How to Pursue a Princess (16 page)

Tata leaned forward and poked the duchess’s arm with a bony, gnarled finger. “Listen to me, you old harridan. My grandson is
better
than your goddaughter, and you’re a—”

“Tata!” Wulf slipped an arm about Tata’s waist and drew her to his side. “You’ve had too much wine.”

“I’ve only had—”

“It is late and time we returned home. Your grace, I apologize for my grandmother’s ill temper.”

Tata opened her mouth, so he held her a bit
tighter. That worked, for she gasped but could say nothing.

“That’s quite all right,” the duchess said in a frosty tone. “
Some
people can’t handle their wine.”

He increased the pressure on Tata’s waist to keep her from answering, and with a quick bow to the duchess, he turned to Lily. He met her gaze, a million words flooding his mind, all of them hot and passionate and not a one that he could say in front of a crowd.

He hoped she could read in his eyes what he couldn’t say. He managed a quick incline of his head and then, holding Tata Natasha firmly by his side, he left.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
I was never more insulted in all of my life. To come into
my
house and tell me what to do! I was ready to strangle that woman. Sadly, the prince bustled her away before I could have her thrown out as she deserved. He, at least, was contrite for her behavior. But she— Oh! The nerve!

It would serve her right if I decided to match her precious grandson with Lily. It’s a pity the man has no funds, for I’d like nothing more than to show that old hag who knows how to control whom!

Inside the cottage, Vladimir Arsov stirred the fire and then returned the poker to the rack. Turning to the prince, he said with notable satisfaction, “The fire is stoked. The chimney draws very well.”

Wulf sat at the table, sharpening a large knife on a leather strop tied to the back of a chair. “You sound surprised that my chimney functions at all. You’ve been listening too much to my Tata Natasha.”

Arsov grinned. “I don’t listen to old witches.” A square man, he had a shock of thick brown hair and a horrible scar across his left cheek and shoulder from a threshing-machine accident at age sixteen that had left him near death. Though he’d recovered, he was no longer able to work in the mill as his arm could hold no weight.

Fortunately, an uncle who was a groom in the palace had brought Arsov to the stables to see if the boy could be of use there. Though young, Arsov had a commanding presence, one made more so by the scar on his face. Before long he had organized the younger grooms and stable hands into an efficient, well-oiled machine. The horses were never better taken care of; the five stables had never been so clean. The head groom was ecstatic and Arsov was given a permanent place.

Over time, Wulf heard of Arsov’s efforts. When Wulf stopped by to congratulate the new groom on his accomplishments, he’d been surprised to find Arsov reading a book of Greek translations. A short conversation had revealed that Arsov’s father had been a tutor to a wealthy family and had given his own sons a love of reading and a wide knowledge of the ancient languages.

Wulf had just turned fourteen, but something about this quiet, older lad had appealed to him, and on the spot he’d made Arsov his personal servant and captain of his guards. That had been almost twenty years ago, and Wulf had never regretted it.

“Old witches are stubborn.” Wulf continued sharpening the knife. After a moment he said, “She tried to put a curse on Miss Balfour tonight.”

“She always resorts to the old ways when she is frustrated.”

“She must get used to being frustrated, for I am a grown man and will decide my own way.”

Arsov grunted his agreement. “Perhaps you should have a talk with her.”

“Another one? It will do no good.” Wulf smoothed the blade over the leather strop. “I have asked her to come here and talk, but she will not. Perhaps that is good.”

Arsov shot him a curious look. “You are angry with her.”

“Angry” wasn’t a strong enough word. “She interfered where she had no right.”

“She often does.” Arsov looked about the small cottage. “This house is well crafted.”

“But not as comfortable as the manor house?”

Arsov shrugged. “There is a bed for me there and none for me here.”

“You would find it too small.”

“Most likely.” He took the chair opposite Wulf’s and slapped his stomach. “I’ve grown fat and lazy in your service, my prince.”

“So it seems.” Wulf lifted a brow at Arsov. “The chimneys in the manor house, do they smoke as much as Tata complains they do?”

“Far less than the ones in her grace’s house in the
old country. It does not truly bother her, if that is your worry.”

