The Wild Princess Read online

  He’s having second thoughts about our marriage and wishes to back out of it. But why? He benefitted hugely by their union. Simply by taking his wedding vows today, he’d stepped up from the expected inheritance of a minor Scottish duchy to becoming the consort of a royal princess, daughter of the Queen of England. That was an immense leap, socially and financially. Lorne would receive a royal stipend for life, an estate (or, at the very least, luxurious apartments in one of the family’s castles), and additional prestigious titles. And he’d never need to lift a finger to support himself, his wife, and their children.

  At last he seemed to catch his breath. She captured his eyes with her own, without words demanding of him an explanation.

  “Dear Louise,” he said, “I have used you. I have used you abysmally. I fear I will never be able to make it up to you.”

  She stared at him, her breath coming in hysterical gulps. She couldn’t imagine where in God’s name this was going. “Lorne, please. What is it? You’re frightening me. If you mean that our social stations are so very diff—”

  He flushed bright red. “Society and stations be damned! That has nothing to do with this.” He seemed almost restored by his sudden anger. His voice gained strength. “You deserve a full accounting. Please, be patient. In the end, I hope you will forgive me for what I’ve done to—Actually, I don’t know what I’ve done.” He choked on a nervous laugh, looking close to tears. “Probably nothing short of mucking up your entire life.”

  She opened her arms and drew him to her, cradling his head against her breast as if he were a child, stroking the back of his sweat-damp neck. He let her hold him for a few moments before pulling away again to face her. This time he held her hands firmly in his, resting them on his thigh just above the top of his boot.

  She had the strangest feeling that he’d intentionally pinned her in self-defense. As if he feared she might strike him if she were free to do so.

  “Your mother,” he began, looking directly into her eyes, “I believe she is very fond of Mr. Oscar Wilde?”

  “Ye-e-s,” she said. Although what the new playwright might have to do with their marriage she had no idea. “She believes Mr. Wilde is a gifted and promising writer. He’s already had more than one success on the stage.”

  “He is”—Lorne’s voice hitched, hesitated—“quite brilliant. And—”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And he is a dear and close personal friend of mine.”

  So? Then it struck her—what he was getting at, and why the subject of the playwright had come up at all.

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to suck down air to stop her head from spinning. But Lorne said nothing more, as if waiting for her to process the information he’d merely hinted at. He let her make the mental leap alone. A trapeze artist without a net.

  “Mr. Wilde,” she began again, “has been rumored to prefer the company of other men.”

  “So they say.”

  “Which, by law, is considered lewd and unnatural behavior, and is punishable by imprisonment.”

  “Exactly.” Lorne watched her expression.

  Her heart felt as if it were cracking down its middle. She was spiraling down into the dark space between its broken halves. “And you are an . . . an intimate friend of his?”

  He blinked his beautiful china blue eyes and touched her cheek tenderly. “Yes, my dear. I am.”

  Oh Lord.

  “Lorne, just to be clear, are you telling me . . . That is, do you also prefer the physical closeness of other men to the touch of a woman?” She’d never asked a more difficult question in her life.

  He gave her his sweetest smile. “I do, my dear. I really do.”

  What was left of her heart exploded into a thousand jagged, opalescent shards . . . which fell at her feet. For a long moment, she felt sure the shock had killed her. She felt nothing.

  “Then why—why this marriage?” she demanded, anger driving blood back into her ice-cold hands.

  “But isn’t it obvious?” He had the temerity to shrug his shoulders in casual surprise. “I admit I’ve been abominable, putting you in this position. But I was terrified, you see. Titled men of good families, men far more famous than Oscar are being packed off to prison for their so-called sins.” His voice became clipped, indignant. He peered deeply into her eyes, as if through them he could reach her better than with words alone. “I believed it was only a matter of time before the law made the connection between us—Oscar and I—and others in our circle. Who knows how dedicated Scotland Yard will be in rounding us all up and shoving us into some dank cell like common criminals.”

