The Wild Princess

Three



Louise watched the door slowly close, shutting her, alone, inside the Lavender Suite at Claremont House.

Hushed voices came to her from the hallway outside. Lady Car taking her leave for the night. Amanda passing by Lorne with little Eddie in hand, perhaps teasing a blushing bridegroom with a saucy remark about his wedding night.

Louise sat down on the edge of the bed, its embroidered coverlets already turned back to reveal an expanse of pure white linen. She held her breath, waiting for Lorne to step through the door.

Feeling light-headed with anticipation, she at last remembered to breathe. She straightened the delicate peach silk nightgown, trimmed with baby pearls and ecru lace, and pulled the hem down to demurely cover her ankles.

The door remained shut.

She rested folded hands in her lap. Her stomach clenched. Her head spun. She closed her eyes on a wave of nausea.

More than anything, Louise wanted to start her marriage by establishing a relationship of trust and mutual respect. If she said or did anything this very first night to make her young husband angry or turn him against her, they’d never develop the lovely intimacy her mother and father had shared.

She drew another breath and settled herself a few inches farther back on the mattress. Rearranged her gown to reveal, through the side slit, the curve of her calf and a slim ankle. Tugged the neckline down just a wee bit.

Never had showing a modest hint of décolletage hurt a woman’s negotiations with a man. Louise stared at the door.

It did not open.

The voices had stopped; Lorne must be alone now. And he’d know she was ready. Wouldn’t he?

Perhaps she should call out to him. Invite him to enter. He couldn’t possibly be waiting for a formal invitation when it was his right to come in and take her, whether or not she was prepared physically or emotionally. But, she reminded herself, Lorne was a gentle soul. Always so thoughtful and concerned for others’ feelings whenever she’d been around him.

Louise slid back all the way onto the bed, drew her legs up under her, turned and plumped up three lavender-scented pillows at the head of the bed, then lounged back against them in a seductive pose. Encouragement, that’s what the poor man needed. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered that he might be as nervous as she about their first night as a married couple. Though, of course, not for the same reason.

She had a confession to make. And by now it had wedged itself like a lump of stale bread in her throat.

Her head began to ache. She looked down at her hands, unclenched them and blotted her damp palms on the sheets.

What on earth was he doing out there?

She was just about to call out to her husband when a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?” More of a croak than a word. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, Lorne, please come in.”

The door swung open slowly, and he stepped through.

She had been prepared to see him in his nightshirt. Or perhaps wrapped in a silk robe. Or even, if he were in an uncharacteristically aggressive mood, entirely naked. She was surprised—no, shocked!—to see he was fully dressed, just as she’d left him nearly two hours earlier, all but for the sword. He still wore the high-collared blue military jacket with braiding, medals, polished black boots and belt. He looked trim and vigorous and glorious, but not at all ready for bed.

Lorne took two steps into the room, his brilliant blue eyes roaming the spacious chamber, as if it were a foreign territory he’d been sent to conquer. He fixed first on the dressing table where Car had arranged her crystal atomizers, gold brush and comb, and velvet jewel case in which rested her wedding diamonds. Then his gaze swept the rest of the room. He seemed almost startled when he found her already on the bed.

Wrong, she thought in desperation, realizing her mistake in trying to play the seductress. He was evidently terribly shy. And now she’d made it all worse by her sultry posing. She tucked her bare ankles up under the bottom flounce of her gown. Poor boy. He’d been out in the other room, building up his courage, and here she was playing the vamp.

She patted the bed beside her. “I was just trying to relax,” she said giving him an encouraging smile. “It’s been such an exhausting day, hasn’t it?”

He dipped his squared-off chin in acknowledgment, but his eyes didn’t entirely meet hers.

She frowned. “Do you like the gown?” What an asinine thing to say, Louise. But it was all she could think of at the moment with her heart racing so.

At last, he gave her an overall scan, and blushed. “Very much. You’ve never looked lovelier, my dear.”

My dear. That was progress.

She patted the bed again. “Come sit with me. Let’s just talk.” She drew a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you, Lorne.” And suddenly the conversation she’d rehearsed a hundred times seemed tenfold more difficult. Nevertheless she steeled herself and held out her hand to him.

He straightened his long, lean form and strode quickly toward her, his eyes bright and wide, their celebrated blue more dazzling than the delicious cobalt hue she often chose for her palette when painting a landscape sky. As he came closer she could see the perspiration dampening his collar.

No matter. She’d get the hard part out of the way quickly. Reassure him that Donovan—no, don’t say his name!—reassure him that she had been but a child, innocent, foolish, uneducated as to the ways of men when she’d let herself be led astray just once. She’d swear to him that this stranger from her past meant absolutely nothing to her and, indeed, she hadn’t seen him in years. He’d disappeared from her life.

Well, at least that last part was true. Donovan Heath had well and good vanished, just as certainly as if God’s hand had reached down from heaven and plucked him up to heaven. But, ah, how she’d adored that boy. What might have come of them if they’d stayed together? Both struggling young artists, though he was from a different social class entirely and never would have been accepted by Victoria.

She jumped, startled when the mattress dipped, bringing her back to her wedding night and Lorne. Louise shook her head, chasing away memories of the young man who had so charmed her when she was but eighteen years old.

She looked up at her husband as he crooked a knee to balance one hip on the edge of the mattress. He leaned toward her, kissed her ever so gently on the forehead, then took her hands in his. “You may well be the most beautiful woman in all of London,” he murmured, his voice a touch hoarse with emotion. “I swear I’ve never seen lovelier.”

“Lorne.” She was moved nearly to tears by his sincerity. And this from a man who, if men could be called beautiful, truly was. His smooth almost boyish face was unravaged by the sun, despite his love of the outdoors. His eyes shone with the innocence of youth yet his mouth was full lipped and sensual. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to really kiss him, to feel his lips and hands on her body.

This can work. This has to work.

She’d wait to tell him she was no longer a virgin until after they had made love. He’d of course by then have discovered the truth for himself, but having already pleased him between the sheets, she might find it easier to explain and ask for his understanding. After all, new brides assumed their husbands had bedded other women before them. Although she thought the double standard ridiculous, society adhered to the old ways. A man might be forgiven his mistresses and affairs so long as he provided for his wife and children and treated them fairly.

She closed her eyes, hoping the gesture, faintly submissive, would further encourage him. She lifted her face to him. He squeezed her hands again. But no kiss came.

When Louise opened her eyes, tears were coursing down her young husband’s face.

“Oh, Lorne! My darling, what is it?” She pulled her fingertips out from his suddenly cold hands and framed his stricken face with her palms. “Tell me, what have I done to—”

But he shook his head, murmuring, “No, no, nothing. Not you.”

She assumed in that horror-stricken moment that he was weeping because someone—not Amanda, surely not her—had told him about her affair. But now it occurred to her that something else was wrong. Incredibly wrong.

“I-I have a confession to make, my dear.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to hold it forever before letting it out.

Possibilities raced through her mind.

He’s had affairs—not a shocker.

He’s been with a prostitute and feels unclean for me. To confide such now was merely being considerate.

He’s in love with another woman. Much more difficult to accept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” she prompted.

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

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

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

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

“So they say.”

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

“Exactly.” Lorne watched her expression.

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

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

Oh Lord.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m afraid not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Lorne.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face went white. “Louise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that is?”

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

She scowled at him, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was gone.

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