Thank you for your continued interest and support. I appreciate it.
I do not mown Merlin or the characters, neither do I own Wicked In Your Arms.
The following evening, the ladies retired to the drawing room after dinner and the gentlemen departed for cigars and brandy in the library.
Portia made it a point to rebuff Gwen and her sister Elizabeth, gathering Lady Phillipa and Willohmena close and herding them to a chaise near the fire.
Elizabeth whispered near Gwen's ear...
"Lady Phillipa is purported to have a fortune nearly as large as our own."
At that, Gwen arched a brow and surveyed the lovely young woman... The firelight gilded her curls a lovely gold. She would meet no difficulty in securing an offer even without a fortune, because her title and beauty alone would see to that.
"Indeed," she replied.
"No competition for us though. At least as I hear it. She's not here for the viscount."
"No? The duke then?"
"Well, perhaps. He should like to win her hand, I imagine." Elizabeth leaned in again, her voice dropping even lower... "She's baited her hook for a bigger fish than that. It is said the prince has already spoken with her father. They occupied the library at great length yesterday. Just the two of them."
Gwen's heart plummeted to her stomach. She drew a ragged breath and rose to her feet, uncertain why such news should affect her.
Did she think a few stares and stilted words from the prince meant he might actually be interested in her as a bridal candidate?
He had already told her know she was acceptable for dalliance and nothing more. Lady Phillipa would be an ideal match. Precisely the type of lady the prince had traveled to London to find.
She possessed it all...wealth, breeding, youth and gentility.
Gwen approached the dowager and babbled an excuse...
"I'm afraid I'm still wearied from travel, Your Grace."
"Of course," her hostess clucked. "According to your father the journey north was quite the trial. No wonder you're wearied."
"I shall stay on a bit longer," Elizabeth said, even as she settled herself down on the sofa beside the dowager.
With a murmured good night to all, Gwen lifted her skirts and departed the room. Her fingers caressed the deep red silk of her skirts as she moved up the stairs.
The had modiste insisted she wear deep, lush colours because they would complement her colouring. But tonight, beside the light and pastel colours of the other young ladies, she'd felt obtrusive.
It was as though she was proclaiming herself different. But she was the older groom-hunting female with unfortunate dusky skin and unfortunate curly black hair that could hardly be contained in its pins.
She despised this feeling of being somehow... less. She'd never thought anything was wrong with her before, contrary to the stinging remarks her neighbours made about her.
She genuinely liked who she was. She didn't want to change. Even after she married, she'd still be herself.
She would find a gentleman who didn't mind that he'd married a woman who steered clear of needlepoint and watercolors...
The prince would never be that man.
Her steps slowed as she approached the study...
The sound of male laughter rumbled from the parted doors. And she couldn't help peering within the male-only sanctuary.
She told herself it was simply curiosity. That she was not looking for anyone in particular.
Her gaze swept over the half-dozen assembled gentlemen sitting in the smoke-fogged room and landed on the prince, who was standing near the hearth.
Ever his stern, unsmiling self, he seemed at ease, if not a bit bored in his setting...
Her father's jarring voice was instantly recognizable. Her gaze sought and spotted him...at the precise moment he caught sight of her.
She jerked back into motion, hastening down the corridor, but she didn't make it very far before she heard her name.
With a deep breath, she turned and faced her father...
Reginald Davies approached, his expression stormy.
"Gwen? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why aren't you with the rest of the ladies?"
She released a heavy breath.
"I'm tired."
His eyes flashed...
"Tired? You can sleep later. You agreed..."
"Yes," she snapped. "You needn't remind me. I'm to court the dowager's grandson and any other gentleman of worthy rank." Her voice sounded as tired as she suddenly felt. "I can do that well enough tomorrow. I won't even see the gentlemen again until then. It's just the ladies in the drawing room."
He motioned wildly behind him...
"You should be in there with Elizabeth cozying up to the dowager, winning her over so that she pushes her grandson into proposing!"
"Fear not," she bit out, feeling the heat creep up her face. "I'll get a proposal. Some fine lord desperate for funds won't pass up the fortune you're offering. Who I am, what I am, or how I behave won't overly signify. If it did, neither one of us would have been permitted past the gates!"
He rubbed his hands together with excitement, not registering her bitter tone.
