A Fairy Tale Wedding

By S. Faith, © 2016
Words: 31,210
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: Shall We Dance?

The night of the ball

Mark, Crown Prince of Huntingdon, was grateful that his most formal princely livery was more than suitable for the occasion of a ball. He stood before the full-length mirror as his valet, Giles, attended to every button and crease.

"You look very dashing," said his mother. "I wish your father could've made the trip—he'd have loved to partake in this joyous day."

"He'll be well enough for the wedding," said Mark, turning to look at her. She looked resplendent in a deep red velvet gown, her more formal jewel-studded crown set upon her head; he couldn't imagine a woman upon whom a crown looked more natural. "That is a beautiful gown, and you look stunning," he said.

"You flatter me, my dear," she said, though she was obviously pleased to receive such a compliment. "Save words like 'stunning' for your betrothed."

"You've seen her?"

"Not yet," said Elaine. "But I have seen the gown."

Within a quarter of an hour, he was on the way to escorting his mother to the grand ballroom, timing the entrance such that a good majority of the attendees were already present. They came down the main staircase—as broad as two carriages were wide and decorated with sky blue satin garlands and white roses—as honoured guests, with appreciative gazes and respectful bows from all as they were received at the door to the ballroom by Queen Pamela. Before Mark had a chance to turn back to look the way they had just come, they heard gasps and murmurs. That was when he turned. That was when he saw her.

The blue satin that she wore matched the garland, and it was a blue that suited her exceedingly. The bodice of the gown fitted to her very closely from shoulders and arms, down through to her hips, then cascaded down in a flare to her feet. Embedded amongst the folds were pinpoints of shining light, something like gems sewn into the fabric that sparkled when she moved. The generous cut of the collar highlighted her figure, particularly her cleavage, in a way that the other gowns and dresses he had seen her in over the previous days had not.

As she drew closer—escorted by her father, he only just now realised—he saw that she wore the finest of silver chains about her neck, a simple pendant nestled amongst the expanse of creamy skin. Her hair was swept up, further enhancing the graceful curve of her neck; from her ears dangled delicate diamond drops. Atop her head, amongst the blonde curls, was a beautiful, shimmering coronet, a lesser twin to her mother's own crown.

She was smiling, too; it was genuine, not plastered on at all, but neither was it fawning or simpering. In fact, it almost seemed as if she was looking a little… smug. And then he realised she looked smug because of the way his own gaze had lingered upon her. He glanced away, then back again as she stood beside him.

The assembled guests were also completely silent, probably in awe of how beautiful she looked. Automatically, he reached his hand forward to take her gloved one, then bowed deeply to kiss the back of it. Entranced by the perfume coming up through the fine silk, he lingered; he realised this as the crowd murmured around them. He released her hand then stood upright, trying to maintain composure, realising quite abruptly that he needed to.

"Your royal highness," he said to her stoically.

She in turn dropped her hands to her side, grasped her skirts, and deeply curtsied, affording him a view down the front of her dress, away from which he tried (and failed) to avert his gaze. But when she raised her gaze again, he met it squarely with his own.

Her lips quirked in a little smile. "I believe we are expected to lead the guests into the ballroom."

"Let's not keep them waiting." He reached for her hand again, and when she gave it to him, he took it and placed it in the crook of his elbow. They turned and processed into the ballroom, with the guests following; it flowed as smoothly as clockwork, as if they had been doing this all of their lives, as if everything had been in rehearsal for this moment.

Keeping with the theme, the ballroom was decked out in sky blue and white roses. As they came in, the music kicked up, beautiful, harmonic strings; he took her hand and then led her into a dance, placing the other hand upon her waist as he turned her around.

Other couples followed suit. He became instantly aware of the warmth of her body beneath his hand as they turned, as he looked at her, studied her pink lips, her bright blue eyes. He also realised he should, perhaps, say something.

"You look lovely," he said, then immediately regretted it. "Beautiful," he corrected; thinking of what his mother said, he further added, "In fact, stunning."

He felt rather than heard her chuckle. "Thank you for the clarification," she said. "You don't look so bad, yourself."

He thought perhaps she was teasing him, and he offered a smile, albeit reserved. It would have been unbecoming, after all, to begin grinning like a fool simply because he was dancing with the prettiest girl with whom he had ever partnered. And yes, consciously perhaps, he did admit she was the prettiest, and that he was attracted to her. It boded well for their marriage, even if their personalities didn't exactly mesh. Perhaps producing heirs would be more than just a duty, after all.

"Thank you, your royal highness," he said.

She leaned in closer, dropped her voice. "You know," she said, "I think at this stage, being that we are betrothed and all, that you should feel free to call me by my given name when we are together."

…

There was one thing she never expected of the crown prince: that she would have liked being in his arms, liked being led around the dance floor by him. Make that two: when she leaned in close to confide that he could drop some of the formality between them, she never would have guessed that he would have smelled so nice. Hints of the deep woods, of spruce and juniper…

"As should you," he said at last, and she leaned away again.

When the song ended, he stepped back, bowing to her; she knew that they were expected to socialise, to dance with others, but she found herself wishing that she could have had another dance. This surprised her, given that the time they had spent in each others' proximity over the last few days had been in cool silence. Maybe it was because of Lord Cleaver, at least on her part; there were things about him that she certainly missed, and she was sad, but not nearly as sad as she thought she would have been. The way he had misled her, had planned on taking advantage of her… it soured her memories, however nice they had been.

Before long, Bridget found herself in the company of Queen Elaine, who greeted her with a fond smile. "I hope that you're enjoying yourself," she said.

"I am, very much, and so everyone else seems to be, too," the queen said. In a more confidential tone, she said, "Even my son looks like he is, and that's something."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," she said. "He's dancing far more than he usually does, even if it is only with those he must." Queen Elaine smiled; Bridget tried to maintain control of her features. Had he only danced with her because he must? Queen Elaine continued, "You seem to be having a grand time."

"I am," she said, and she was, even if dancing with her was only Mark's duty. "I do so love to dance."

"It's clear," she said. After a pause, she said, "I hope you enjoyed dancing with Mark."

"Oh, yes, I did," she said.

At that moment, one of Bridget's oldest friends, Thomas, came to ask for a dance, and with a smile she accepted. She had always liked dancing with him; he was one of the most talented dancers in the entire kingdom. He was also one of her closest confidants, though she had not seen him since her engagement.

"So," said Thomas, "is your dashing Lord Cleaver here this evening? Haven't seen him if is he."

"He is most assuredly not."

Thomas blinked in surprise at the sharpness of her tone. "Why not? I thought you were in l—"

She shushed him. "I thought that I was," she said. "But when I told him I was getting married, he was only happy that it would mean I would lie with him. Then, when I found out that he has a history with Crown Prince Mark, when I asked about it, he lied to me. I won't have that kind of deception."

"Off with his head," hissed Thomas, which made her laugh. He was good at making her laugh, and she needed it at that moment.

"Pardon me."

The two of them turned to see the crown prince himself. She smiled, but was not feeling generous about him at that moment, after his mother's disclosure.

"May I cut in?"

"Of course, your royal high—" began Thomas, stepping back, looking terrified by Mark. Bridget interrupted.

"I'll finish this dance with my friend, Lord Coles, your royal highness."

Mark was clearly not used to being told 'no', and it showed in his expression.

"It's all right," Thomas said. "We'll speak later." He bowed to Mark, then retreated.

Bridget turned fiery eyes towards her betrothed, but said nothing, just stepped into his arms for the dance. Despite her annoyance, his hand on her waist was extraordinarily distracting.

"How do you know Lord Coles?" he asked.

"We have been friends for many years," she said.

"Just friends," he said.

"Yes," she said, then realised he was sounding a bit… "Wait. Are you jealous?"

"Not jealous. Just concerned."

"Concerned about what, exactly?"

"Whether your friendship with Lord Coles is anything like the one you had with…" He trailed off, clearly aware that he might have overstepped his bounds.

"If we weren't in the middle of a ballroom," she said in a quiet, measured voice, staring him straight in the eye, "in the middle of some of the most revered members of the kingdom's populace, I'd slap you for that. And then perhaps I'd do it again."

His gaze did not waver, nor did he flinch. He said at last, "That was uncalled for, and I am sorry. Please accept my apology."

"You're right. It was," she said. "And apology accepted."

The song ended; everyone politely clapped. "Would you care to dance another?" he said, out of the blue. "Or perhaps we could break for refreshment?"

The solicitousness especially surprised her; she supposed he was attempting to make up for his rude comment. "Another dance, I think," she said. "I'm curious to know if there are any surprises awaiting me after we wed."

