Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“We are to have a house party.” Prince George made his announcement with no preamble.
He stood near the window, his back half-turned to Caroline, as though even the act of informing her were an inconvenience.
The room was richly appointed—silk wall coverings, gilded frames, a thick carpet that muffled sound—but it felt curiously barren, as though it existed solely for display rather than habitation.
“My mother insisted I present you to my society, and I must abide by her wishes. My man has already dispatched the invitations. I expect you to act as my hostess.”
Caroline did not know precisely how to respond.
The word hostess sat oddly with her, offering the semblance of authority without its substance.
“I shall be pleased to meet more of your circle,” she responded demurely, hoping her easy acquiescence would please him.
She kept her hands folded before her, her posture composed, her expression mild.
“What sort of amusements would you prefer?”
“We shall have cards every evening. Vauxhall and the theater, of course. And later in the party, a ball. I do love dancing.” George lowered his bulk onto a settee and poured himself a drink from the decanter on the side table.
The glass clinked softly against the crystal as he filled it generously, his movements practiced and indulgent.
“We shall make an effort to fulfil all my mother’s edicts in the course of your stay here. ”
Caroline understood what he meant and felt her cheeks redden.
The implication was unmistakable, delivered with a careless cruelty that suggested he had not even considered how it might be received.
She nodded meekly but did not reply, fixing her gaze instead upon the pattern of the carpet at her feet.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable and weighted, broken only by the faint sound of George swallowing his drink.
After a few minutes in awkward silence, she asked how many guests had been invited so she might have rooms prepared.
“My housekeeper will see to those details.” His tone was dismissive, final. He did not look at her as he spoke, instead examining the level of wine remaining in the decanter. “You are here on my mother’s behest, and for no other reason.”
In short, though I will be hostess of this gathering, I am not to act as mistress of his homes, she concluded.
Reduced to being a broodmare…how very insulting.
The thought burned, sharp and immediate, though she did not allow it to surface.
Still, her child would be England’s next monarch.
That fact brought a strange sort of pride—an anchor in the midst of humiliation, a reminder that her body, at least, held a power he could neither dismiss nor fully control.
“And when will this glorious party commence?” she could barely keep the sarcasm out of her tone.
“Thursday next.” George rose with a faint grunt, draining his glass and setting it aside with little care.
“I trust you will do nothing to embarrass me.” His gaze flicked toward her at last, sharp and appraising, as though daring her to fail.
“I am off. Business and all that.” He made no effort to farewell her beyond that, nor gave any indication that he would return for dinner.
The door closed behind him with a decisive thud.
Caroline remained where she was, listening to the echo of his departure fade down the corridor.
Once again, she was left alone—surrounded by luxury, suffocated by expectation, and granted just enough visibility to serve a purpose not her own.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself, and rose at last to ring for her maid.
If she was to be displayed, she would be displayed with dignity.
Whatever else Prince George might deny her, he would not strip her of that.
Guests began to arrive the following Thursday afternoon.
The butler, Mr. Harding, announced them, some arriving alone and some in couples or pairs, their names ringing through the hall with practiced formality.
Carriages rolled away in steady succession, and the sound of voices and footsteps gradually filled the house.
Her husband, it appeared, liked to surround himself with all manner of people, for not everyone in attendance had a title or held some rank of note.
There were men whose manners bespoke money rather than lineage, women whose gowns suggested recent prosperity, and others who bore themselves with the careless assurance of long familiarity with excess.
Prince George introduced each guest to his wife, conveniently leaving out her title and only calling her “Caroline.” It was rather insulting—a deliberate diminution that no one present could mistake—but she tried her best not to let it show.
She smiled when required, inclined her head at the proper moments, and answered politely when addressed, though each omission felt like a small, calculated erasure.
Almost immediately, the gentlemen disappeared—drawn toward cards, drink, and conversation unfit for mixed company—and the women in attendance grouped themselves in little clusters around the opulently appointed sitting room, appraising one another with the quiet acuity of those well versed in social hierarchies.
“Your Highness.”
A voice from her left made Caroline jump in surprise. She turned to regard the handsome young woman—of an age with herself—standing at her elbow. The lady’s expression was open, her posture confident, her dress elegant without being ostentatious.
“Mrs…de Bourgh, is it not?”
The lady smiled. “I am flattered you remembered by name. There were a great many introductions today.”
“Not so many that I could not recall your identity. My husband seemed most pleased with your arrival.” George had greeted Mr. de Bourgh with great enthusiasm, clapping him upon the shoulder and drawing him immediately into animated conversation—an intimacy Caroline had not failed to notice.
“Yes, His Highness and my husband have been friends for many years.” A shadow of something crossed the lady’s face before her expression melted into complacency once more, as though whatever unease existed had long since been accepted as the cost of advantage.
“Forgive me, but I do not understand why the prince has such a…variety…of acquaintances.” Caroline chose her words carefully, aware that curiosity could too easily be mistaken for censure. It was an English custom, perhaps, or something peculiar to George himself.
“You mean to ask, I think, why the crown prince would bother befriending the second son of a minor baronet?” Mrs. de Bourgh’s forwardness might have been off-putting to some, but Caroline liked it.
There was relief in speaking with someone who neither pretended ignorance nor feigned delicacy.
The lady immediately satisfied her hostess’s curiosity about the relationship.
Caroline’s first impression of Rebecca de Bourgh was of a woman entirely at ease with her own position—neither dazzled by rank nor diminished by it.
As they sat together, slightly apart from the other guests, Rebecca spoke frankly, her tone conversational rather than confiding, explaining how her husband, Nathan, had first come into the princes’ orbit through shared habits rather than shared birth.
“Nathan,” she said, “possessed an easy manner, a talent for amusement, and—more importantly—a discretion that made him useful company to a prince who resented correction but required loyalty.”
Though Nathan de Bourgh was but the second son of a baronet and could expect neither title nor great inheritance, his friendship with the prince brought access, influence, and a certain durable protection: invitations extended, favors returned, and the unspoken advantage of being known as someone the Prince Regent tolerated—perhaps even enjoyed.
Mrs. de Bourgh did not disguise the calculation behind it; such friendships were not founded on affection alone, but on mutual convenience.
Listening, Caroline could not help but note the contrast between Mrs. de Bourgh’s clear-eyed acceptance of political reality and her own precarious position, bound by marriage rather than choice.
Rebecca had entered this world with her eyes open, understanding the terms upon which proximity to power was granted.
Caroline, by contrast, had been delivered into it as obligation incarnate.
Yet she understood at once the value of such an alliance. In a world governed by proximity to power, even the second son of a baronet might rise considerably—provided he stood close enough to the right man, and knew precisely when to speak, and when to remain silent.
None of the other ladies made any effort to extend the hand of friendship to Caroline.
Polite smiles were offered when required, curt acknowledgments exchanged in passing, but nothing more.
As the house party progressed, she found herself gravitating more and more to Mrs. de Bourgh’s side, drawn by the simple comfort of being addressed without condescension or calculation.
Soon enough, they began calling themselves by their Christian names in private, the intimacy of it feeling almost rebellious within the rigid confines of the household.
Their relative exclusion from the other guests gave them plenty of opportunities to exchange confidences—conversations held in quiet corners, during walks taken just a pace apart, or late in the evening when the house settled and pretense grew weary.