The Prince's Bride

Chapter Nineteen

If Gabriel expected to be overwhelmed by the grand hall and bright salons of his sister’s estate, he was not.

If he worried he might fumble the delicate utensils used to stir tea and scoop sugar, he was also wrong.

The licking fires in large hearths did not cause him to sweat; nor did porcelain vases shatter when he turned corners or made gestures.

His sister was not as easy to overlook. The strange experience of great familiarity but also “long-lost-ness” was unavoidable. She stared at him almost unceasingly, eyes large, expression disbelieving. He didn’t know if she hoped to catch him in some colossal social mistake or burst into tears.

If only she knew his biggest social mistake to date—committed literally within moments of entering the parlor—had been riding Lady Ryan astride his thigh in a dark stairwell. Kissing her breasts. He’d been half a second from taking her against the wall before his bloody boot caught fire.

What was slurping his soup compared to this? Oh the irony; he was not, by nature, randy, or rakish, or a despoiler of women. And it wasn’t simply that he’d done it, it was that he wanted to do it again.

Meanwhile, Lady Ryan sat primly beside him in her fresh white dress—now fully tugged and smoothed back into place—hands folded in her lap, a look of grateful attention on her pretty face. She gave them all a brief review of Maurice’s arrival at Winscombe, all that he threatened, and his imminent return. Gabriel contributed what he’d known of Maurice as a boy and what his father had told him about the betrothal. Elise—balancing Baby Noelle on her lap—told what she knew of cousins and the family line of succession. Standing near the windows, Killian Crewes listened to all of it, jotting notes in a diary.

When they’d all presented every known detail of the problem, Killian joined his wife on the sofa, leaned back and draped an arm behind her. Noelle crawled into his lap.

“Do I know of a solicitor who can, most likely, disprove and disavow this imposter cousin?” Killian asked, idly running his fingers through Noelle’s ginger hair. “Yes, I can think of one man in particular. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve sent a messenger to London this morning, seeking an appointment as soon as he is able.”

“I’ll cover his fees,” Gabriel said. “Whatever the cost. He’ll need to eventually travel to Winscombe to be the voice of legal authority on Lady Ryan’s behalf. I’ll pay for this, too. All of it.”

“Could we not,” asked Elise, “have this solicitor write to Maurice now? Warn the man off? Cut him off at the knees?”

“I would not advise any advanced warning,” Ryan said. “In my experience, it’s better not to give him time to prepare. If he discovers that legal sparring is on the horizon, he will seek out his own solicitors.”

“Indeed,” said Killian. “I’d also hate to leave something so important as Lady Ryan’s future in the unreliable hands of the post. The back and forth of it. I prefer Gabriel’s idea of sending the solicitor in person. His name is Mr. Finley Soames, by the way. As a favor to me, he should make himself available, as long as the schedule is set out in advance. It’s lucky we know the date this cousin intends to return. That will be the week Soames should make the journey to Winscombe.”

“And you believe Mr. Soames can put a stop to all this?” Elise asked. “Because Maurice would not be swanning about Guernsey, terrorizing Ryan and her family if he believed it was anything but valid. Will the word of your Mr. Soames be sufficient?”

“Yes,” said Killian. “Well, probably.” He thought about this. Finally, he said, “I assume. He’ll show precedent—other arranged marriages that were dissolved; other heirs who did not inherit arranged brides-to-be; and—I don’t know? Argue this before the local magistrate? I cannot say exactly, but I know Soames has untangled betrothals and inheritances far less obvious than this.

“That said,” continued Killian, handing the baby to Elise, “if you want the very fastest, most direct way to send the cousin packing, Gabriel himself should turn up in person, prove he still draws breath, and challenge Maurice for the d’Orleans title.”

Gabriel felt himself begin to sweat. The teacup in his hand rattled and he set it on the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan glance his way.

“Gabriel’s claim to the title would need only the authentication of a courtier called a ‘royal adjudicator,’” Killian went on. “This is the fellow who would vouch for Gabriel’s legitimacy. He cannot simply pop up from the forest and say he is the prince, I don’t care how much he resembles his late father. He’ll need to dredge up any and all proof of his former life.”

