Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CASSANDRA
“He hates her,” whispered Charles, the Earl of Ryvves.
The Chapel Royal at St. James’s Palace glittered like a jewel box packed too tightly. All of the ton, dressed in their finery, their faces painted, hair pomaded, leather polished, bedecked with sparkling trinkets, felt the weight of anticipation as the Prince of Wales married his foreign bride.
“I must confess I am finding this rather painful to watch,” whispered Justine, the Baroness of Graven.
“Or comical, not sure which,” added Charles.
“Either way, it’s a spectacle,” said Brandon, the Baron of Graven.
“Of grand proportions,” whispered Georgina, the Countess of Ryvves. “I heard that His Highness and the Princess of Brunswick hadn’t even made each other’s acquaintance before this very moment.”
The rustle of silk and satin, the din of whispers pressed in on them. The air was thick with strong perfumes and powder, and the smoke of hundreds of tapers burning.
“That’s how these royal unions work, isn’t it? They’re brokered for an advantageous alliance. The ultimate arranged marriage,” said Brandon.
“I certainly had made your acquaintance before our marriage, my darling.” Georgina’s hand tightened around Charles’s arm.
“Indeed, you had, my love.” Charles winked at his wife.
Justine let out a sigh as she straightened her posture. “This is good for England.” The Baroness was ever positive. Or from the slight quiver in her tone, at best, hopeful.
“It’s even better for the Prince of Wales’s empty pockets,” Cassandra murmured.
Several heads turned discreetly to the Duke as though awaiting his verdict before reacting to his wife’s remark, but his attention remained on the ceremony.
After all, she had said aloud the very thing everyone here knew yet pretended not to know—that Parliament had forced this wedding on the Prince of Wales, or they would not pay his many debts nor increase his allowance.
“It’s a very good match,” noted Charles. “She’s a royal and a Protestant…unlike his mistress.”
“You mean to say his illegal wife,” Cassandra quipped, and Charles’s eyes widened.
The Prince of Wales had once secretly married the woman he loved, who was his long-time mistress, a widow. Only that union was deemed illegal by Parliament, as the widow was a dreaded Catholic. Hence, arrangements had been made, deals struck.
Next to her, Georgina cleared her throat. “The bride is … handsome, and her enthusiasm and effusiveness certainly make her quite charming. Do you not think so, Your Grace?”
Cassandra did not reply to her dear friend’s question, meant to soften the moment as Rowen’s attention returned to their group.
Tonight, she could not bring herself to make excuses for this lavish spectacle with clever bon mots.
She had trained herself over the years in such things.
But at present, she did not find this forced union of strangers and prospective political allies entertaining.
Especially when the groom was so obviously in his cups, seething with anger and disgust whilst he made cutting remarks about his bride to everyone, even her.
“Yes, darling, yes,” Charles broke the brittle silence amongst their group with his light tone. “Charming is a very good word for her. Indeed, for this entire wedding. Charming.”
Cassandra threw Charles a cursory glance, and his brow lifted in response.
Ordinarily, she would have laughed along with him as the Earl was always on point in his social observations and had a dry and often bitter wit that Cassandra greatly appreciated as he appreciated hers.
She would have thrilled at such colourful brilliance, such brilliant derision, but now it only felt stifling and gave rise to a sour muck inside her. Unbearable and wretched.
Everyone here knew where the Prince’s heart lay.
Everyone knew why he was so very irritated and so very drunk.
Everyone knew why all this pomp and ceremony was a hopelessly expensive sham and a dreadfully dire necessity.
Yet with every smile and every bow to the bride and groom, they honoured them whilst they mocked them.
Justine snapped open her fan. “He seems outright peevish, snarling objections and making cruel remarks about her person. He’s not even trying to hide his mortification and disdain for her. How she must be feeling. She came all this way to be married and—”
“My love, one must assume this is the first time he’s ever been told no, or you must,” Brandon pointed out.
“This is for the good of the nation. With all this mess with France, now England can count on Brunswick as an ally.” Georgina brought her scented handkerchief to her face. “As our future king, His Highness has taken these things into account.”
“I warrant it must have taken great efforts for His Highness to agree,” murmured Brandon, a touch of mirth shading his tone.
“I say, did you have something to do with this, Your Grace?” Georgina asked Rowen, a slight smile sweeping her lips.
“I might have.” Rowen grinned at her, that distinctive glint in his eye which, along with his seductively sure, smooth voice that slid right through Cassandra’s veins like silk, suggested that he knew more than they could ever begin to imagine.
And most of it not good.
Rowen and the Prince of Wales had been friends from their youth, and Rowen had been brought in to manage the recalcitrant groom-to-be when he’d adamantly refused the idea of marrying the foreign princess, whom Rowen had agreed was the finest candidate for bride.
“Well done, Your Grace.” Charles dipped his head. “You are a diplomat of the highest order.”
“His Highness saw the wisdom in it.” Rowen spoke like a man who had bartered loyalties at many courts and just as many gaming tables.
Cassandra let out a dry laugh, and everyone glanced at her. A prickly silence ensued once again.
Convincing the Prince of Wales had been an arduous task and had taken Rowen and everyone at court a very, very long time. She doubted His Highness had seen any kind of wisdom in any of it.
Wisdom, thought Cassandra. For their set, marriage was a choice to be selected carefully and wisely, a practical arrangement made by two discerning parties. A union that must be an advantageous proposition on paper for both. Well, advantageous for men. Women are bartered like chattel.
“The Prince of Wales is doing his duty to crown and country,” noted Georgina, a hint of pride in her voice.