  His weeping had stopped. For that she was thankful. And he was right; the danger was real for a man like him. “Oh, Lorne. What will we do?”

  “Yes, well, we . . . that’s the question isn’t it?”

  “Are you saying you wish to annul our marriage?” The prospect of the scandal left her feeling woozy.

  “Heavens no!” He stared at her. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I said that I’ve used you because I knowingly agreed to this marriage to protect myself. If I’m married to a woman of such obvious charms as Her Royal Highness, Princess Louise, how can anyone doubt my sexual inclination? I’m safe.”

  “I see.” And now she really did understand. Resentment muted her compassion, though she tried not to show how confused and desperate she was beginning to feel. “But how are we to be . . . to be together, to have children, if you don’t have relations with women?”

  “That’s the crux of the problem, as I see it.” He nodded his head. White-blond waves fell over his forehead, shadowing the azure glow of his eyes. “Louise, I swear to you, I would never have agreed to marry you if I’d thought I couldn’t find a way to give you children. I supposed I would be able to make love to you, now and again, for the purpose of procreation, you see. And perhaps a bit more often, if you required it of me.”

  “Required it?” She suddenly felt her entire body a-flush with anger. Every muscle tensed. Her head pounded a ragged tattoo. “Required!”

  “For your pleasure. To satisfy your needs. Yes, of course. I believed I would be capable of making a go of it, although I never have done it with a woman.”

  “Lorne.”

  “You’re looking frightfully pale, my dear.” He gently took her by the shoulders and laid her back against the pillows. “I’ll get you a drink of water, shall I?”

  Louise didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She closed her eyes, felt him leave the bed then return to rest the cool lip of a glass against her lower lip. Was she delirious? This couldn’t possibly be happening to her.

  She sipped the water. Closed her eyes tighter. Imagined her life spooling out before her over the years, a desolate, childless, loveless landscape. A farce of a marriage.

  Members of the royal family never divorced. Never. Well, there was her ancestor Henry VIII. But ridding himself of his wives had caused the restructure of religion in England and persecution of thousands. To do so now, to divorce Lorne, would result in unbelievable scandal.

  Moreover she’d need to give a reason for separating from him. Telling the truth was tantamount to throwing him to the wolves. And into prison. She must try harder. Surely she could entice him to want her—or, if not that, at least to do his duty.

  Louise reached up and slipped one shoulder strap of her gown slowly down and off of her arm. The pearl-studded bodice fell open. Lorne’s gaze dropped to her naked right breast. She felt the heat coming off his body escalate.

  Drawing a breath for courage, she reached out for the silver buckle at his waist. He didn’t move, seemed not to breathe as he allowed her to unclasp his belt. Her fingers trembled as she slipped her hand beneath his jacket and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers.

  His face went white. “Louise.”

  “Hush. It will be all right,” she whispered. “I don’t care about your other life. I really don’t
. Do this for me, for us. Please. I know you can.” She pressed her hand over his groin, but the rigid manhood she’d hoped to find there, wasn’t. Tears filled her eyes. In desperation, she grasped his hand and drew it between her warm thighs. “I’ll teach you to love me, my darling.”

  Lorne looked at her and seemed to make a decision. He stood and took off his jacket, then his shirt, and sat to remove his boots. She lay back and watched as he rose again, mechanically finished unbuttoning his trousers and stepped out of them, leaving only his linen undergarments snugly covering his hips. Her gaze roamed his hairless, beautifully muscled chest, his firm abdomen. He approached her with an expression of determination, although she could see no sign of an erection, yet.

  Then, suddenly, just as Lorne reached out with one hand, as if to caress her displayed breast, something in his demeanor changed. His eyes flared with a new set of emotions. Embarrassment. Disappointment. Revulsion. He pulled back his hand with a sharp curse.

  “Damn it to hell—you don’t understand, Louise. I want to give you children. I told the queen I would be able to do so, but now that the time has come . . .” He took an unsteady step away from her and the bed. “I simply can’t do it.”