"It is splendid isn't it? We're actually at a house party with the Crown Prince of Camelot! I never thought such a day would arrive." His gaze snapped back to her. "You need to put on your best performance. A fat dowry alone won't do the trick with these swells. Use your feminine wiles. You're your mother's daughter. You must have some skill in that arena."
The heat in Gwen's face was blistering now. Her father's words shouldn't sting her...her skin was tougher than that...but they did.
"Don't speak of my mother."
He shrugged...
"I've a right to do so. After all, she and I were..."
"One more word on the subject and I'll leave."
She knew next to nothing of her mother's relationship with him and she preferred to keep it that way.
The knowledge that they had conceived her was enough. She wanted to keep the stories Papa told her about her mother as her only facts. Not whatever sordid tale this man would spin.
Her father puffed his chest and tugged at his waistcoat...
"You need to make your mind up if you really want to do this."
"I do!"
"Then make yourself amenable and stop being such a contrary creature." He looked her up and down. "Aside of my fortune there's not much to recommend you to this lot."
"Nor you!" she bit back. "You eat your soup like a pig at a trough!"
For a moment it looked like he might explode at her, but then a grin split his weathered face...
"Yes, I have my share of flaws. Perhaps that's what makes us family. As ourselves, we're thoroughly defective."
Without another word he turned and left her standing in the corridor.
Defective.
The word sat like a boulder in Gwen's stomach.
That's probably how the prince saw her.
In that moment, she wished she'd never met her father...that she'd never discovered who he was. Because the mystery of him that she'd lived with for most of her life was better than this reality.
But then Thomas swam before her eyes and she recalled that she'd come because she had to. There had been nothing left for her in Wales. She couldn't have remained on as Thomas' game master after everything.
Her fate rested in her hands now...
Turning, she fled down the corridor, away from her father, away from the library and away from the deep voices of the men.
She would forge her destiny in her own way and time. Not because Reginald Davies demanded it of her.
Arthur stepped from the shadows, watching thoughtfully as Miss Davies fled the corridor. As far as he was concerned, her father was as foul and brutish as the lowest fishmonger.
And yet, Miss Davies had stood toe to toe with him.
Dignified even.
Regal as a queen.
He winced and shook his head, quickly banishing that thought. He'd seen queens... Known several, including his own mother and grandmother. And Miss Gwen Davies was nothing like them.
She was not at all refined and distinguished. And she'd never be deferential to her husband. She'd never speak with slow gentle tones that charmed audiences.
He would keep searching until he found a woman like that. He'd keep searching until he succeeded in finding a suitable female to be the future queen of Camelot.
He'd promised his grandfather as much.
That was the foremost concern... Who the future queen would be. Not who would be the woman he'd bind his body and soul to before God.
He doubted such a woman would ever exist for him. And he didn't have the luxury of finding her.
Even knowing this, believing it with every fiber of his being, he found himself walking away from his shadowed corner, away from the library full of men eager for his company.
With hard, firm steps he followed in the wake of Miss Davies.
Shortly upon fleeing her father, Gwen quickly realized she was lost in the labyrinth of hallways.
With her head spinning and temper high, she hadn't paid much attention to which corridor led to her bedchamber.
Biting her lip, she studied each door...
She seemed to recall that her bedchamber had been towards the end of a corridor and on the right. Yes, definitely the right.
Selecting a door she imagined looked familiar, she closed her hand around the latch and eased it open to peer inside.
But she was mistaken... The chamber was not hers.
In fact, it was not a bedchamber at all. Several instruments stared back at her, nestled among furnishings of faded and worn fabric.
Moonlight bathed the room, streaming through the parted draperies. And she stepped more fully into the pearlescent light, her steps muffled on the carpet.
A reverent hush lingered in the room, as if every instrument within waited in anticipation for her to attend them and create music.
As if they'd been waiting years for someone to care about them again.
A wistful smile curved Gwen's lips. And she drifted further inside the bereft room, letting her fingers stroke the strings of a beautiful harp.
Papa had loved music. Almost every household in Wales possessed a harp. Many an hour he had sat before the fire and played either the harp or his hornpipe for her.
Her smile wavered a bit as thoughts of him rushed over her... She missed him. Especially on an evening like this...when faced with Reginald Davies and the glaring reality that he would never be that kind of father to her.
