Chapter Twenty-Eight May #2
“Don’t worry about Grannie,” George murmured, once Sir John had turned aside to sharpen his charcoal. “She’s in a bad mood. Eddy has been acting strangely, and then—” George hesitated. “She got some unexpected news. And you know Grannie never handles the unexpected very well.”
May decided to say it. “The news about Missy?”
“You heard?” George whispered.
“Lady Ely told me. Are you all right?” May dared to look back at him, ruining her pose. “I know you and Missy were…”
“Grannie always wanted us to marry, which is why she’s so upset. But Missy and I were never more than friends.”
“But you were always so affectionate with her!” Dimly, May was aware that she shouldn’t say this aloud, but she was still rattled from that confrontation with her father and couldn’t think clearly. “That day at the Earl of Stafford’s house, when you rushed to help her…”
George looked confused. “Of course I rushed to help. Missy was stung by a wasp.”
May didn’t understand why her chest felt suddenly tight, why her mouth had gone dry. It made no difference that George didn’t love Missy—that his running after her that day was just George’s innate sense of chivalry.
Belatedly, she realized that she needed to reply. “It seems like I misread things between you and Missy,” she whispered.
The silence between them felt suddenly weighty, heavy with something new—something that May wasn’t sure she dared look in the face.
And yet she wanted to.
“I do worry about Missy, running off with Ferdinand like that, so soon after Ducky got engaged. She probably wasn’t thinking clearly.” George’s voice was gruff. “And none of us knows much about Romania, or this Ferdinand fellow. He’s, what? Five years older than Missy?”
Eight, May thought. Guilt fluttered in her chest like a moth.
“I want to make sure Missy wasn’t taken advantage of,” George went on, oblivious to her turmoil. “It strikes me as a bit unfair that she should be forced to marry Ferdinand because she went into the gardens with him in the dark. From the sound of things, he kissed her.”
Missy wanted the attention, May could have pointed out. She is flighty and impulsive. Aren’t you glad you aren’t marrying her?
“I’m sorry,” she said instead.
George’s hand lifted, almost as if he meant to reach out and touch her, then thought better of it.
“It’s sweet of you to say that,” he replied. “But it’s not as if this is your fault.”
How little he knew.
“Please, Your Royal Highness, Your Serene Highness.” Sir John Lavery’s voice was clipped. “I must request that you remain quiet, or our session will take twice as long.”
George inclined his head graciously and resumed his pose, leaving May no choice but to turn and face the easel once more.
“I believe that’s enough for today,” Sir John announced, setting his pencil down.
May blinked. The past few hours had passed in a stupor, the only sounds the scratching of charcoal on paper and the rustle of fabric as one of them shifted position.
“What a relief.” George stretched an arm, crushing the ermine trim on the Robe of State. “My legs are prickling with pins and needles.”
“I’m sure they are. You had the more difficult pose by far,” May agreed.
“Yes, it was harder.” George smiled, very softly. “How could I be expected to remain still when you were here distracting me?”
May’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t flirting with her…was he?
“On second thought, I might have preferred to stand,” she declared. “I was in danger of falling asleep for a moment there, and you would have been forced to wake me.” There. That was just playful enough without being reckless.
“I could always do what Grandpapa Albert did when Grannie fell asleep during one of their sittings for Winterhalter.”
“Her Majesty fell asleep in a portrait sitting?” It was so unexpected from the ruthlessly controlled Victoria.
“Oh yes. Grandpapa woke her up by dumping water on her head.”
May was shocked into barking out a laugh. “Don’t even think about pouring water on me.”
“I can’t make any promises.” George’s blue eyes gleamed.
May loved when she saw this side of him, the George who wasn’t just a dutiful son, always falling in second place behind Eddy. This George was playful and lighthearted and fun.
“Many thanks, Your Royal Highnesses,” Sir John announced, having apparently forgotten that May was only a Serene Highness. “I shall see you again tomorrow—or perhaps your brother, if he becomes available,” he added awkwardly, with a nod at George.
Then to May’s surprise, the artist walked out, leaving them both alone.
May stole a glance around the room to confirm her suspicions, but there were no attendants or maidservants in sight. She and George were totally unchaperoned.
“Should we take a look?” George started toward the easel, the Robe of State dragging behind him.
“Isn’t it bad luck to look at a portrait before it’s finished?”