A queasy, clammy chill began to slowly rise inside Gabriel’s chest. Courtiers and authentication and attaching himself to the Prince d’Orleans title—he’d sworn off all of this. Hearing them ticked off elicited a bone-deep exhaustion. His freedom, the control he held over his life, was put in deeper jeopardy with every new piece of this plan.

Lady Ryan reached out and settled a hand on his knee. Gabriel stared at the five fingers. The warmth of it sank to his skin—to his bone. He wanted to cover her small hand with his own. He wanted to encircle her wrist and tug her against him.

Lady Ryan cleared her throat. “Gabriel’s ‘return from the grave’ is less of an option. Entering public life undermines Gabriel’s home and work in the forest, and I’ve no wish to save myself only to lay waste to everything Gabriel holds dear.”

She took a sip of tea; a calm, careful gesture that conveyed reason and patience. There was a finality to it. An authority. Across the room, Killian and Elise observed her hand on his knee and listened to her words. They watched her drink. Baby Noelle raised her hand and seconded her statement with an enthusiastic, “Gah.”

“Well said, Noelle,” observed Killian.

“She is fond of you, Lady Ryan,” chuckled Elise, giving the baby a squeeze.

Gabriel looked back to Ryan. She was laughing at the baby, making a face, balancing the delicate teacup and saucer in one hand, holding to his knee with the other. An unnamed emotion, buoyant but also immense, seemed to squelch the cold dread in his chest. He turned back to Killian.

“Yesterday,” Gabriel said, “you mentioned another option. You raised the potential of marriage. Could we discuss how this might work?”

And now his sister paused in lifting the baby above her. She shifted the child to search Gabriel’s face. Killian cleared his throat and tossed his diary on the table, rattling the tea service.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Killian. “Marriage. To each other.”

“Well, not the sort of marriage where we live as man and wife. I mean, a sort of protective union that allows us to live separate lives.”

Slowly, subtly, Ryan slipped her hand from Gabriel’s knee and attached it to her teacup. Using both hands, she replaced it on the table. The hopeful portion of this conversation had ended. Now they would commence with tearing out her heart.

“It would be the sort of union,” Gabriel explained, “where Lady Ryan returns to her family at Winscombe, and me to my horses and camp. She would have my name but also the freedom to resume her old life without the burden of me.”

Ryan wanted to tell him that he was no burden.

She wanted to tell him that she would entertain some compromise where she left Winscombe for a time and lived a portion of every year in Savernake Forest.

She wanted to ask him if the only way for her to win was to embrace “her old life,” exactly as it’d always been. She’d sought him out to protect her old life—she knew this. And there were three people and many sheep in Guernsey who relied on her, but so much had changed. Was there no room for compromise? Was it impossible for everyone to have what they wanted—including her?

And what Ryan wanted—what she wanted most of all—was to marry Gabriel but not live separate lives. To save her family and to also save Gabriel.

But Ryan was not accustomed to placing her wants ahead of what others wanted. And she didn’t think Gabriel wanted to compromise. He’d just said what he wanted with no hesitation. If anyone in this room, anyone at all, sought some modified version that allowed for a real marriage, no one put voice to it. And Ryan could not be the only one to say the words. She was brave enough to want it—just barely—but she was not brave enough to say it. At least not yet.

“Maman! There you are,” sang a voice from the doorway, interrupting the conversation.

Little Marie and Sofie peeked into the room, hopeful smiles on their faces. Baby Noelle cried joyfully at the sound of her sisters. Elise and Killian sighed and admonished the girls gently for interrupting. Ryan turned and waved at them, grateful for the reprieve.

“You’ve made your interruption, so now you must present yourselves and apologize to our guests,” called Elise. “Can you say ‘excuse me’ to Uncle Gabriel and Lady Ryan?”

The girls scurried into the room and dropped into shallow curtsies.

“I beg your pardon Maman, Papa, Uncle Gabriel, Lady Ryan,” intoned Marie.

“I beg your pardon, Maman, Papa, Uncle Gabriel, Lady Ryan,” parroted Sofie.

“Pray, where is Nanny?” asked Killian.

