“Oh, you know, etiquette, diplomacy, female accomplishments—I mean, what is thepointof embroidery?” She rolled her eyes. “The palace was full of the most hideous, perfectly executed pieces of embroidery—cushions, hangings, screens—you name it, so there was no need for any more. But no, I must embroider.”
“So, you hate sewing.”
“No, I quite like sewing, but I like it to be useful. But a princess should do nothing useful. Or interesting.” She laughed wryly, thinking about it. “I don’t know who was more frustrated by me, Papa or Rupert.”
The happiest time of her life was when she’d lived with Tibby, she thought—apart from when Nicky was born. Tibby never expected her to be someone else. Tibby liked her the way she was. And Tibby was interested in all kinds of different, unsuitable things and had encouraged Callie to be, too.
Saving Nicky was the reason she’d fled Zindaria, but it was for both their sakes that she’d fled to Tibby. She’d planned to make a new life for herself as well as Nicky, where both of them could live without the constant criticism.
Tibby had always wanted a child. Callie knew that. Just as she used to pretend in her heart of hearts that Tibby was her mother, Tibby pretended that Callie was her daughter.
Now Count Anton had ruined that dream, as well. She could never go back to living with Tibby now Count Anton knew where she lived. She rubbed harder.
Gabe arched his back into the sensuous rubbing he was receiving and thought about what she’d told him. “So while Napoleon was doing his best to gobble up Europe, your father was doing the grand tour and interviewing potential royal sons-in-law. Didn’t Boney cramp his style at all?”
“Oh, indeed yes,” she told him. “Napoleon kept taking over the royal houses of Europe and making his own relatives into kings and queens. Papa was utterly furious about it. Napoleon came from very common stock, you know. Not at all good ton. And his conquests ruined some quite good chances for me, so Papa was forced to look further afield. He found it all terribly inconvenient.”
Gabe spluttered at this novel view of the conquest of Europe. He was almost sorry he hadn’t met Papa.
“Papa was quite relieved when he got Prince Rupert to accept me. Rupert didn’t care about looks or fortune—just blood. Mama’s family was poor, but enormously distinguished. Rupert took bloodlines very seriously—well, he would, being a horse breeder.”
Gabe gave a spurt of laughter. “A romantic fellow, I perceive.”
There was a sudden cessation of movement. “No. No, he wasn’t,” she said in a quiet voice. After a moment she started rubbing in salve again.
He’d obviously touched a nerve. Gabe turned to look at her. She kept her head down, smearing cold ointment onto him and continuing to massage it in without meeting his eyes.
He didn’t know many young girls, but for all he knew marrying a mysterious foreign prince was the summit of her girlish dreams.
Something made him ask, “How old were you when you married him?”
She shrugged and avoided his eyes. “Nearly sixteen.”
He frowned. “That seems rather young.”
She shrugged and slapped on more ointment, almost angrily. “Rupert thought a young bride would be more fertile. I was his second wife, you see. The first one was barren.” She rubbed hard at Gabe’s skin.
“After years away, Papa arrived out of the blue and told me we were going to Zindaria and that I was going to be married to a prince.” She rubbed at the marks on his skin as if they were stains to be got out. Gabe didn’t flinch or make a sound.
So much for girlish dreams, he thought. If he hadn’t thought the man a complete ass before, he would now. A complete royal jackass.
How could any man not see what a treasure she was?
He looked down at the little, round-faced, snub-nosed, dusky-haired princess, scowling fiercely as she rubbed enough unguent into him to waterproof a boat.
Deep in the past, she stared blindly at his chest and rubbed unguent into his nipples.
Pain he could withstand in silence. This he could not. A soft moan escaped him. She took no notice and kept rubbing, circling the nipples with intense concentration, a faraway expression on her face. He moaned again and arched involuntarily.
She blinked and recalled herself. “I am so sorry you had to suffer in this way—”
“Hush.” Gabe put a finger over her mouth, pressing her soft, satiny lips together. “There is no need to fret. Mrs. Barrow was right. I do enjoy a good fight.”
She looked at the marks on his skin, now glistening with unguent. “How could you enjoy it? How could anyone?”
“It’s a—a form of release.” He could see she didn’t understand, so he added, “A bit like, er, congress.”
“Congress?” She gave him a puzzled look. “Like the Congress of Vienna?”