“Bad luck?” George snorted. “That sounds like a superstition invented by Renaissance painters who wanted to keep their patrons away from a work in progress. Artists hate being told what to do.”
May smiled at that. “Fair enough.”
Sir John had thrown a drop cloth over the canvas. May came to stand behind it; then together, she and George pulled back the fabric.
May’s first thought was that the woman on the paper didn’t look like her. This was only a pencil sketch, of course, but this woman was a cipher: a graven image pressed into a backdrop of furs and jewels. And really, it didn’t matter who she was, only that she was a future queen.
She had expected Sir John to capture some of her personality, the clever curve of her mouth or the impatience in her eyes. But that would have been a personal portrait, not an official one.
“You look beautiful, of course.” George’s voice was gruff. “As for me…”
That was when May looked at the left side of the painting.
Where George had been standing, Sir John had sketched a male-shaped figure, George’s body filling out the robes and jewels and chains of state.
The man in the portrait was slightly taller than George, and slimmer—because, of course, this was actually a portrait of Eddy.
“I’m glad I could make a small contribution to the Crown,” George joked, but something in his tone betrayed his hurt.
She swallowed. “George…”
“I mean, this is the closest I’ll ever be to becoming king. To actually mattering.”
What reply could she possibly make? George was right. He was a second son; in the eyes of history, he didn’t matter. He would be forgotten.
Then May found the right reply.
“You matter to me,” she said quietly.
Somehow her hand found his. She was wearing leather gloves, but the sensation of their clasped palms still sent a shiver down her spine.
His shoulder nudged against hers as they stood there, studying the sketch together; or perhaps she nudged him in silent support. May was no longer sure of anything.
Certainly, she wasn’t sure how her face tipped up. How her lips were hovering so dangerously close to George’s.
Then her hands slipped up around his shoulders, tangling on the chain of state, and she brushed it impatiently aside to settle her grip around the back of his neck.
May felt dizzy and delirious and rather like she might stumble, but it didn’t matter.
George was warm and solid and she could hold tight to him.
This kiss had hovered between them for months, for years. And now, finally, it would happen.
George stumbled back, a horrified expression on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped.
“No.” May stepped toward him, desperate. She didn’t want him to be sorry; she wanted him to kiss her.
“I take full responsibility for all lines that were crossed,” he said swiftly. “Please, let’s act as if this never happened.”
Pretend it never happened? May shook her head. “But I—”
But I love you. But I did everything wrong. But I can still fix things, if you’ll let me.
If only May had known that George didn’t want to marry Missy. If only she hadn’t thrown herself so ruthlessly into this campaign for Eddy. If, if…Her entire existence seemed to hinge on so many chances, so many possibilities that May had—through sheer willpower—forced into reality.
“Please, George…”
Before May could say anything more, the door flung open.
Prince Eddy stood there, looking handsome and tall and so acutely at ease with himself. Somehow he made George—in the full trappings of state, the robe and chain and gold brocade waistcoat—seem vaguely ridiculous.
Once upon a time May would have been drawn to Eddy for this. Now she resented him on George’s behalf. He was handsome, yes, but distant and cold and utterly unlike George, who was gentle and endearing and loving. How had she ever thought she wanted to marry Eddy?
Still, an engagement was not a marriage. There might be a way out of this, a chance for her and George to find happiness after all.
Surely May wasn’t the first woman to have gotten engaged to the wrong brother.
“May. Here you are,” Eddy said curtly. As if this wasn’t the place they were both supposed to be all morning. Apparently, he was oblivious to the aching tension between his fiancée and his brother.
May tried to sound calm as she asked, “Are you feeling better? You must have been ill indeed to miss the sitting for our first official portrait.”
“Looks like you sat in for me just fine. Thank you.” Eddy ignored May, nodding at his brother.
“I’m sure you have much to discuss,” George said awkwardly. “I’ll just, um— I need to get out of this robe.”
May willed him to look at her, to acknowledge that they had almost kissed, but George refused to meet her gaze as he left.
Eddy turned to her then, his expression flat. “We need to talk.”
He was brusque, even rude, but May was still too flustered to notice. She just followed Eddy to the sofa and sat opposite him, absentmindedly fluffing out her skirts so that the elaborate embroidery on the hem wouldn’t fold under.
“Well, May, I would say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie.”