A Fairy Tale Wedding
By S. Faith, © 2016
Words: 31,210
Rating: M / R
Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, the prince had to marry out of duty, not love…
Disclaimer: Really not mine!
Notes: Not really set in medieval times, or even Regency, but a fictional medieval-ish time in fictional English-esque kingdoms. Just roll with it.
Chapter 1: Prelude to a Meeting
The things he had to do in service to the kingdom.
Precisely, his father's kingdom, to which he was the heir.
Arranged marriages were no longer common in this day and age, but the heir to the kingdom could not get away with taking only a mistress. The one that had been of service to him on the occasion he needed her would never have done as a queen, despite her relatively high birth—and he wouldn't have wanted her as his queen, anyway, because it was all too clear that it was precisely what she wanted. Far too badly.
So a princess of eligible age from a neighbouring kingdom had been suggested—her mother and his own had debuted in society at about the same time, had remained friends, so the girl came recommended highly without a single meeting between the prospective pair.
He, however, recognised the match for what it was: politically expedient to secure the future. He would do what he needed to do. Would do his duty. No delusions of romance persisted with him; they never had, not even for the mistress. He would provide for any wife of his, would keep her comfortable and the inevitable future heirs that would follow. But he knew his life would not fundamentally change from how it was now, and he found that more than acceptable. He was a busy man, good at fulfilling his duty. One more duty would not be a burden, even if it was not an overt joy.
In the midst of reviewing accounts, he heard, just then, carriage wheels on the stone path. His mother. She had made the trip to begin with wedding plans, knew she was even now on her way back; apparently, at this herald, she was returned. He braced himself for the full report.
"Mark, brother, you don't have to look like the executioner is approaching."
It was the voice of his younger brother, Peter, whose place in the line of succession meant a lighter load of expectations; he had a readier smile, a generally more carefree disposition, and was as different from his brother as night was to day. Mark appreciated Peter's ability to lighten his mood. "You exaggerate," Mark said, though he smiled as he did so. "Marriage is expected of me. It might as well be to a daughter of our mother's friend as anyone else."
His brother's own smile faded a bit. "I know you jest," he said, "and I know you have never been a romantic sort, but I cannot help but feel a bit sad for you to be resigned to marry for duty rather than love."
"Save your pity, brother," Mark said, trying to be reassuring more than anything. "Truly, it is of no concern to me. My life will not change appreciably."
…
It was not until supper that he saw his mother at last; she had kept to her quarters after her arrival home, he suspected, to have a quick, refreshing nap after the long carriage ride. Indeed, she was full of good humour and liveliness over the late afternoon meal. The trip, it seemed, had gone far better than expected. Plans were well underway; the cathedral had bent over backward to make the named date available (as if they would not), and the ball would be hosted by the bride's parents before Mark would return with her to his own castle.
Also boosting her spirits was seeing that her husband and Mark's father, King Malcolm, was much improved from the illness that had befallen him, though he was still weak and confined to his bedchamber.
"The princess is delightful," she said, in such a way that made him think she might just be exaggerating a bit. "In fact, I insist that we return within a sennight for you to meet her before the wedding."
Arranged marriages might have been uncommon, but equally uncommon was meeting one's intended before the wedding date. Accordingly, Mark's brow's lifted in surprise. "Meet her?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure you have some reservations, and meeting her in advance might help to alleviate that."
Mark had actually not had any reservations, but his mother's need to reassure him started to plant the seeds of doubt. "Surely that's not necessary."
"Mark, I'm going to have to insist," she said, more firmly than he was expecting. "An official meeting will be seen as a willingness, an eagerness, to complete the union."
"And that's needed why?"
"To reassure the populace," she said.
"I wasn't aware reassurance was necessary."
"Your father's health is improving day by day, but he isn't getting any younger," she said, "and while they're glad to know you're ready to step in to succeed him, unrest will begin to build if you ascend to the throne without having secured a wife. And with no wife, there is even less promise of an heir."
He wanted so badly to express his irritation with this wedding taking up more of his time than necessary, but this was his mother, and she was only reminding him of his duty. "Understood," he said at last.
"Excellent," she said, smiling. But then her expression became more sympathetic. "You know I only want you to be secure in your future." With a smirk, she added, "Happy, if you can manage it."
From his side he heard his brother make a sound that sounded a lot like a suppressed laugh. He knew why his brother did so, and could not chastise him for it. Mark was well aware that he had a reputation—one that he had worked hard to perpetuate—as a serious-minded, decisive, and even dour prince. He knew it was important to establish himself as an effective leader before pressed to actually lead. "Secure is sufficient," he said at last.
…
Not him. Anyone but him.
Humourless, unpleasant, and, as had been rumoured, colder than an icehouse in winter. Oh, there were rumours, too, that the prince was handsome, but the accompanying rumoured personality was not, in her opinion, worth it.
