Chapter Two
Two
Dinner parties are insufferable.
Allow me to clarify—dinner parties that my father hosts are insufferable. I love a grand party where I am not pinned under the watchful eyes of my father and his child-bride. But in my own home, where the servants act as his spies and I am the focus of attention, it is impossible to enjoy myself.
Tonight we are celebrating tomorrow’s festivities with a grand dinner. And tomorrow my life will be over. Or rather, my life as a bachelor. My life as a free man. Tomorrow marks the first day of life as my father’s copy.
I am not sure when it became the fashion to make such a fuss about a mere engagement—especially a politically arranged one that neither party is particularly chuffed about. Well, perhaps Kitty is. (Yes, that’s what she has insisted I call her now.) “Kit and Kitty; isn’t it so charming?”
I could have vomited all over her horrid blue gown.
Ordinarily, I am not one to complain about being the center of attention.
But in this I feel trapped. The goddamned prince is here, for Christ’s sake!
Why the Prince of Wales cares about my nuptials, I may never know.
But here he is, sitting beside me at my father’s table, complimenting the quality of the predinner soup.
I would give anything to slither out of my seat and make my escape by way of the magical fortress I used to pretend existed under the dining table.
It is a massive, solid piece of furniture, this table, with ornate, hand-carved flowers along its perimeter.
It is always waxed to a high shine that borders on obscene—which seems pointless, as there is a large white linen covering the entire expanse of it tonight.
In a garish display of wealth and waste, my father has ordered a taper on a silver candlestick arranged between each place setting, casting the entire room in a warm, flickering glow.
Shadows move across the pink jacquard wallpaper and ivory-painted wainscoting in an elegant dance.
I might be impressed by the show of it all, were it not for my irritation.
I am far from humble, but showing off like this feels somewhat distasteful.
At least Elizabeth had the good sense to store my sister away for the evening. The thought of Victoria screaming and dripping snot on Prince Henry is just too much.
“You must be looking forward to becoming a husband, Christopher-Henry,” the prince murmurs to me over the top of his wineglass.
He isn’t an unattractive man, I suppose—for a man in his forties.
His hair is dark, with an unruly wave pattern that he seems to have embraced rather than hidden under a formal wig.
He has a long, narrow nose and an angular jaw, both of which may have been more appealing when he was a young man.
With the bags under his eyes and the frown lines that crease the skin around his mouth, however, they now give him a rather ghoulish appearance.
Or perhaps that is just a trick of the shadows twirling across his face.
I dare not contradict him, but I won’t agree with him either, so I only smile as I bring my own glass to my lips.
“Come now,” he whispers conspiratorially, as if we were old school chums. “You’ll enjoy the wedding night well enough.” He turns his gaze to my betrothed across the table.
My brow twitches as I try to hide my disgust. It’s one thing for me to think or say such things, but for the Prince of Wales to leer openly at my fiancée and speak of matters of this kind at the dinner table is quite another.
I glance at Kitty and actually feel pity for her. “I’m sure she will make a perfectly adequate wife,” I say carefully.
“I daresay she will,” the prince agrees, sitting back in his chair. “She is my goddaughter, you know.”
I did not.
“I had no idea, Your Highness.”
“I thought, as a wedding gift to my goddaughter and her betrothed, I might bestow upon you a title of your own. I can’t have my goddaughter marrying down in the peerage, after all.”
A title? Is that supposed to tempt me? I don’t want the title that is my birthright—so why would I want another? But I do my very best to appear graciously surprised and not offended by his backhanded insult. “Your Highness—”
“Do not thank me yet,” he says. I had not planned to. “You will have to wait until your wedding feast tomorrow to know more.”
My what? The prince plans to attend my wedding feast?
Perhaps I should be honored, but instead panic settles into my gut.
Why is the Prince of Wales planning to attend my wedding feast, goddaughter or no?
I offer him a brief smile, which I’m sure is more of a grimace than anything, and promptly bury my nose in my wineglass to avoid suffering through any more conversation.
The remainder of dinner goes exactly as one might expect it to—stiff, polite conversation, which slowly suffocates me until I am sure I will pass out or simply die.