“Nanny has breathed rancid air deep into her lungs.”

“Ah,” said Killian. “Of course she has. And where did she encounter rancid air?”

“The cellar,” reported Marie.

“What business have you in the cellar?” asked Elise.

“We are helping Bartholomew! We’ve only come out because we are in search of paint. But is there paint in the house, Maman?”

“For the two of you? No. For Bart? Also no. But I cannot attend to you at the moment. We need twenty more minutes to speak with Lady Ryan and Uncle Gabriel. What I need from the two of you is: not to return to the cellar. Instead, go to the nursery and practice your letters until I come for you. Papa will investigate what Bartholomew intends. Understood? No paint? Or cellar, for that matter.”

“Off you go then,” Killian told the girls. “And if you happen upon Nanny, will you tell her that we rely on her to be more robust.”

“More bust, more bust!” repeated Sofie. “We will tell her, Papa.”

And then they were off.

The room fell quiet. The baby whimpered, disappointed that the bright, loud, twitchy sisters had left her behind with the boring adults.

The adults in question regarded each other across the tea service. Talk of marriage had changed the mood of the room.

“Here is my view of the marriage option,” Mr. Crewes finally said. “First, it’s simple enough to arrange—so you have that in your favor. Some manner of wedding can happen, and it can be done quickly. Elise has remained very close with the nun who helped her escape France. Sister Marie could locate a cooperative priest. He may balk at marrying an Anglican to a French prince, but we can explain that you’ve been betrothed for years and also overpay him. It should be enough.”

“Wait,” said Gabriel. “I thought to marry her simply as Gabriel Rein, not invoke the betrothal.”

“Right,” drawled Killian. “And is Gabriel Rein a Roman Catholic like Prince Gabriel is?”

“Why not?” Gabriel shrugged.

“Very good. So Sister Marie will produce a cooperative priest, we will not mention your royal blood, pay him handsomely, and use your current identity. After that—”

“Forgive me,” cut in Elise. She shifted the baby in her lap. “May I ask Lady Ryan: Are you willing to marry my brother ‘in name only’? Is this what you want?”

Ryan tried to smile, but the expression was painful. She recovered her teacup and took a sip. She cleared her throat. “If I might speak for both of us, I don’t think marriage is the preferred way. However, it is a tidy little means to an end, isn’t it? It is a sacrifice for Gabriel and—yes, for me—although I have the most to gain if it means the imposter is sent away. How can I complain if marrying Gabriel will restore my home and family?”

“But of course you can complain,” insisted Elise, “quite easily. What of marrying someone else? What of children? If you enter into this farce with my brother, it will remove these opportunities. Marriage is forever, Lady Ryan.”

With no warning, tears flooded Ryan’s eyes. She looked into her cup, trying to blink them back. “Forgive me,” she sniffed. “I am moved by your concern—truly. But, I have devoted my life to my sisters, and father, and Winscombe. Perhaps, once upon a time, I could have prioritized marriage, a real marriage, but not now. This is the only proposal of marriage I’m going to get, I would be foolish not to take it.”

“But—”

“Elise. Please,” cut in Mr. Crewes. He cleared his throat loudly and shot his wife an unreadable look. She frowned and some silent communication passed between them. In the end, Elise went quiet, although she glanced once more at Ryan. She sighed and turned her attention to the baby.

Ryan peered up, watching them through her tears. It was impossible not to feel a little jealous of the wordless shorthand between husband and wife. But Ryan hadn’t lied when she’d said she’d devoted her life to Diana and Charlotte and her father. If she was meant to have silent exchanges, it would be with them.

“Just to be clear, Gabriel,” Mr. Crewes said, “when you intend to carry on ‘living separate lives,’ does it mean you will not escort Lady Ryan to Winscombe when she goes? You intend to marry her and then send her home alone?”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “I meant to give her my name and protection and then allow her to return to the life she knew before. Everything as it was. That is my intention.”

“But—” interjected Elise.

“In that case,” cut in Mr. Crewes—and now he leaned and kissed his wife, right on the mouth. “In that case, Lady Ryan will require Mr. Soames to accompany her, because I’m doubtful your cousin will accept her word that she’s now a married woman. You also come at this with a disadvantage because yours would be an unposted wedding.”

