“If she knew—”
“Eddy. The wife always knows.”
They fell silent, both of them thinking of Eddy’s long-suffering mother. Most recently, the Prince of Wales hadgotten involved with the Countess of Warwick—and the count was one of his close friends. It was a pattern that Bertie seemed to prefer, sleeping with his friends’ wives.
Was that what Eddy planned to do with Hélène? Marry her off to one of his friends to make their affair more convenient?
“I’m so sorry,” Eddy said softly.
She knew what he meant by those words. He was sorry he was a prince, and not free to follow his heart; he was sorry that she wasn’t an appropriate choice for a future Queen of England. She knew, too, that he didn’t sayI’m sorryvery often in his life.
Hélène looked back up at Eddy and saw her heartache mirrored on his features. He reached up to graze her cheek with his fingertips, and the sensation shivered through her whole body.
How deeply foolish she’d been, going to Balmoral, letting herself fall in love with him. Because she did love him, despite all her promises to herself.
It would hurt to leave him, yet this affair would end in hurt no matter which road she chose.
The only thing Hélène could do now was protect herself as best she could.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, before walking away from the future King of England.
CHAPTER TWENTY
May
THE PROBLEM WITH FANCY-DRESS PARTIES,May thought in frustration, was that it grew quite difficult to recognize the other guests. And if you were on the hunt for a husband, you really needed to know who was who.
She glanced around the ballroom at Culford Park, where Roman centurions waltzed with medieval damsels, and men in doublets strolled with women in the wide panniers and beribboned wigs of theancien régime.In spite of the costumes, May had successfully identified several dukes and at least one earl, though unfortunately most of them were already married. Well, she would settle for a divorcé at this point; she would settle for amarquessif push came to shove.
She needed to get out of her father’s house, and fast.
Earlier this afternoon, she’d been starting to curl her hair with heated tongs—a difficult process that involved sitting by the fireplace, trying not to sweat, while constantly studying one’s reflection in the mirror—when she heard the crunch of wheels on their gravel driveway. A glance out the window revealed that it was the Endicotts’ carriage.
May hurriedly dropped the tongs and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, but she wasn’t fast enough.Inexplicably, her father had risen from his lethargy to answer the door.
If only he’d stayed put. It wasn’t as if they were in the habit of greeting unexpected guests; the only people who ever showed up at White Lodge were creditors, or the occasional woman dropping off Needlework Guild shirts for May.
When May reached the entry hall, she found her father staring bemusedly at one of the Endicotts’ footmen, who was holding a massive box in both hands.
“Your Serene Highness,” the footman called over Francis’s shoulder, recognizing May from all the afternoons she’d spent with Agnes. “I was instructed to bring this to you.”
May winced, silently cursing as she tiptoed forward to accept the box. It was clear from its size and shape that it contained a gown.
Ignoring the footman, Francis turned to his daughter, his voice dangerously cold. “May. Have you been shopping?”
“Oh no…” May felt herself becoming smaller, as if she were one of those tropical turtles retreating into its shell—as if by taking up as little space as possible, she might encourage her father to forget her. “It’s an old dress,” she lied, “but the fringe on the hem needed to be repaired. Thank you for delivering it,” she added pointedly, in the direction of the footman. To her relief he bowed and retreated, hearing thedismissal in her words. Within moments he was snapping the reins over the Endicotts’ matched bay horses, which started off at a crisp trot.
Francis watched the carriage depart, his eyes narrowed as he took in its expensive details. “Whose carriage is that? It hardly looks like it belongs to a tradesman.”
“It belongs to a friend.” Before her father could ask which friend, May went on: “She’s the one who stepped on my dress and tore the hem, so she sent it out for repairs at her expense.”
Francis nodded, pleased by this explanation. “I’m glad to hear that you stood up for yourself, made her clean up her own mess. If only your mother could do the same.”
May’s arms ached from holding the box, but she didn’t dare set it down. “I’m sorry?”
“You haven’t heard? Your mother’s cousin has once again denied my petition to be styled as a Royal Highness.”
It was one of Francis’s absolute favorite things to do, calling Queen Victoriayour mother’s cousin.Emphasizing and underscoring his tenuous royal connection.
