelight.