Chapter 27
Charlotte planned her picnic with the grim determination of Wellington before the battle. If she couldn’t be happy with the prince, a man she’d known for ages, who was kind, quick to laugh, and handsome enough to make Gran reach for her smelling salts, what hope was there?
First, she tackled the question of what to wear.
All her walking gowns were deeply flattering, of course, though Charlotte considered dressing to emphasize her assets the least interesting form of fashion, especially when she could dress to amuse herself, or to set a mood, or even to rattle strangers.
Green was the obvious color for today—if they rolled around in a meadow, there’d be no incriminating grass stains to show for it—but what sort of green?
Something witchy, all flashing eyes and feminine wiles?
A woodsy green to inspire thoughts of what they might get up to in the deep, dark forest?
No, and no. Today called for honesty, so she reached for a simple muslin gown in a lovely, cool shade of Prussian green, and paired it with a spencer with Spanish slash sleeves and only the smallest froth of lace peeking out at the wrists. A dress with few frills to hide behind.
Once she was dressed, she went down to the kitchens to wheedle a basket out of Cook, then turned her thought to choosing the perfect picnic spot.
Clare had more than seven thousand acres of parkland, woodland, fields, farms, and marshland, along with a charming dell or two, so there was no shortage of promising places.
The great lawn? Convenient, but not private.
Under the dappled light of the willow on the riverbank?
Still too close to the house for comfort.
In the end, she chose a spot on a hill past the home woods with a view that included the distant blue line of the sea.
Princess Belozersky. Charlotte tried it on as she adjusted the angle of her bonnet. Or Princess Belozerskaya, actually, as he’d once explained was the Russian way.
A bit of a mouthful, but why not?
At one o’clock on the dot, Charlotte and the prince shook out a blanket onto the clover and settled themselves under the sheltering arms of a chestnut tree.
“Thank you for carrying the basket, Your Highness,” said Charlotte. “I asked Cook for a splendid lunch and it looks as if she packed the whole pantry.”
“Is it not time for you to call me Misha? I called you Charlotte in my heart from the moment I first saw you.”
“Really?” She opened the hamper. “In the garden at the Russian ambassador’s ball, when you had two ballerinas in your arms?”
“They were in my arms, but you were in my heart.”
Charlotte laughed and began to unpack, uncovering a loaf of crusty bread, a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses, three cheeses, and oranges from the dowager’s glass house.
There were sausages, a whole roast chicken carefully wrapped in wax cloth, thick wedges of lemon cake, four types of biscuits, a stack of cucumber sandwiches big enough to feed a garden party, and a little pot containing what Charlotte suspected had been salmon mousse before it melted into pinkish sludge.
Valentina, the borzoi, found a post by the edge of the blanket, whimpering and looking pathetic in an attempt to convince Charlotte she was underfed.
“Goodness!” Charlotte tossed Valentina a bit of cheese and peered into the depths of the basket. “Can you believe that’s only half of it? Oh! And someone packed a chessboard.”
The prince found a spot beside her and stretched out, crossing his boots and leaning back on an elbow. He reached for an orange and began to peel it. “I requested it. Shall we start our picnic with a fight to the death?”
“Gladly, but I warn you that my game is whist. I’m afraid you’ll beat me rather badly.”
The prince shrugged, his immense shoulders rising and falling like the tides. “I am Russian, it is chess—it is natural that I shall win.” He unfolded the set and began to place the pieces. “What stakes do we play for?”
“Since you’re Russian and I’m but a beginner, I’m not sure what to wager. What do you suggest?”
“I play usually for money, but with you…” The prince leaned in, his face filling her view. “Shall we play for a kiss?”
Blue eyes were common enough in England.
She’d seen dark blue, sky blue, the rheumy blue of eyes that struggled to see.
The prince’s eyes were a startling new Siberian shade, bright as ice.
Charlotte tried to fall into them, and yet she couldn’t dislodge a pair of storm blue eyes with fox-tipped lashes from her mind.
Her lips firmed. “I agree. We play for a kiss.”
A breeze feathered through the prince’s close-cropped hair and he gave her a lazy smile. “Good. Then we begin.”