The music began again, and once more he swept her into a dance. She noticed that beginning the rhythm of dancing again had bought him a little time, and he was clearly using it to think. Even then, he asked only, "You'll have to clarify what you mean by 'surprises'."

"Come now," she said, smiling. "Surely you have a female friend."

She saw the line of his jaw tense. "We are not particularly close friends," he said after several beats of the music. "I do not intend to continue the friendship."

"Once we are wed?"

"Once I am returned home."

Curious. "Is that so? Why?"

"It's an unnecessary complication."

She pondered the meaning. Did he mean it would be too difficult to maintain a mistress on the side? "That is an interesting way to phrase it."

"I don't have any feelings for her."

She didn't respond. What a foreign concept it was to her, to take a mistress and not care for the lady in the least… why else would one take a mistress if not for love, for genuine affection? Was he just that emotionally cold? She felt sorry for him, if so. She supposed she should get used to it, though. She would have to get used to it. He was about to marry her, and he would surely be doing more than kissing her.

While she was lost in her thoughts, he seemed content to allow her to do so. Or perhaps he was lost in his own. In either case, they did not speak again until the music ended, and he gestured towards where the refreshments were. "You look like you are in need of refreshment," he said. He offered an arm to her, and she accepted, too distracted even to wonder exactly what he'd meant by that.

She took her seat in the refreshment area—for there were comfortable chairs reserved for members of the royalty—while he went to get a drink to bring to her. He returned promptly with a glass of wine and a slice of cake, which he set on a small table beside her. "There you are."

"Thank you," she said, then reached for the wine. Never had she needed it more.

"Are you all right?" he asked after some moments in silence.

"Just fine," she said.

More silence, then, "Does it bother you that I had a mistress? Or are you somehow troubled that I'm going to end it with her?" She couldn't believe he would bring this up now, but he supposed they were separated from the others by dint of their station, and he spoke in a low tone. "I would have expected you'd be pleased I planned to end it."

"I'm troubled," she began, equally quietly, "because I had always learnt that royals reserve their loyalty and duty for their spouse, but love for their lovers."

It seemed he did not know what to say to that. "Who in the world told you such a thing?" he asked, at long last. "My mother and father love each other dearly."

She felt her face blaze with the heat of her embarrassment. She felt foolish—of course, her own parents loved each other, too. She couldn't imagine her father taking a mistress. The thought repulsed her.

"Was it Lord Cleaver?" he asked.

"No!" she said quickly, perhaps too emphatically.

He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "I think perhaps he had an ulterior motive, there."

He was probably right, but she said nothing to him on the subject, just focused on drinking from her wine goblet, her thoughts turning over in her head. "So why, then?" she asked. "Why have a mistress you don't love, or even feel a fondness for her? What's in it for you, or for her?"

The timing of her question was poor, she supposed, as he began to cough and choke on his own wine, which he had begun to sip. "Pardon?" he asked, when he could draw breath again.

"I asked what was—"

"I heard you."

"Then why—"

"Please," he interrupted. "Enough. This is a subject I am not prepared to discuss here or now."

Intimacy with a lady that he did not love, just for the act? She did not understand, not at all. As she knew it, the act of intercourse was something to tolerate for the duty of providing a child, all the more tolerable when performed with a partner that was loved and cared about.

"I remind you, sir, that you brought it up," she said. "I only wonder why you would shoulder such an unpleasant duty if you did not have feelings, did not love the lady, that's all."

…

Mark did not quite know what to say, and he was sure this was clear from his expression. It was expected that she would be naïve about men—and he was pleased that she was still innocent in that respect, given her association with Cleaver—but that she would speak of such things to him in a public arena….

Well, as she had pointed out, he had been the one to bring it up. And since she was innocent, she did not realise exactly to what she was referring.

"I wonder, too," he said at last, looking into his glass, then sipped his wine.

After a moment, she said, "The wine is very good. And so is the cake."

He looked back up to her; her expression was wide-eyed and curious, as if she were testing him to see if maybe she'd said the wrong thing. "It is," he said. "Very fine, all of it. The ball has been spectacular. Truly."

"I'm pleased to hear," she said, relaxing, smiling at last.

A voice interrupted them just then. His mother. And she looked a bit upset. "Mark."

Instantly he was on his feet. "What is it?"

"I've just received an express," she said quietly. "There is some concern for your father, and the medics want us home for moral support. We must cut our visit short."

"Oh, no," said Bridget, raising a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to ruin the night, the celebration."