Bridget sighed, in a manner quite unlike the regal, noble princess she was supposed to be. Crown Prince Cold Fish was nothing like her dashing, disarming baron, Daniel, who seemed always to know how to make her laugh, knew the right thing to say, and especially knew how to ply her with kisses in all the right places.
Not that she had let him perform the ultimate intimate act—she knew that was one test she had to pass on her wedding night—but nonetheless, he knew how to make her happy, how to please her, without trespassing upon her skirts (though not for a lack of him trying to persuade her—but she had been resolute, as difficult as that been).
And romantic! Her dear baron would steal her away out onto the lake in his boat to recite beautiful, passionate poetry to her; blue skies, sun-dappled waters, days that were as warm as he was—
"You liked Queen Elaine." The voice of her mother, Pamela, interrupted her daydream, and it utterly fouled her mood.
"Why can I not marry the baron?" she burst out petulantly.
"Because he is totally unsuitable, Bridget," Pamela said with pursed lips. "He is a cad."
"Nonsense," she said. "All of those rumours are just that: rumours. They are not true."
"A man with even that many untrue rumours circling around him is not worthy of marrying a royal princess," said her mother. "This is for the best, and I won't hear of any more protest." Then Pamela sighed. "The prince is not as bad as you think," she said. "He will keep you and your children in comfort."
Yes, that's what I want out of life, she thought. Comfort. "But I don't love him."
"You have known since you were a girl that your chances of marrying for love were going to be infinitesimal," said Pamela, her tone kind. "Crown Prince Mark is at least not abusive or cruel, he's not a drunk…"
"But you and Daddy," Bridget cut in. "You love him, and he loves you."
"We did not even know each other at first. I admit, we did get lucky," said Pamela. "You might, too."
Infinitesimal, thought Bridget. Lightning was not likely to strike twice.
"I only ask that you give him a chance," Pamela continued. "The queen is promising to return with him to meet you for a visit."
Bridget's expression brightened. "Oh, does that mean I can refuse if I don't like him?"
Pamela's mouth formed a straight line again, lips firmly pursed. "No." Then, in a gentler tone, she added, "Just give him a chance. Keep an open mind."
Bridget sank back into her chair; it was fortunate for her that it was a comfortable chair. After pouting under the icy glare of her mother for some moments, she said, "Fine."
Pamela smiled in her victory, rising to her feet. "Excellent, darling. Well. Get back to practising your penmanship for a few hours before supper."
"Yes, Mother."
"Tone, Bridget. I'm your mother, but I'm also the queen."
With that, Queen Pamela took her leave of her daughter's bedchamber.
When I'm queen, she thought, I will never make my daughter write lines of nonsense for no good reason.
She got through three repetitions of the latest nonsense—A princess must possess grace, poise, and dignity at all times—when she set the pen down with a little more force than necessary, dotting a spray of indelible sepia along copious fabric of her sleeve. A mild curse escaped her lips. "A princess doesn't use language like that," she murmured mockingly to herself.
Somewhere in the distance she heard the cathedral bell chime three times, and she gasped. Daniel! She had nearly forgotten about the arranged assignation out in the garden, away from prying eyes. With no time to change her dress, she slipped into her bonnet, her outdoor shoes, and shawl, and made for the door that lead to the gardens where Daniel awaited her.
"I'm going for a walk in the garden to clear my head," she told the head footman in the most authoritative voice she could manage.
"Yes, your royal highness," he said, his craggy face betraying no emotion.
Once through the door and out into the fresh air, once she was certain she was out of view of any prying eyes that might have glanced out from any one of the countless windows, she began to run towards their rendezvous point, the gazebo in the rose garden. When she arrived, she was breathless from the efforts of her sprint and from her anticipation, was sure her cheeks were ruddy… and the gazebo seemed to be deserted.
"Oh no," she said, despondent, tears pooling in her eyes; she strolled into the gazebo, which was shaded from the sun by the roses that had woven through the trellises. Had he gone because she had been so late? Had he not bothered to come at all? She turned around—and then came face to face with the man himself.
Blue eyes crinkled with a smile; his light brown hair fell rakishly over his forehead. "Late again, Princess," he said in a lazy drawl, taking her into his arms.
"Sorry, I'm so sorry—I've been so distracted," she said, before he placed his lips upon hers to kiss her; the passion of his kiss seemed to suggest she was indeed forgiven. He had his hands on her waist, pulling her flush up against him, before drawing away, keeping hold of her hand.
He glanced downward, furrowing his brow. "What did you do to your dress?"
"Pardon?"
"Your sleeve… have you been slaughtering chickens?"
"Oh, no, it's just ink."