  She propped herself up on her elbows and glared at him. “You discussed this with my mother? This plot of yours?”

  “Not in so many words.” He shrugged again, wearily, and sat down on the far end of the bed to pull on his trousers even as she looked on in disbelief. “But I believe she knew of my habits, and I expect she only bothered to consider me as a potential husband for you because of your . . . well, earlier indiscretions.”

  So he’d known all along she wasn’t a virgin. She’d been sick with fear at the thought of telling him, and she needn’t have been. Because he had his own secrets. The room began to spin.

  Never in her life had she fainted, and she damned well was not . . . going . . . to . . . now.

  Louise sat up so quickly that Lorne leaned away too fast, nearly falling off the mattress.

  “What are we going to do, Lorne?” she shouted at him. Only one other time in her life had she been this furious with another person. “What do you imagine our life together will be like?”

  He sighed. “I imagine, my dear, very little of it will be together, as you put it. If I were a man like so many others, I’d be supremely blessed to have you in my bed. But I’m not and won’t apologize for my taste in lovers.” He looked surer of himself now as he continued dressing. “My concern is what I’ve done to hurt you. I know now I cannot make love to you any more than I can to any other woman. It’s simply not in me. I’m sorry that there will be no children, at least not from these loins.”

  “Then you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. Am I then expected to seek a lover?” she shouted at him, having recovered enough to shift from crushed to furious. How could he put her in this position? Worse yet, how could her mother have contrived such a union?

  A shadow crossed Lorne’s delicate features. “I don’t know, my dear. I can’t tell you what to do.” He smoothed his shirtfront, took a shuddering breath. “If it becomes known that you enjoy the company of other men, and I do nothing to interfere, surely questions will be asked. Suspicion will fall on me.”

  “Then I shall be forced to remain celibate? Be denied children? Denied pleasure in a man’s arms?”

  He shook his head, as if acknowledging the unfairness of the situation but helpless to suggest a solution.

  Suddenly, his face brightened. “I have something to offer you that other husbands don’t.”

  “And that is?”

  “Freedom.” He quirked one eyebrow and smiled, looking pleased with himself.

  She scowled at him, confused.

  “Freedom,” he explained, “to be Louise.” He stepped back toward the bed, took her hands again, moved his face close to hers and spoke with something that sounded like admiration. “You’ve never wanted to be like other female royals. That’s what I’ve always admired about you, my dear. You’ve lived a Bohemian life among artists and friends you’ve chosen from among commoners as often as from nobility. Amanda and her family being a case in point. You’ve aligned yourself with reformists for the rights and protection of women. You’ve built for yourself a truly independent lifestyle. All of this would be taken from you if you married any other man in our day.”

  She stared at him, momentarily speechless. He was right. He was so very right. Hadn’t all of these reasons been behind her wishing to delay marriage?

  “You will allow me to make my own life,” she said, feeling a little calmer now.

  “Yes. And in return, you will protect me by being my wife in all ways but in bed. We will help each other as we can. It is the best I can offer, my darling Louise.”

  He stood then, looking down on her with those beautiful eyes of his, as guiltless as a child’s, as winsome as a puppy’s. She had to look away. Her heart could take no more.

  “My word,” he murmured, “you are lovely. It’s a miracle no man has yet captured your beauty in a painting.”

  But one has, she thought. He did. Donovan.

  “Please,” she said, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper. Please don’t reject me. “Try again, Lorne. For me.”

  But when she reached out to him, he pushed her away with a look of utter disgust. “No. Not now, Louise. Not ever.” He shook his head in violent denial. “I’m sorry. So . . . so very sorry.”

  And then he was gone.

  Louise stared up at the ceiling over her marriage bed. Her eyes misted over, blurring the gilded cupids at each corner of the painted ceiling. It occurred to her that this was to be the first in a long series of lonely nights for her. And her appearances in public, as half of a happily wed royal couple, would be a sham. She lay back down, pressed her face into the silk pillow, and wept.