"No. Don't apologise," said Mark. "What about the carriage? Are we to make the journey tonight?"

"No, we'll leave in the morning, first thing," she said. "The staff are helping to prepare the carriage. I just wanted to let you know." She smiled sympathetically. "And I have ruined the night."

"Please don't apologise," Bridget said, taking her hand and grasping it. "I'm glad to know so that I can help in any way I can. We all can."

"Thank you, my dear," she said. "Right now, I think keeping my son company would be of the greatest service. There really is nothing more he can do." At this last sentence, Elaine met Mark's eyes, and he nodded in reassurance; she knew him well, knew he would try to help with the preparation.

For the remainder of the evening, she kept her word, stayed by his side, engaging in far safer topics for conversation. The last of the guests left well after midnight, and the princess was determined to see them off, so he in turn kept her company. Even her parents and his mother had made their excuses and retired for the evening. By the time he decided it was time to retire, they were left with servants who had begun to tidy things up.

"Thank you," he said, "for helping keep my mind from worry."

"I was happy to do so, Mark." At the use of his given name she smiled. "You ought to go get your rest. I expect you shall be leaving very early, directly after your breakfast, to get back to your father as soon as you can."

He nodded; he would not be surprised if they did. "Allow me to walk you to your rooms."

She smiled; she hardly needed it, but it seemed the courteous thing to do. "All right."

The walk was relatively short and spent in silence, though not entirely uncomfortable; in the few days he had been with her, he was not any closer to feeling like he knew her any better, at least before tonight. What he did know, he was intrigued by, and had learned the most about her that very evening, like how she even now was deep in thought, idly pulling off her gloves, despite not being safely quartered in her chambers. He was also attracted to her; there was no question of that after this evening.

"You know," she said, "the next time that I see you will very likely be on our wedding day."

"I am looking forward," he said, for he found he truly was.

"I will say my goodbyes to you now, then," she said as they arrived to her chamber door. She offered a smile, and it was thoroughly genuine, shining through the dimness, the quiet of the hallway, candlelight from the wall sconce lighting her blonde hair, causing it to shine like spun gold. "Try not to worry too much. I'm sure it will be all right."

"I hope you are correct," he said. "Goodnight, and goodbye… Bridget."

He was quite unsure what protocol required next; the fact that they were alone, that she was not chaperoned, that she wore no gloves, was unusual enough. So he decided that, rather than bowing and kissing her hand, that he would gently peck her on the cheek.

The heeled shoes that she wore meant they were closer to the same height, though he still had several inches over her. He leaned forward and down, then, to deliver that departing kiss; close to his ear, he heard her quietly say, "Oh."

Her warm breath was on his cheek; he realised this in realising that he had not yet, after seconds longer than he should have, drawn back. The attraction he felt had flared a hundredfold, and he found it impossible to move back. To be this close to her. To draw her perfume in with his breath.

That was when he felt it, unmistakeable; her soft lips brushing against his own cheek, felt the light exhalation of her breath. He turned his head, half in surprise, half in utter reflex, and placed his lips on her own for a kiss.

She said it again—"Oh"—though it was not in alarm, for unambiguously she kissed him back. He shouldn't have done what he did next, but he did, and there was nothing about it he regretted: he placed his hands upon her, then drew her into his arms, pulling her up against him, parting his lips in an effort to invite a deepening of the kiss.

When she said "Oh" for a third time, it was into his mouth; he kissed her deeply but tenderly, and again she responded fervently. His hands spanned her silk-clad back, moving from her shoulders to her hips.

It was the presence of a solid object—in actual fact, the wall just outside of her chamber door—that snapped him from the fog of his desire. He released her suddenly from the embrace and stepped back, glad at least she had the support of the wall behind her, because she looked flushed and somewhat dazed.

"I apologise," he said, his voice surprisingly husky to even his own ears. "That was taking undue liberties, and I am sorry."

"Please, sir, there is no need to apologise," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. "Especially if it helps you to forget your worries, or consoles you in some way." She stepped forward, placing her naked hand tenderly on his face. "Goodnight," she said. "Until next we meet."

With that she withdrew into her chambers. The gentle thud of her door closing brought him back to his senses. He was still at a loss for what had just happened with her. Never could he recall losing such control when he was alone in the presence of a beautiful girl, not even with his mistress. He turned, then made the short walk from her quarters to his own. In a way, he was grateful that they would be returning home early in the morning, because if he had days and days more in close proximity to her after what they had just shared, he was sure he would have gone mad.