"Well, that is a relief," he said, releasing her hand. "Business all settled then?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." She dropped down to the bench in the centre of the ornate gazebo, and sighed heavily. She hadn't told him what all of the fuss had been about while Queen Elaine had been here, but didn't see any way around avoiding telling him now. "I am to be married," she said.
"Oh, delightful. You'll make a stunning bride."
"This isn't a joke."
"I'm not laughing," he said. "I am truly delighted." He sat beside her.
"It is not to be to you," she said, as if he were a recalcitrant child.
"I figured as much, or I might have been part of your meetings," he said, slipping a hand around her waist. He nuzzled into her neck, causing all sense to abandon her. "But once you're married," he purred, "I can make you mine in every way possible. Especially in that way."
She shivered. "Oh," she said, closing her eyes. "I hadn't thought it of like that."
He chuckled low in his throat. "Of course not, my dear," he said, drawing back to look into her eyes. "So to which geezer are you to be consigned? Old Duke Fitzherbert, now that he's a widower? Or perhaps the Earl of Finch? You'll definitely need me to keep your bed warm, if so."
"No," she said. "I'm to wed Crown Prince Mark."
Despite the low light, she saw all colour drain from his face. His voice was papery when he repeated, "Crown Prince Mark… of Huntingdon?"
She drew her brows together. "Is there another Crown Prince Mark?" she said. "What is it? Oh God. What have you heard? Why do you look like I'm about to be sent to the Northern Wilds? Is there something wrong with him?"
Daniel seemed hesitant to speak. "We were educated in the same boarding school," he said. "So… we have a little history. That's all."
"Tell me," she said. "I must know what I'm getting into."
"Do you have to do it?"
"Not five minutes ago you couldn't wait for me to be married so that you could lift my skirts at will!" she said in a harsh whisper. "You still haven't answered my question."
He met her gaze again. "Before he was Crown Prince Mark, heir to the throne," Daniel said, "he was actually something of a human being, and one of my best mates in school. And then he betrayed me. He snuck a woman into the room… then when he got caught, he blamed me, and being that he was a prince and heir and I was not… I was expelled."
She covered her hand with her mouth, in shock over the betrayal as much as the wooden, cold-fish prince possibly having an actual libido. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry."
"It's all water under the bridge," he said, in a tone that seemed at odds with the initial shocked reaction he'd had. "I just don't like thinking of you stuck with him for the rest of your days. Even if I can come help ease the pain."
"Is that even a possibility if I'm the queen?"
"Anything is possible when you're queen."
With that, he bent to kiss her again, voraciously, passionately, turning that kiss to her throat; his hand covered her breast and worked circles through the silk, bringing the peak to attention and leaving her moaning and wishing desperately he could attend to more. "Oh, Daniel," she breathed.
"When you're married," he growled into her ear, his hand tracing over her lower stomach, venturing far too close to forbidden fruit, "I will have you, and you will never forget it."
…
"You're in a much better mood, darling."
Yes, Bridget supposed she was, after the passionate snogging in which she had engaged, after the promise of so much more once she was married—for politics only!—to the stodgy, frigid, horrid Crown Prince Mark. "I've come to realise you were absolutely correct," she said. "I must marry the prince."
"Splendid, my dear, just splendid."
This came from her father, King Colin, from across the dinner table. Where she was often at loggerheads with her mother, she adored her kind, loving, doting father. She smiled, thinking how much this pleased him.
"I do hope," he continued, "that you and he will grow to find the sort of love and companionship your mother and I found."
She glanced to her mother, who was looking at her with an uncommon fondness, and wondered, very briefly, if her mother had ever taken a lover on the side. Oh God, why did I have to think such a thing? She quickly pushed the thought aside. "I hope the same," she said, even though it was a bald-faced lie. As long as she had her baron…
She beamed a smile at her parents. Even if she would let her fiancé know at the soonest that privately, she was less than happy with the arrangement.
Prince Mark arrives in Grafton Underwood
Mark, Crown Prince of Huntingdon, was suitably impressed with the roads in Grafton Underwood. Perhaps it was a good sign. The carriage ride had taken most of the day, stopping for a break halfway through for luncheon before continuing on. By the sheer fact that his mother was beginning to animatedly talk again, he guessed that they were nearly to their destination, to the castle, where he would meet his intended for the first time.
Almost as if she read his thoughts, his mother piped up with, "Do you know, I just remembered, you have actually met Princess Bridget before."
He turned his gaze from the horizon back to her. "Have I?"
"You likely don't remember," she said. "It was shortly after we ascended to the throne. You were about eight years old, and she, about four. King Colin and Queen Pamela brought their children to our coronation at our invitation."
"Children?"
"Yes. Their heir, Crown Prince James, is two years older than the princess."