He would never doting and affectionate. That was something she'd lost and could never reclaim.
A lump thickened in Gwen's throat as she accepted that she may never know that kind of unconditional love again.
She fought to swallow, but try as she might, she couldn't dislodge the thick lump.
Without lifting the instrument, she strummed a few chords of the harp, closing her eyes against the surge of emotion rising within her...
'Papa, if you were still here none of this would be happening. I'd be safe at home with you. I wouldn't so desperately crave acceptance and respectability because the love you gave me always meant more than any of that. I could tolerate it all when I had you.'
She couldn't help the pathetic thoughts from winding through her head. It was weak and useless thinking, but she allowed herself the feelings.
For now.
Tomorrow she would be her stalwart self again and forget that deep down she longed for something as ephemeral as love.
Footfalls sounded behind her and Gwen whirled around, almost expecting to find her father returning to castigate her further.
But it wasn't him. No, worse than that...
It was the prince.
She inhaled thinly through her nostrils and blinked burning eyes, determined that he not see the evidence of how close to tears she was.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Following me now? Haven't you someone else to bother?" She blinked free the lingering burn in her eyes. "Someone who might welcome your attentions? You're a bloody prince after all. You shouldn't be caught speaking with me."
Arthur stared, saying nothing. And Gwen's chest tightened even as she gazed upon his face, his features starkly handsome in the room's gloom, even though tense and brooding as usual.
She gave a harsh laugh, shaking her head.
"What do you want?"
He merely stared...
She stared at him in frustration, wondering why he did not speak... wondering why he was here at all. Had he come to insult her with another indecent proposition?
An ever so helpful reminder of where he thought she belonged in the order of things?
Or had he come to bewilder her further by treating her almost kindly...as when he had complimented her singing.
The prince however, slid a hand inside his deep black waistcoat and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to her with a steady hand.
She stared at the pristine white square rather resentfully.
"What's that for?"
"There appears to be a...glimmer in your eyes," he explained, his words stoic, like he was uncomfortable pointing out the fact that she was on the verge of tears.
"There is not!" she snapped.
Just the same, she snatched the fabric from his hands, careful not to brush his blunt-tipped fingers.
Then she turned and dabbed at her eyes.
After a moment, she peered over her shoulder, tensing, waiting, dreading for him to ask why she was upset.
The last thing she wanted to do was unburden herself to him.
As if he would care.
She dropped her gaze to the soft patch of linen in her hands and looked back at him curiously...
Well, perhaps he cared a little. At least enough to extend her the courtesy of his handkerchief.
A fact which did not mesh with the opinion she'd formed of him.
Frowning, she motioned back towards the doors...
"Any number of individuals would gladly grovel at your feet. You are wasting your exalted company on me."
She offered him back his handkerchief.
He shrugged and accepted it, replying with an idleness that set her teeth on edge,
"One can only abide so much groveling."
"So you seek someone who will not pander to your ego, is that it? Is that why you've followed me? You wish to consort with someone who will denounce you for what you are?"
"And what am I?" His eyes danced with something dangerously akin to merriment as he stepped before her. Close. Too bloody close. "Do enlightenment me."
Suddenly, she could smell him. He smelled like no man she'd ever smelled. Not that she went about sniffing men, but she'd stood close to a few.
He smelled clean and crisp and... and manly.
Was that a scent?
A faint whiff of brandy also teased her nose. Was this what a prince smelled like, then?
She swallowed, suddenly unable to speak. His nearness rattled her. And her tongue struggled to form the words.
"Come now, Miss Davies, you claim to possess the courage to denounce me," he said. He looked her up and down.
His seductive voice stroked like velvet against her skin. His voice was an aphrodisiac, impossible to resist. And she took a hasty step back.
She had to. Otherwise she would be just what he'd judged her to be... not a lady at all...no better than a light-skirt.
"I do!" she retorted. "You're a bounder...and a snob!" She lifted her chin a notch. Not such a simple task when he stood so much taller than her. "And you'll not see me making a ninny of myself simply because you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth!"
Gwen knew it was wrong, perhaps, but he became the perfect target for her ire...for the despondency that had filled her the moment she stepped within this room.
He'd never known what it felt like to be lost or lonely...or rejected for the circumstances of his birth.
The circumstances of his birth afforded him great advantages.