  Four

  Stephen Byrne rode his mount at a gallop, leather duster flapping against his road-muddied boots, up to the Queen’s Guard stationed outside the iron fence at Buckingham Palace. He presented his credentials and, when waved through the gate by the captain of the guard, rode into the yard.

  Byrne adjusted the stiff-brimmed black felt hat John Batterson Stetson himself had fashioned for him when they’d met up in San Angelo, Texas—Byrne’s birthplace. But that’s not where his thoughts were today. He was relieved to see the queen’s party hadn’t yet left for Scotland. Some of the tension released from his road-weary back.

  Three days after the grand celebration surrounding Princess Louise’s wedding to the marquess, carriages lined the raked gravel drive, looking like a parade of trained circus elephants—tail to nose. This was to be the couple’s honeymoon, though not a traditional one, because it included not only the queen herself but also part of her court. Starting with the largest and most ostentatious coach reserved for the queen and newlyweds to share, the carriages diminished in size and luxury to the humblest flatbed cart piled high with overflow luggage. The line of conveyances stretched around the drive, nearly to the Indian chestnut trees in the winter-ravished gardens.

  Each carriage was accompanied by a driver and footman. Most appeared already to contain their passengers, but for a few gentlemen of the court who had become impatient and stood off to the side, idling about and smoking. He’d say from their irritated expressions they must have been cooling their aristocratic heels for a good while already.

  He, for one, was glad the procession was running late. Catching up with the royal party on the road north would have made his task far more difficult. As it was, he thought the fuss and spectacle of the excursion to Balmoral, in the north of Scotland, ridiculous and foolhardy. He might have been amused had the situation been less serious. But things were far more grave than anyone in the queen’s entourage could possibly guess.

  The journey required days of hard travel and necessitated overnight stops at the estates of the queen’s wealthiest subjects, who would then be obliged to provide lavish food, suites of rooms, and enter
tainment for Her Royal Majesty and her court. At least a portion of the passage might have been made easier if Victoria had agreed to use the new northern train line that she and Albert had enjoyed riding together. But she claimed now to hate the noisy, smoke-belching locomotives. So the trip up and back would be by plodding coach, through village after village after factory town, making the work of her security detail a veritable nightmare.

  Aside from his feelings about the idiocy and unnecessary risk of such a trip, he had other opinions of the royal goings-on. If he were marrying—which he wasn’t, and never would—he’d damn well not take his mother-in-law and her friends along on his honeymoon. But then, the more he’d seen of the young marquess, the more he wondered if Lorne might not care one way or the other about protecting his private time with his new wife.

  Nearly a year earlier, Byrne had first come to England as a member of Her Royal Majesty’s elite Secret Service, on loan from President Ulysses S. Grant’s detecting force, based in New York City. Now, as before, he did as he was commanded to do. He reported directly to the queen and never asked questions. Almost never.

  To his frustration, his first assignment in England had less to do with the Crown’s security than with good old-fashioned matchmaking. “I require tactfully acquired personal information on several gentlemen I am considering as potential husbands for my fourth daughter,” the queen had told him.

  “But, ma’am,” Byrne protested, “I’m sure there are other sources for such—”

  “This is my preference,” Victoria said firmly, her gaze fixed on him like a leech. “You will say nothing to others of this assignment and report directly to me.”

  There seemed no point in arguing.

  Slowly he warmed to his task as he came to learn more about Princess Louise from a discreet distance. She was a blue-eyed beauty with a flawless oval face and long, soft brown hair. Her figure was much more agreeable to his taste than those of her sisters or mother. Somewhat taller than any of them, she lacked their classic Hanoverian bosom, which seemed perfect for the prow of a ship but less so for a lady in real life. And she was by far the best dresser of the bunch. To his mind, Louise would have no trouble at all finding a husband on her own.