He strained to think back to the day of his parents' coronation, memories of which he could not fully trust; some he knew to be true, confirmed by his mother, and others could not have been, for they involved people he knew could not possibly have been present, such as the grandfather whose passing had precipitated the ceremony. But there had not been a lot of children there, and he did remember a boy younger than himself, with blond curls and blue eyes. He remembered also a younger sister that he had kept charge over; she had run a bit wild, golden tresses bouncing around her shoulders….
"Did they call him Jamie?" Mark asked suddenly.
"Why yes, they did. They still do, amongst family," Elaine said, smiling in a very satisfied way. "He's grown up well, though a bit more… shall we say, eccentric than his parents. I hear he is has been spending much time traveling; currently, he's on the continent."
"Satisfying a wanderlust before having to reign," Mark said quietly, more to himself than anything.
"Yes, I suppose he is," she said. "But he'll be at the wedding. Pam—Queen Pamela, that is—sent word to me that James has let her know he shall be returning to attend."
"Ah," Mark said, glancing out of the carriage window again. "I shall be pleased to make the acquaintance as adults."
The carriage veered to the right, and as they passed an ornate gilded gatepost he realised they had arrived to the palace at last. Before long the carriage was flanked by the Grafton Underwood royal guardsmen for an official escort to the palace proper.
The weather was beautiful, but it still surprised him to see the official welcome on the palace's grand portico included the king and queen themselves. As they emerged from the carriage, he quickly scanned the small group, but he did not see a girl who could reasonably be his intended.
"My dear, dear Elaine," said Queen Pamela, reaching forward to clasp the hands of her friend. "So pleased to see you again."
"The pleasure is all mine," Elaine said, then nodded to King Colin, reaching for his hand. "And your majesty."
"No need for such formality," said King Colin, a jovial smile upon his face. He turned his attention to Mark. "And you must be the prince. It's been a long time since I've seen you. Very great pleasure."
Mark bowed at the waist. "The pleasure is mine."
"Come, let's retire for refreshment," Pamela said; even as she talked, their carriage was being unloaded and their trunks being brought into the palace. "You must be tired after your journey, and dinner isn't for a few hours yet."
"That sounds marvellous," Elaine said.
Their hosts escorted them into a generously decorated sitting room where it seemed evident that the king and queen liked to spend a good deal of time relaxing; shortly after, servants came in bearing tea and a platter of small, delectable baked goods. After accepting his tea, Mark plucked up a powdered confection, which was small enough to pop directly into his mouth.
"I trust your travel went well?"
"Oh yes, quite."
As his mother and Queen Pamela chatted amicably—he never would have guessed they had seen each other only a week before—he began to stroll around the room until he ended up in front of a window with a spectacular vista. The trees swayed in the breeze, the sparse clouds drifted lazily in a bright blue sky, the gentle ripples played upon the surface of the large pond… and there, out amongst the trees, near the tall grasses by the lake, he swore he saw a flash of amethyst moving swiftly there. The sort of colour not normally found in nature. The sort of colour that royalty liked to don.
"Your royal highness, I'm terribly sorry," said Queen Pamela, interrupting his thoughts, instantly demanding his attention. "I had wanted our daughter to meet you here but…" She trailed off.
"To be honest," King Colin said sheepishly, "we cannot currently account for her."
"Is she clad in purple?" he said; as he asked this, his gaze slid to the window again.
When no response was forthcoming, Mark looked to their hosts once more; the king's face had gone red, his brows had come down. He turned to call for a footman, who came rushing forward. "Get her," he said, pointing to the side garden; the footman went hurriedly out. To Mark he said, calming himself with some effort, "I do apologise. She must have gone out of doors to read or write in her journal, and lost track of time."
Mark felt his jaw tense. She must have known they were arriving today. Did she have no sense of duty, or respect for the time and patience of other people? Or was she one of those horrendously spoiled royal offspring who thought the world revolved around them?
If she was willing to stay out of his way once they were married, then she could be as spoilt as she liked.
After a few minutes, during which he sat and finished his tea, he heard noise out in the foyer. In a few more minutes, the doors swung open. He rose, then turned to them. The footman preceded her, announcing, "May I present Princess Bridget of Grafton Underwood."
She was pretty, he granted her that. Very pretty. She was of average height, by his reckoning; surely the top of her head wouldn't have reached his nose. Having changed from the purple into a pale blue silk gown, there was a roundness to her figure that was not unpleasant. Her generous cleavage was showcased pleasantly by the collar of her dress. Her hair was golden, pulled up and curling around her sparkling coronet; her skin fair and unblemished; her eyes as blue as the afternoon sky, regarding him with deep scrutiny. And rosy lips upon which played the hint of a smile.
These thoughts flitted through his mind in the blink of an eye; he bowed at the waist without missing a beat as the footman introduced him to her in turn. He rose and met her gaze again, acutely aware that four pairs of regal eyes were trained upon them.
"Pleasure to meet you, your royal highness," he said, reaching forward to take her hand. She offered it—strangely enough, not gloved, but he supposed they were engaged—and he placed a kiss upon the back of it.
She then surprised him, surprised them all, by sneezing.
"Sorry," she said. "I had been… taking a stroll in the garden. I think I must have, you know. Allergies."
He raised a brow quite without conscious thought.
She sneezed again.
"Bless you," Mark said drolly, "your royal highness."
She lifted a hand to her face, which had begun to blaze red.
An inauspicious meeting
Why hadn't her mother come to her rescue with a handkerchief? A plate of biscuits? Some tea?
She honestly hadn't meant to be late for the arrival of the king and queen of Huntingdon; she had gone to meet her Daniel for a brief visit, but he hadn't shown, and then she'd fallen to sleep in the shade amongst the redolence of the roses. She woke to realise she was horribly, horribly late, and rushed back to the palace only to be shepherded up to her quarters to quickly be dressed again, her hair coiffed and her coronet placed upon her head, then rushed back down to be presented to the crown prince.
And here he was, taller than God himself, dark brown hair and chestnut eyes, broad shoulders and a fit form filling out the finely tailored royal livery he wore; he gazed down upon her as the footman said, "Princess Bridget, I present to you, Crown Prince Mark of Huntingdon."
And then he'd taken her hand. And then she'd sneezed.
He went on. "May I assist you in some way?"
At long last her mother came by her side, thrusting a square of fabric at her. "No. I'm fine," Bridget said, as she accepted the cloth. She delicately dabbed against her nose, blowing gently, then cleared her throat, determined to start again. "Thank you, though. It's a pleasure to meet you, too."
He stood there, unblinking, his hands now clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. She had no idea, none whatever, as to what to say next.
But then he cleared his throat, offering a stiff smile. "So…" he began. "Have you… read any good books lately?"
She stared back, unable to believe what she had just heard. She had been so busy with wedding planning—and practising penmanship—that she couldn't remember exactly the last book she'd read. And then it came to her. One book he surely had never read. "Lady Wellington's work. The Rights and Responsibilities of a Noble Lady."
"Ah," he said, looking slightly surprised. Good, she thought. But then he continued. "I read that whilst in school. I found it informative, if a bit patronising. How did you find it?"
Stunned again, she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it once more. In all honesty she had thought it was difficult to parse largely due its dryness, and boring to boot, but thought she might sound uninformed and unintelligent if she said so. "It… it was all right."
He thought she was a half-wit. He must have, given how his expression transformed. It made her even more nervous… and then she realised she was nervous, which was ridiculous. She was only trying to be nice, trying to spark conversation, and all he could do was look snootily down his nose at her.
"Darling. Tea?" Her mother, who must have thought she was hopeless to not even manage a conversation with the man she was marrying. "And we have some of those powdered biscuits you like."
She turned away to face her mother, smiling despite herself. "Ooh, yes please." She then realised she had seemed too eager. Almost desperate. She looked back to him. He looked like he had just smelled something distasteful.
Why couldn't Daniel have shown up today? She fixed a smile to her features, took a seat (as did they all) and accepted the tea given to her; as she plucked a confection from the tray, she thought longingly of Daniel, of his lips on hers, of the warmth and strength of his embrace… she could barely think of a thing to say, and certainly not anything to direct attention off of her. And then it came to her.
"Mother," she said, or more accurately, blurted, "have you told their majesties and his royal highness yet about—?"
Her mother anticipated her words. "Actually, I have not," Pamela said. "We've decided to hold a celebratory ball while you are here to visit."
It had worked. The focus moved from her. The visiting queen looked absolutely delighted, but the crown prince… he looked appalled. Not overtly—he was far too well-bred to betray that kind of emotion—but she could see the way the lines of his jaw twitched and tensed that a ball was more than he had bargained for.
"I was under the impression we were only to meet," he said, glancing to his mother. "Not make a public appearance."
Odious man, she thought. She knew he was only doing this for duty as much as she was, but he didn't have to make it so obvious that the thought of spending a whole evening escorting her at the ball was completely anathema to him.
"Come now, Mark," said Queen Elaine, looking at him; her tone was gentle but she shot daggers from her eyes. Bridget grew fonder of her than she already had been. "You're never one to shirk your duty."
The words, as few as they were, had clearly hit their target, for his jaw relaxed and he looked down. "Yes," he said. "You are correct." Looking up again, he addressed Bridget directly. "I apologise for such a thoughtless comment. It is no reflection upon you. You seem perfectly… nice."
Nice. She wanted to get up and stomp on his foot, but instead she merely flashed a smile, and then sipped her tea. He just kept looking at her.
The silence was broken by her father. "You would probably like to retire for a little while before the meal this evening; shall we show you to your quarters?"