The first few moves were easy. They opened with queens’ pawns, followed up with knights, and then the real game started. The prince handed Charlotte a segment of orange and she nibbled it absently. She could develop a bishop, or work toward castling, or…
Or they could chat, which seemed more interesting. Chess should be just her thing—she adored strategy, plotting against royals, and checkerboard floors. But the pace was so hideously slow that she was always tempted to attack, if only to make something happen.
Valentina whimpered again, and Charlotte tried not to take it as a comment on her move.
“Your Highness, will you return—”
“Misha,” he corrected.
“Misha.” Charlotte tested out the name on her tongue. “Misha, do you plan to return to Russia one day?”
He might play chess slowly, but he was quick in other ways. “If we marry, do I plan to take you away from your family and friends? No. The French destroyed everything—my lands, my home. I will live here and devote myself to English things.” He matched her pawn. “Like you.”
Oh dear. To take or not to take?
She contemplated her next move. “But you love Russia. I hear the longing in your voice.”
The prince shrugged again. “Of course I love my homeland. But our main estate was near Smolensk, and the battle—” He shook his head. “Some places you cannot return. Now, do you take my pawn?”
“I do, on principle.”
She swooped in with her knight.
The prince peered down at the board and raised an eyebrow. “What is this principle, if you please?”
“When in doubt, attack. But dash it—now I see how easy I’ve made it for you to develop your bishop.”
He held her gaze and his lips curved. “You English are too impatient.”
“You Russians are too…” Charlotte cocked her head. “I would have said too soulful, but you’ve never struck me that way.”
The prince laughed. “No, no, please do not worry. I left my soul back in Russia.”
“As an Englishwoman, I’ve a duty to say all talk of souls makes me shudder. But…” She studied him as she framed her question. Despite his laughter, there was something lost about him, drifting like a ship without an anchor. “What do you care for, if you left your soul behind?”
“I try not to care. You and I, we find the entertainments in life instead, yes?”
Warrick’s voice came to her, low and urgent. Don’t throw yourself away on that damned Russian. He drowns himself in pleasure.
“I must confess, chess really isn’t my game,” she said. “Do you mind terribly if we stop playing? I offer two kisses as forfeit.”
“Impatient again! But I win doubly, so I accept.”
The prince swept the pieces off the board, and Charlotte half expected him to yank her into his arms. Instead he leaned back against the chestnut and put his hands behind his head, emphasizing the broadness of his chest and his biceps, as big around as birch trunks.
He grinned, knowing precisely how handsome he was, and let his eyes linger on her, drinking her in much more leisurely than he tossed back his vodka. Charlotte remembered that he kissed in the same slow, lazy way he talked, as if he were savoring each taste.
Clever, she thought, even as she felt herself warming under his regard. He’s using my English impatience against me.
“Tell me,” he said, “how English are you? When we marry, will you want two rooms?”
Charlotte’s lips twitched. “You must believe me very ignorant, but I happen to know that Russians often keep separate rooms when they marry. I believe Catherine the Great kept a separate palace.”
“She was German and married to a contemptible man. You will marry me.” He sat up and his eyes went hot. “We shall keep very close, I think.”
His hand curved around the nape of her neck and Charlotte thought, Here we go, a proper kiss. Although she couldn’t help thinking of the night before, the incredible heat of Wolfgang’s mouth on her—
The prince shook her gently, his mouth hovering above hers. “I do not kiss women who are thinking of other things. You are with me?”
That drew her eyes to his. “I’m with you, Misha.”
Even still he didn’t rush, waiting until her pulse began to flutter before he dropped his mouth to hers.
Charlotte’s hand drifted up his shoulder to draw him closer, her blood heating, her pulse drumming harder and harder until it shook the ground.
But wait—was the ground shaking with hoofbeats?
She lifted her gaze so she could look over the prince’s shoulder, only to spot a warhorse thundering up the neighboring hill, carrying the massive silhouette of—
“Oh!” Charlotte shot out of Belozersky’s arms with a gasp of dismay.
The prince glanced behind him and shook his head, amused. “It is only Warrick. He is an Englishman who drank like a Russian. Today, he will notice nothing. You see? He turns around already.”
“Of course,” she agreed, but her stomach turned sour.
She picked up a little tart and bit into it with a smile at the prince. The sun shone above in the merry blue sky and Belozersky relaxed against the tree once more, and yet try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t get rid of the uncomfortable feeling of something lost, or something wasted.
Something good gone forever, never to be seen again.