“Unposted?” asked Gabriel.

“No banns read. Rushed,” he explained. “There is legal paperwork that will take care of a special license, which we can speed along; but my point is that hasty marriages are, by definition, suspect. You’ll require either your own presence or Mr. Soames to argue the validity of the union to the cousin.”

“Even if I’m marrying her as Gabriel Rein and not the Prince d’Orleans?”

“Even if you marry her as Robin of the Hood, Prince of Thieves. But I should warn you, Finley Soames will be disinclined to lie for you.”

“Meaning?” asked Gabriel.

“Meaning he’s very talented and devoted to his clients but meticulously honest—rare for a solicitor, I know. So, if you marry, and if he comes here to build an argument that thwarts the imposter prince, the two of you will need to really convince him of your affection for each other. Your loyalty. Your future together.”

“We will?” asked Gabriel and Lady Ryan together.

Elise seemed just as shocked. “They will?”

“Oh yes,” said Killian, turning away to show the baby something outside the window. “Absolutely. Your playacting will be crucial. After Maurice is sent away, you may do what you will with your so-called separate lives; but when Mr. Soames interviews you, he’ll need to believe the union is real. Remember, he must eventually prove that Ryan is too married to be married again. If Gabriel doesn’t escort her to Guernsey, you’ll need to convince Soames of some plan to reunite in the future. You must prove to him that you’re devoted—a family. A real family.”

Now Ryan felt another rush of hot tears. She couldn’t look at Gabriel. She couldn’t look at any of them. She stared at her hands in her lap.

“For how long?” asked Gabriel. “For how long will we need to pretend?”

“Oh, he shouldn’t stay more than a few hours? The length of an afternoon at most. But it’s not those hours that are crucial. It’s all the days leading up to his consultation. You’ll want to practice, and learn to behave like a proper couple, and cover up all evidence that you’re... well—strangers. You’ll want to get in the habit of appearing to be fond of each other—deeply fond, I should say. For the benefit of Mr. Soames. Between now and then. That’s what I think.”

“And after he’s convinced?” asked Gabriel.

“After he’s convinced, Lady Ryan will return to Winscombe and you will return to Savernake Forest. Mr. Soames will return to London and travel to Guernsey in October when the imposter is due. It’s... it’s what you’ve said you want, no?”

For a long moment, silence held the room.

It wasn’t what Ryan wanted—not at all. She didn’t want to pretend to have affection for Gabriel; she wanted to show her real affection. She didn’t want to appear like a family; she wanted to be a family. And this said nothing of what Gabriel didn’t want. He hadn’t even wanted to leave his camp. Now he was living in the stables at Mayapple, pretending to be in love.

Ryan swiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. She cleared her throat. “I think this is more than Gabriel was prepared to take on.”

“Well,” said Killian, “it’s less than marrying in earnest and proving he’s the Prince d’Orleans, which is what I would have done.”

“Oh yes,” scoffed Elise, “how eager you were to marry, darling. Spare me, please.” She rolled her eyes.

Mr. Crewes grinned. “Leave nothing to chance, I always say.”

“I’ll do it,” Gabriel said. “I’ll do anything to save Lady Ryan if it means I don’t have to cede control over my life to the d’Orleans princedom and to France.”

Ryan stared out the window. The dog bite on her leg burned. The abrasion on her neck stung. She hated Maurice, and the d’Orleans princedom, and the French Revolution. She hated all of it, so very much. She wanted her old life back—not the life she would claim as Gabriel’s not-really wife; but the life she’d known before she’d ever met him. Was that true? Was it better to have never known him than to meet him, and be touched by him, to pretend to love him, and not have him?

She didn’t know. And it didn’t matter, not really, because this was happening. She could feel the momentum of the plan building in the room. Mr. Crewes spelled it out so very clearly. They were rescuing her—rescuing all of Winscombe. How could she be anything but grateful?

“Lady Ryan?” Gabriel asked gently. “What do you think? Can you pretend to be married to me for the length of an afternoon?”

“Yes,” she said simply, turning to him. “I can pretend.”