She was not sure if Colin had recognised the tension in the air or not, but she was grateful that he asked. "Yes, I think that might be best," Queen Elaine said. It was hard to tell whether she was weary, or exasperated with the crown prince.
With that, one of the footmen stepped forward, holding his hand out to the foyer, soundlessly offering to lead them, although everyone knew that Queen Elaine already knew her way to the suites she and her son—Bridget's betrothed, which still took some getting used to—would be using. They all rose to their feet, and their guests were led out.
"Bridget," said her mother, once sure they were quite alone—Oh, God, here comes the onslaught, she thought—"you might have thanked him for the compliment."
"It didn't feel much like one," Bridget admitted. "'Nice'?"
"He's only just met you," she said. "You've only just met him. I would bet your assessment of him isn't very in-depth yet, either. 'Nice' isn't a bad start."
"I suppose you do have a point," she said with a sigh, 'Rude bastard' did seem a bit of a snap judgment.
"What did you think of him?" her father asked.
She tried not to burst out with a laugh. "Very crown-princely," she said at last. She sensed, though, that her father knew exactly how her thoughts really leaned.
"He's very handsome," said her mother.
She couldn't deny it. Too bad that the sour personality eroded that handsomeness. "I'm going to retire to my rooms," she said suddenly, getting to her feet, not answering the question, not really.
"You can't fool me," her mother said, smiling smugly. "You think he's handsome."
With that, Bridget strode out in the most regal manner she could manage, and went up to the stairs and to her apartments; within moments her lady-in-waiting was beside her, helping to take the coronet off from her head and placed carefully it into its velvet-lined storage chest, then out of the gown and into something a little less… constricting. She sighed.
"May I bring you anything else, your royal highness?"
She turned to face her maid, a ginger-haired woman of roughly her own age called Magda. "You could tell me that you've gotten a letter for me from Lord Cleaver."
Magda shook her head. "I have not seen one yet today," she said, "but I could check again."
"If you would," she said, her voice laden with the despair she felt; he had never stood her up for one of their pre-arranged assignations, not once. She hoped he was all right.
…
That meeting had… not been quite what he had expected.
Upon their departure of the sitting room, they had been taken to their apartments. Within a few minutes, their escort had departed, and they were left alone in their common area. He was still in contemplation when his mother spoke.
"You might have given that a little more effort," she said, resignedly.
"I felt exceedingly put on the spot," he said.
"You must be joking," she said with a little laugh. "I'd've expected you to be used to speaking to people you don't know."
"I'm not used to speaking to my future wife," he said, "whom I have only just met."
"You have a point, I suppose," she said. "Odd question to lead with, though."
"You said she liked to read."
"Well, never mind that," she said. "I wasn't expecting the ball, I'll admit. Though I should have guessed that Queen Pam would have wanted one. She loves them, she'll throw one at the drop of a hat, and to honour her daughter's impending nuptials is the best reason to have one yet."
He smiled despite himself.
"I admit that your first impression of her might not have been ideal, having rushed in from outside," Elaine continued. "Must have been quite difficult to come in to meet you with little preparation."
He wasn't sure if she meant mental preparation was necessary to meet him; he gave her the benefit of the doubt. "I concede that it might not have been the ideal circumstances."
"We'll be seeing them for dinner, undoubtedly," she said. "Hopefully it will be a little less formal an atmosphere."
His mother decided she would have a lie-down, but Mark was feeling too restless to nap. He pardoned himself, slipped out of the room and out of the wing in which their apartments resided. An attendant footman stepped forward and asked if he could assist.
"I was thinking of taking a short walk out of doors," Mark said.
"Follow me, your royal highness."
He led Mark through the palace and to a door overlooking the broad expanse of a covered patio, beyond which was a lush, manicured garden. It was peaceful, with only the sound of the breeze in the verdant greenery, the gentle bubbling of the fountain, the centrepiece of the garden. The scent of flowers floated on the breeze, and he took in a deep breath to savour it.
"It's completely walled in, so you don't have to worry about security or being disturbed," he explained.
"Perfect," Mark said. "Thank you."
The footman bowed slightly at the waist, then retreated.
Mark stepped forward, out and into the sun; the breeze played along his face refreshingly. He struck out upon the path, realising as he rounded the curve and passed closer to the lake that he was on the same path on which he had seen the flash of purple earlier through the sitting room window. Curious to see from where she had come, he decided to follow the path back and beyond the copse of trees.
To his surprise, he found himself shortly thereafter in another manicured garden, surrounded by at least a hundred rosebushes, some of which were enormous, and had clearly been there for some time. Nestled in the centre of the garden was a gazebo; roses grew thick upon the trellises on every side that he could see. He ventured closer. The air was a little more still here in this garden, surrounded as it was by taller trees, and the perfume of the roses was strong.
Motion inside the gazebo caught his eye and instinctively he jumped back behind one of the taller rosebushes; to his confusion, someone he had not seen in several years emerged back in to the sunlight, looked in the direction in which he had come, and frowned in disappointed to see no one. With a tug down on his jacket, he turned sharply left and continued on down a path towards the far hedgerow, presumably towards an exit in the enclosing wall.
Daniel, Lord Cleaver, whom the crown prince had hoped never to see again in his lifetime.
When Mark was sure he was gone for good, he started on the path again and ventured into the gazebo. The sunlight was much dimmed, the rose-scent strong; it was rather cosy, and afforded a great deal of privacy, even midday. In the centre there was a bench, and it was clear to him that while the paths in the garden got very little foot traffic, the ground inside the gazebo saw frequent visitation, particularly the ground before the bench.
The answer to why Daniel had turned up became obvious when, as he emerged from the gazebo, he saw Princess Bridget stepping her way down the path. When she realised who was walking towards her, she stopped dead in her tracks.
All decorum forgotten, she furrowed her brows and said testily, "What are you doing out here?"
"Taking a pre-prandial walk," he said. "It's quite lovely out here, and particularly in there." He gestured towards the gazebo. "Yourself?"
"Same," she returned quickly. "And you were here… on your own?"
"I was as you found me, your royal highness," he said. Careful to keep his tone neutral, he asked, "Were you expecting someone else?"
"Me? No, of course not," she said, far too quickly. "That's silly. With whom would I be meeting in the rose garden? Really."
He pursed his lips. While discretion was the better part of valour, playing ignorant in this situation furthered no cause. "I saw Lord Cleaver as he left, your royal highness," he said quietly. "You do yourself no favours by meeting him sub rosa—figuratively and literally."
Her cheeks flared bright red.
"How does he access a secured royal garden, anyhow?"
She lifted her chin. "I have given him a key."
"I would strongly suggest that you request he return it," he said. "I am well-acquainted with Lord—"
"Yes," she interrupted. "He told me you were schooled together."
At this, Mark's brows rose. "Did he?" he asked.
"He did," she said triumphantly. "And about how you got him expelled."
"Lord Cleaver got himself expelled," he corrected. "He merely tried to take me—and a reputation I have worked very hard to keep pristine—out with him."
She blinked as if trying to comprehend. Mark suspected that whatever story Lord Cleaver had given to her, it did not match this one. She asked, "And how can I know your story is the one to believe?"
"He did not come by his reputation as a cad because everyone has conspired to lie about him," he said, "and I have nothing to gain by lying to you. We shall be married, and presumably will take measures to ensure the line of succession. He, on the other hand… I'm sure he believes our marriage will benefit him too, when the truth would do anything but."
At this, her mouth dropped open, her cheeks blazed even brighter than before, and her hands were balled fists at her side. "Impertinent!" she said, then turned on her heel and stalked away, back towards the palace.
Within a few minutes, he started walking back, too, deep in contemplation regarding the importance of second impressions.
…
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
While Magda went down to double-check that nothing had come from Daniel, Bridget paced around her apartments, feeling quite restless. The previous missive, which sat beneath the volume of her diary, caught her attention. She plucked it out and read it over again, wondering what she could have missed…
The correct time of the assignation, apparently. For which she was now appallingly late, herself.
"Oh no."
She rushed over to the looking glass to ensure she looked presentable; she looked perfectly fine, thank goodness, and there was no time to wait for Magda to return to help, anyway.
She dashed out of her room, hoping that no one saw her steal down the stairs and out of the door; the foyer seemed eerily quiet, but she was grateful to escape unnoticed. She didn't want to have to stop to explain what the hurry was to get down the gazebo in the rose garden.
She had just rounded the curve and had got the gazebo in sight when she saw a figure moving ahead; when she got closer was when she realised it was not Daniel at all.
The subsequent conversation completely caught her off guard. She had never given the veracity of Daniel's story a second thought. She'd never had a moment of doubt.
Until now.
She was back in her apartments before she even realised it, breathless from hurrying back. A concerned-looking Magda was at her side, plying her with a glass of lemon-water. "Are you all right, your royal highness?"
She nodded.
"There was still nothing from Lord Cleaver," Magda said.
She nodded again, then explained how she had misread the time in his latest letter to her. "I'll write a note to him to apologise," she said. "And to see if he'll meet me again soon. Will you come back after supper to take it away?"
If nothing else, she had to talk to him to figure things out.
Before she retreated, Magda simply nodded, though she smiled a little; Bridget thought that her lady's maid thought the whole clandestine letter exchange was romantic, and before this complication, Bridget would have agreed.
She sat at her escritoire and penned a note in earnest, apologising to Daniel for misreading the meeting time, and could they meet again the following day? As an afterthought, she added:
I would also like to talk about what you told me about the man I'm to marry. The account of your friendship from his lips seems at odds with your own, such that I cannot reconcile them.
With that, she folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope, and then sealed it with some wax and her signet. She then waited for Magda to come for it.
Bridget was very quiet during dinner, thinking of her conversation, of what the crown prince had said; for his part, he did not bring it up, for which she was grateful. Not that he would have been that tactless. She was content to listen to the conversation between her parents, Queen Elaine, and Crown Prince Mark. More accurately, half-listen. She was distracted.
She was thankful, therefore, when the meal concluded and their guests advised it would be an early night for them, that they wanted to retire early for a good night's sleep. She was convinced that it would be anything but an early night for her, but to her surprise the light of morning was glowing in her eyes in what seemed like no time at all.
She pushed her bedding aside and got to her feet; it was early yet, too early to have expected a reply already. Or so she thought.
Magda came in—perhaps because she'd heard movement in the bedchamber—with a smile. She bore an envelope, sealed with a familiar mark on the wax. "I'll leave you to read it."
As soon as Magda left, Bridget tore open the wax seal and read it. And then she read it again.
Princess—
I will be at the usual meeting place at 10, but I cannot stay for long. Try not to be late.
Daniel, Lord Cleaver
It was much shorter and far more formal than he had ever written to her since they had begun to correspond in this clandestine way. And curt; no affection came through in his words or their tone. In its own way, these things served to confirm her worst fears.
And, she thought in annoyance, rather impudent for him to tell me not to be late. And him only a baron.
…
There she goes again.
As he ate the breakfast that had been brought up to their apartments, he watched from his window the streak of pale blue dashing down the path. His hackles rose, and he set his serviette aside. His mother, who sat across from him at the table, furrowed her brow. "What is it?"
"I'll be back soon."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said. And it probably was nothing—he had never known Lord Cleaver to intrude where he was not welcome—but he wasn't about to take chances… or let Cleaver talk her into believing that his own account had been the true one.
Casually he strolled out into the garden and down the path, past the lake and around the curve. The gazebo was in sight, and from the looks of it, it was unoccupied, but Mark knew better. He decided to come up along the side instead of down the centre path, which would have made him very visible, and along the side that he knew did not lead to the path to the door with the gate that Cleaver would be exiting from. Mark didn't want to encounter the man unless it was necessary.
He heard voices as he approached.
"So you'll forgive me if the discrepancy is more than I'm willing to overlook. Can you reconcile it?"
It was the princess speaking, and Mark noticed that Cleaver was not overflowing with protest. "I'm not sure what I can say," he said at last. "Once again it's my word against his, and who's going to believe a baron against a crown prince?"
"It's not that I believe him over you," came the princess' modulated voice; it was calm, but it was clear that she was simmering underneath, which surprised him, honestly. "But his story fits your personalities and reputations."
"You hardly know Mark."
"That's Crown Prince Mark to you," she said haughtily. "And could not fathom for a moment him in your place, joyful that I am to wed so I will give in at last."
There was a long, tense silence, and then she spoke again.
"I'll thank you to return my key."
Another brief silence, then the scuffing of boots on the ground; Mark was on high alert. Was he making some kind of move on her, to attack? But then he heard him sigh softly and say, "Here you are, your royal highness."
"Thank you," she said. "My best wishes on your business out of the kingdom. You are free to leave and continue your preparations."
"May I offer my congratulations on your impending nuptials," said Cleaver in return, a coolness in his voice that hinted of resignation. "Good day."
More footsteps, and Cleaver exited, turning off and towards the door. In a few moments, when she heard the door clang shut, she also came out, key in hand, presumably to lock the door in his wake. At last he came out from behind the gazebo and followed her.
"Princess Bridget," he said, so as not to startle her. It wasn't successful.
The key fell from her hand as she turned to him. He bent without second thought to pick it up and gave it back to her.
"What on earth are you doing here?"
"I saw you on the path and knew what you were doing," he said. "I knew who you were coming out to meet. So I thought—"
"I don't need looking after," she interrupted.
"I never said you did," he said. "I don't trust him." He gestured towards the palace. "Allow me to walk with you."
She pursed her lips, then nodded.
As they walked the path, she said, "The ball is in two days."
"Ah," he said. With a half-smile, he said, "I suppose we shall have to dance."
"I suppose," she said. He shot a glance her way. She didn't seem amused; maybe she hadn't seen his smile.
"I'm good at dancing," he said. "You don't have to worry for the state of your feet."
She said nothing more, not until they reached the portico. "My feet thank you in advance," she said quietly, then bowed her head once, then turned and walked off in the direction of where her apartments were.
He supposed he ought to go and finish the meal he'd left behind. And as he did, he realised he was no closer to figuring her out.