So when my father invites all the men in attendance for an after-dinner brandy, I make my excuses and slip out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.
Father doesn’t argue; the last thing he wants is to share a companionable drink with me. But I’m not out there long before a shadow looms behind me.
“Are you not cold?”
I am cold. I’m freezing my bollocks off, but I turn to Prince Henry and force a smile. “Not terribly,” I lie. “I’m not much of a fan of brandy.”
“Or of your father, it would seem.”
I go very still and stare at the prince. I’m sure my expression falls into one of dismay, but I cannot control my face for the moment. “Your—”
“I mean nothing by it,” he insists, with a smile nearly charming enough to compete with my own, were he twenty years younger. At least the bags under his eyes aren’t quite as defined out here under the blue-toned shine of the moon.
“Forgive me if I seem ungrateful,” I say. “I am, of course, honored that Your Highness plans to attend my wedding… but I don’t understand why.”
Prince Henry laughs and claps a hand onto my shoulder in a far-too-familiar gesture that is both unprincely and alarming. “I have known your father a very long time, Christopher-Henry. Not to mention your mother.”
My heart leaps into my throat at the mention of my mother. All at once I am sure I am going to lose my supper, and one hand flies to my stomach in preparation. “My mother?” I ask, breathless. No one has ever mentioned her to me—despite my constant nagging on the subject.
“Oh, yes,” Prince Henry says, his expression softening.
He appears younger and almost handsome as he smiles fondly at some memory.
Is that smile meant for my mother? I’m both horrified and intrigued.
“I remember the day she arrived from the Ottoman Empire with her family. She was striking in her beauty. You look so much like her, you know.”
I am reeling as his words sink in. I have always suspected my mother was not English—my complexion alone is proof of that—but that was the extent of my knowledge until this moment. I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Do I?” I ask, and I hate how my voice cracks.
“Of course,” Prince Henry says with another laugh. “Do you not agree?”
I have often wondered what my mother looked like. I bet she was beautiful, but I have never seen her likeness. My father has no paintings of her, nor a locket with her portrait I might have cleaved to as a child. Talk of my mother has always been strictly banned in this house.
“I am sure I would agree with you had I ever laid eyes upon her, Your Highness,” I say when I’ve regained control of my senses. “My father…” I lick my lips as I come up with an appropriate lie. “My father hadn’t the chance to have her likeness painted before she died.”
Prince Henry frowns, his mouth turning down.
“No?” he asks. Is he angry, or is that pity?
I can’t tell, and it unnerves me to see such an expression almost as much as it unnerves me to be having this conversation at all.
He seems to remember himself and shakes his head.
“Such a pity,” he murmurs. “She was a rare beauty, your mother.”
I want to cry. I want to get away from the prince and his sudden sincerity. I prefer to mislike him and his leering, crass comments—his kindness terrifies me. “Your Highness,” is all I can manage, my voice tight and halting. I swallow once more, but that damned lump refuses to budge.
“I had best go back in and entertain your father,” the prince says, with one last smile.
All I can do is nod stiffly and force my body into a neat bow as he turns to make his way inside. I stare at his back as he disappears into the house, and only when my lashes turn to ice do I realize I have lost control of my emotions.
It feels like an eternity has passed before the house finally goes still for the night.
Every inch of my skin itches as I pace back and forth in my bedroom.
My wedding suit is laid out neatly on the settee at the foot of my bed, staring at me—taunting me.
My father chose black. How very fitting for the funeral of my youth and happiness.
I turn away from it and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
Tonight has been strange and terrible, and I am more agitated than ever.
It isn’t enough that I must sign away all hopes of living a life of my own tomorrow evening, but this business about my mother, and the prince’s soft smile when he spoke of her, has my stomach in knots.
The trunk beneath my window catches my eye, and before I have consciously made the decision, I am suddenly in motion.
I pack frantically, stuffing as much into the trunk as I can without taking the time to properly fold anything.
I don’t even stop to consider whether the waistcoats I pack match the jackets I choose—that’s how frantic I am.