“She’s an old woman. I need to remember that.”

“Old and stubborn.” At Wulf’s surprised glance, Arsov added, “She has been very kind to me, though.”

“That’s a lie.”

Arsov’s lips twitched. The grand duchess barely countenanced Arsov, thinking he’d been offered a position he hadn’t deserved. “Your grandmother says your cottage is not fit for a prince.”

“It’s fit for this prince.” Wulf glanced around with satisfaction. “It’s warm, snug, and well built. The chimney doesn’t smoke, the thatched roof is now repaired, and the doors and shutters have been fixed—I am happy here, Arsov. Happier than I would be in that cold stone block of a manor house.”

“Which is exactly why your grandmother hates it.”

“Her feelings are many and fervent.”

Arsov’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “As you say, Your Highness. It would be difficult to find happiness if one attempted to live by the duchess’s definition.”

“Yes. Her idea of happiness revolves around the number of invitations one receives and how many compliments are paid to one’s jewels.”

“Such is the way of those who weren’t born with many jewels, Your Highness. From a distance, one can come to believe that the sparkle means happiness.”

Wulf looked at his Arsov thoughtfully. “You’ve been reading Plato again.”

Arsov inclined his head. “You should read him sometime.”

“I prefer Hume.”

“He has much to say, too.” Arsov’s dark gaze rested on Wulf’s face. “Pardon me, my prince, but I am confused.”

“Yes?”

“You wish this woman to value you and not your money. And yet that money could remove her family’s hardships.”

“You
have
been listening to Tata Natasha.”

“
Nyet
, or I would have used the terms ‘mad’ and ‘ridiculous.’ ”

Wulf chuckled. “True.”

“If this woman would choose you over her family obligations, doesn’t that prove that she is not the sort of woman one should marry?”

Wulf placed the knife on the table and untied the strop from the chair. “If she comes to me as I am, without money, even though she has need of it, it will mean that she trusts that, together, we can find a way out of her difficulties.”

Arsov nodded. “Then I hope that she may come to her senses.” After a moment he rose and stretched. “I should return. Your Tata Natasha should be tired from her ranting and will be asleep by now.”

“You can hope.” Wulf tucked his knife into the sheath inside his boot. “If not, feel free to return and sleep before the fire.”

“I may do that. Do you need me for anything else, my prince? I washed your shirts and placed them in your wardrobe.”

“Thank you, Arsov. That will be all.”

“Good evening, then.” With a bow, the servant left.

When Wulf had first hired Arsov, the man hadn’t known how to tie a cravat or shine boots, but Wulf hadn’t cared. The man was resourceful, organized, and intelligent. And Arsov hadn’t disappointed Wulf; he’d learned his duties quickly and efficiently. It had helped that Wulf was no fop and cared little for the starch of his cravats and whether his leather boots shone like mirrors. He mocked men who thought such trivialities were important.

Real men did not care about their boots, except whether they had enough heel to hook into a stirrup. Wulf rose, careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling as he went to the small desk he’d had brought from the manor house. While much of the other furniture was rustic, some of it rejected pieces from the servants’ chambers, he’d needed a desk and there were no spares to be had. He’d finally selected one from among the manor’s many sitting rooms, as it was small enough to fit in the limited space.

He ran his hand over the surface. It was too fine a piece for the cottage, but functional, with an assortment of drawers for storing his correspondence. He looked at an overflowing drawer and grimaced, for the morning’s missives were still waiting. There was no
such thing as an idle prince; travel or no, Wulf’s duties followed him.

He picked up the packet and broke the seal, then picked up his pen to answer the missives within. He’d just dipped the pen into the inkwell when the faint clop-clop of a horse’s hooves coming down the path made him lift his head. He replaced the pen and went to the window. Through the woods, he could see the flicker of a red cape that he knew very well. His heart lurched in his chest. He grinned and hurried out of the cottage, but it wasn’t Lily who sat astride the large, plodding horse, but a pale-haired servant girl who looked as nervous as a fawn.

He swallowed his disappointment. “Yes?” he asked courteously.