“More like duty to his pleasures,” said Cassandra, a brittle smile on her lips. Rowen shot her a pointed glance, sharp yet full of query, as if he did not recognise her in that instant. Whatever flickered there shuttered behind his eyes, and he slid back into the polished countenance of the Duke.
The moment did not go unnoticed by the others, but any awkwardness dissipated when Rowen was greeted by a Bavarian gentleman of the Princess’s court.
He inclined his head to Cassandra then turned to the Duke in conversation.
Lowering his voice, he referred to Rowen’s most recent private gathering at Greywick in an intent tone she instantly recognised—he clearly relished the privilege of that secret circle to which he’d been admitted and hoped for another invitation.
Rowen offered only the faintest smile, revealing little and promising nothing.
Brandon cleared his throat. “I understand it was made quite clear that this marriage was the only solution.”
The only solution.
Her marriage had been born of that same conclusion. She and Rowen had barely known each other when fate had thrown them together. Rather, when she had deliberately put herself in his path that day in the woods. Then he’d protected her from his father, from her uncles. From ruin.
Rowen bid the gentleman farewell, offering that quick, cold, dashing smile the ton so admired. The Duke’s smile.
Oakley had been her guardian, her fiercest champion. Her tutor. Her lover. He was the one man she trusted without reserve.
Charles leaned toward Georgina, their heads close together in easy conspiracy. Brandon took Justine’s hand without thought, his thumb tracing slow circles against her glove as she spoke.
Cassandra knew her friends’ marriages had begun in danger and risk as well. Yet, over time, a quiet certainty had taken root between them. Sturdy and robust.
Had it been the same for her and Rowen? Or had they allowed what was precious between them to loosen?
Was he content with what they were?
Cassandra’s gaze drifted to the diamond necklace at Justine’s throat, the precious heirloom, once stolen was now where it belonged. Never knowing its true history, Hugh had clasped it round her throat himself with that careless, sunlit confidence of his one summer night in Naples.
After Georgina had informed her of the truth, Cassandra had returned it to the house of Wolfsgate.
Her fingertips brushed her clavicle where that necklace had once lain. She and Hugh had given in to the delight of attraction. A delightful distraction. In Naples, their circle had reveled freely. Yet such pleasures proved fleeting.
The amused, knowing glance that Charles and Georgina shared contained a small private world.
Unspoken and assured. Cassandra averted her gaze.
She and Rowen had a formidable partnership.
They had passion. Loyalty and regard. They commanded influence, possessed power and privilege as Duke and Duchess, yet they no longer possessed that same immediacy of feeling.
And something quieter, steadier had never fully grown between them.
A bitterness rose in the back of her throat. She could no longer deny she did not feel its absence.
“Let us hope there shall soon be an heir for the royal family,” remarked Brandon, taking her away from her whirl of thoughts.
“Indeed. Then His Highness can go back to doing whatever he wishes,” muttered Charles with a smirk.
Cassandra swallowed hard. Of course. An heir to the throne was absolutely essential.
The voice of the Archbishop boomed through the chapel.
The marriage ceremony had concluded. A commotion began once again.
The Prince of Wales had a vicious sneer stamped on his face.
The bride, who previously had such a pleasant countenance, now seemed fretful and annoyed, her body stiff, her face red.
The din and press of the crowd bore down on Cassandra along with the sudden roll of heat. Cheeky grins, high-pitched laughter, and false delight etched the guests’ faces. All heaved together like a thick circus carnival.
Everyone busied themselves gawking and garrulously praising the Prince of Wales as he scurried off with his retinue, leaving behind his bride and her courtiers, who made haste to follow His Highness. Sighs and laughter ruled the room as the nobles shared their veiled remarks and witty observations.
“Are we going through to the reception now?” Justine asked.
“I’m afraid Charles and I are not,” replied Georgina as she slid her arm through her husband’s.
“Oh, my dearest, why ever not?” asked Justine.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come today, but who could resist the wedding of the Prince of Wales?
” Georgina’s hand slid to her middle, and it was then that Cassandra noticed the swell of her stomach, which had been unnoticeable in her modern free-flowing gown.
“This shall be my final event of the season before my confinement. My dearest friends, I am with child.”
“Oh my darling, I am so pleased for you!” Cassandra took Georgina in an embrace and held her close. “I know you have wanted this for so very long. It has come, the child has finally come.”
“I am beside myself with joy, Cassandra. Weeks ago, after I fell ill on our return home from Spain, our doctor confirmed it.” Holding Cassandra’s hand, Georgina turned to their party. “And knowing we would all be together here today, I very much looked forward to sharing it with you all at once.”
Cassandra stilled. In Georgina’s tear-filled eyes, in her flushed face, her tremulous voice rich with emotion, Cassandra recognised the girl she once was—the young newlywed with child, full of life and full of promise.
So long ago, and yet it cracked open once again, draining every ounce of her.
Her cold fingers released Georgina’s hand, and she stumbled back a step.
Justine hugged Georgina, the two of them laughing. Brandon slapped Charles on the back. Rowen turned toward Charles and congratulated him, and immediately, he and Brandon straightened, bowing their heads at their Duke.
Cassandra’s vision blurred. A cold stiffness slid up her chest, up her neck. A firm hand gripped her upper arm, another at her back, steadying her, and she blinked. Her husband’s sapphire gaze flashed at her with something primal.
“Zandra, are you unwell?” Rowen’s voice was low.
Cassandra’s lips parted in an attempt to speak, but nothing came out.