"And why is that, Miss Davies? Why are you so opposed to showing me the due reverence everyone else does?" he prompted, his keen eyes fixed on her in that ever unnerving way.
"Aside from the boorish things I overheard you say about me upon our first encounter?"
For some reason she couldn't make herself bring up the reminder of his proposition.
Just the two of them, alone in a room no one would likely enter... It seemed a bad idea.
As though she perhaps wanted him to remember. As though she wanted him to recall that he'd found her attractive and put his hands on her...
"Why should you take my words so personally? You are illegitimate. You're the daughter to a man with a most unsavory reputation." Even as he spoke, his expression remained cool and impassive, as though he was not being the least insulting. "Fortune withstanding, you are exceedingly unsuitable."
"And what are you?" she shot back, her temper simmering at a dangerous degree. She inhaled a deep, angry breath that lifted her chest high. "You're nothing more than a penniless prince with a country drowning in debt!"
Arthur's mild expression dissolved. And a steeliness entered his eyes, but still she pushed on...
"I've heard the tales. Gossip flows both ways. Just as you've heard the rumours about me, I've heard the whispers about you. Your ego and arrogance are certainly without justification given your dire straits, and yet you still act the haughty prince..."
"I am a prince! With all the responsibilities and duties that accompany the title," he countered. "It's not an act , Miss Davies."
The tightness of his formal address should've alerted Gwen to his sudden turn of mood, but still she could not hold her tongue.
Abruptly, he became the cause of it all...everything that was wrong in her world.
"A prince of a lost kingdom!" she shot back. She knew she was being unkind, but he had not been particularly kind to her. "I heard you lost half the men in your kingdom to the war."
Arthur's expression altered... The carved mask of stone cracked... And she knew she had pushed too far.
He grasped her arm and yanked her close, thrusting his face near hers...
"It was never my war. I didn't start it. I was scarcely a man when it began, but I had to face the hard reality of it. I sure as hell didn't want it, but I ended it. Take heed, you know nothing of which you speak!" he hissed.
She glared down at where he'd gripped her arm.
"Perhaps the ladies in your kingdom find primeval manhandling charming... perhaps even the delightful Lady Phillipa would enjoy such treatment. Why don't you seek her out and unhand me?"
He said nothing...
Simply stared...clung to her arm with hard fingers.
Gwen inhaled raggedly, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths. She couldn't remember ever feeling so angry. And truth be told, it wasn't all entirely at Arthur.
She found herself frustrated with this whole wretched scenario of finding a husband...a man who only wanted to marry her for her sudden fortune.
It was becoming quite the distasteful task, contrary to the hope she had felt when she started this whole endeavor.
She shook her head... This night had simply been too much. And her temper had gotten away with her.
She glared down at the prince's hand on her arm. He followed her gaze before lifting his stare back to her face.
"Perhaps Lady Phillipa is a lady who doesn't go about casting aspersions on those whom she does not know."
"Perhaps," Gwen returned, not about to argue that she was more ladylike than the elegant Lady Phillipa. Garbed in her silks and satins, she felt about as out of place as an elephant in the dowager's drawing room.
The moment stretched interminably, so unbearably intense as they stared at each other that Gwen thought she could hear the rush of blood in her ears.
She felt the clear shape of Arthur's hand and each press of his fingers on her arm. And the awareness of their closeness, the shocking intimacy of the situation, came crashing down over her.
Her gaze flicked around the empty music room with its lonely instruments...
Her skin snapped, awake and alive. In fact all of her felt alive...
More alive than she had felt in quite some time.
Then her gaze drifted and settled on his perfectly carved lips...
Temptation incarnate.
A man's lips should not look so beautiful.
He was as seductive as the princes of all her girlhood fairytales. And for a moment she allowed herself to forget that this prince lacked the heroic qualities to accompany such looks, that he thought her unsuitable, a mere nobody rubbing elbows with her betters.
With a deep breath, she let herself forget all of that.
She let herself step outside her numb self and dive into life...
Before she could regain her common sense and think to stop herself and before she could let him think enough to stop her, she stood on her tiptoes and slid a hand around his neck, delighting in the sensation of his silky hair against her fingers.
This...
She'd have this before sentencing herself to a cold marriage of practicality, to a life of loneliness.
Stay safe!