“Och, ye really do live in a cottage. I thought—” She blushed. “I’m sorry, Yer Highness. I was jus’ surprised, is all. I was tol’ t’ bring ye this.” She fumbled in her cloak and then held out a missive sealed with a round button of blue wax.

Wulf took the letter, his gaze drawn to the flowing writing that sailed across the crisp foolscap.
Lily. Perhaps you have come to me after all.
He opened it and held it to one side so that the light from the cottage fell across the page.

Wulf,

I must speak with you. Meet me in the meadow by the river tomorrow at three and I’ll explain all.

L

His smile widened.
Finally, she calls for me.
“Tell your mistress that I’ll be there, come rain or wind or the devil himself.”

The girl’s expression softened and she said in a pleased tone, “ ’Deed I will, Yer Highness.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin and handed it to the servant.

She looked astonished at the bright coin. “ ’Tis gold!”

“So it is.”

“Indeed!” She carefully slipped it into her pocket. “Thank ’ee, Yer Highness.”

“You’re welcome. Be careful returning. Stay on the main path.” He turned the horse for her and saw her off, watching until she was well out of sight. Then he patted the letter that he’d placed in his pocket over his heart and grinned. It was a beginning.

Feeling better than he had all week, he went back into the cottage.

From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
Poets always compare love to roses. They both grow, both have thorns, both are beautiful . . . and they both require a good, thorough mulching at least twice a year, preferably by a master gardener. Even nature needs help now and then.

Lily turned her horse down the path, following the other guests in their small party. There were ten in all, and two grooms, too. The presence of the grooms had surprised her; she’d have to find a way to deal with them somehow.

Beside her, Lord MacKeane chatted on and on about an Italian manuscript he’d once purchased for a huge amount at an estate outside of Lyons. Lily could only suppose that his story explained why he was in such financial straits today.

She was rather glad MacKeane was more interested in reliving what was apparently a fond memory rather than having an actual conversation, for she had
no desire to talk to him. In fact, she’d spent much of the last half hour trying to figure out a way to be rid of him and the entire riding party.

Last night Lily had realized that she could no longer hope to simply chance upon a private conversation with Wulf, even though it was becoming increasingly important that she warn him of Emma’s probable purpose in paying him such close attention. After the scene between Lily, the duchess, and Wulf’s grandmother, people would be watching them all, hoping for additional drama. And so Lily had done something she’d never thought to do—she’d arranged an unchaperoned assignation with a single man, a meeting that, if discovered, could ruin her reputation.

It was a large risk, but it had to be done. Though for different reasons, both she and Huntley were distracted with worry over the prince and Emma’s relationship, and it was impeding their ability to think about anything else. It hadn’t helped that since the day of the picnic, the duchess had tossed the two together at every juncture. Something must be done, and soon.

Lily looked up along the line of riders to where Emma rode beside Huntley, who’d apparently issued the warning he’d been dying to since the day of the picnic. The talk was not going well; Emma’s color was high, and the hard, incredulous looks she was shooting his way were far from her usual calm, smiling gaze. Huntley, too, was flushed, his mouth thinned, his brows drawn. It was proof that Lily was right: Emma’s
refusal to give up Wulf proved beyond a doubt that the older woman had designs on the prince.

The path turned, and to the right of them lay a small hill that hid the meadow where Lily had asked Wulf to meet her. Lily peeked at the small watch pinned to the lapel of her riding habit and was relieved to see that she had twenty minutes still, plenty of time to follow the group farther down the trail, slip away unnoticed, and make her way back to the field. It would take only a few moments to express her concerns to the prince, then before anyone had time to launch a search party, she’d be back on her way to rejoin the group, claiming a lost kerchief or some such nonsense.

It was a perfect plan.

Except for the grooms.

And Lord MacKeane, who’d attached himself to her side.

Fine, maybe it isn’t such a perfect plan, but I
must
make this work.

She cast a glance over her shoulder and met the gaze of the groom who followed the group. He touched the brim of his hat and inclined his head. She smiled and turned back as Lord MacKeane droned on and on, now describing a Dutch painting he’d once purchased for an incredible amount of money.