…

Oh my God.

When Bridget closed her chamber door, she leaned back upon it as if to buttress her resolve to stay put, not leave again, run to him, and beg him to kiss her again.

But that wasn't right, nor was it proper. Even if it was stirring feelings within her soul that not even a man she had sworn she'd loved had stirred. How had that happened with just a single kiss?

Finally she pushed away, heading towards her bed; fortunately, getting out of her gown did not require the assistance of her lady's maid. With trembling fingers she plucked open the ties and slipped out of the gown, pulled the pins out of her hair, gently drew the coronet up and off of her head.

She laid the gown over the back of the chair before her dressing table, laid the coronet down on the dressing table, and slipped into a simple chemise in order to go to sleep. However, sleep was elusive, for she was plagued by a singular, all-consuming thought: that the duty that was expected of her in the marriage bed might not be a duty at all. It might actually be something to which she could look forward with a breathless anticipation.

…

"You have been awfully quiet since your return."

Mark turned, saw the slender form of his mistress silhouetted in the light. Lady Natasha, young widow of the late Lord Glenville. Tall, lithe, and with her glossy dark hair, dark brown eyes, and sharp, well-defined features, she was considered one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. He now had to tell her he had no further need of her.

"My father was ill," he said, "and I've been busy making preparations."

"Ah, yes, your wedding," she said with a smile. "To the princess of Grafton Underwood."

"Yes." He kept his face neutral.

"I am pleased to hear your father's much improved," she said. "But I doubt you asked me here to talk about him."

"You'd be correct," he said. "Please, have a seat." He gestured towards an armchair.

"Ah," she said. "I don't suppose you've called me here for a… social call, either."

"No," he said, sitting in another chair across from her. "I'm afraid I must bring our involvement to an end."

Her precisely shaped brows lifted. "Is this at the request of the princess?" she asked. "You know I'm perfectly willing to—"

"No." He considered his words. "It feels like the right thing to do, to not betray the vows I'm making."

"You don't even know her," she said. "It's an arranged marriage, for pity's sake." After a pause, she added, "If only you and I could—"

"Please," he said. "I don't wish to drag this out any longer than I must."

"It's all right," she said. "I understand."

"Thank you for that."

But then she continued. "I never really thought I could have competed with another royal, anyway."

He said nothing. He was content to let her believe whatever she needed to be to make it as clean as possible. He smiled a tight smile. "Until next we meet."

She, too, smiled a thin, joyless smile. "Until then."

Lady Natasha rose as did he; she bowed deferentially, then she took her leave of him. He in turn left the room to go and see his father, Malcolm, who was up and out of bed, and sitting by the window, enjoying the sunshine that streamed in, as he partook of his midday meal of cold meat pie. "Mark, my boy!" he said with a cheerful smile. "Good to see you."

"Hello, Father," he said. The improvement in his appearance in the week since they had returned from Grafton Underwood was marked; his cheeks were pink, his eyes shining with returning health. "I see you've got your appetite back."

"I do indeed," he said. "After I'm done, I'm taking a tour around the palace grounds with your mother. I'll need my stamina for the long journey down the aisle at the cathedral."

Mark smiled. The fact that he was making jokes was a good sign; Mark patted his father's shoulder affectionately.

"How are the plans coming along?"

"They're going well, from what I hear," Mark said, sitting at the table with his father. "I don't have much to do with it, and my opinion is not often required. Mother insisted on overseeing things on this end, but her top advisors are handling the arrangements and communicating with the advisors who are doing the planning for her royal highness in Grafton Underwood."

"Splendid, splendid," he said, then picked up his tankard and had a long draw of what Mark supposed was lager of some sort. Definitely feeling improved. "And everything will be ready in a month's time?"

"I am quite confident that it will," he said. At first, Mark hadn't cared one way or another about when the wedding would occur, but he found himself eager to see the day come, based on the strength of that single kiss.

Single, he thought, but of a wonderfully long duration.

"Quite a little beauty, the princess," said Malcolm. "That's what your mother's told me. Good head on her shoulders, and excellent child-bearing hips. All you really need from your wife."

He was glad, and not for the first time, that his mother did the bulk of the public speaking, because his father was an expert at meaning well but saying precisely the wrong thing. Like now. "If you say so, Father." He smiled, then decided to take his leave. "Enjoy your perambulations later."