She gaped at him, her eyes bright with hope. The sail in Luke’s chest snapped full of wind.
“Alright,” she said carefully. “If you’re certain.”
“Yes,” he said. “Saturday for the wedding. And you should have what you want for the breakfast. Spare no expense. Here, take my card.” He produced a small stack of calling cards that bore his name and direction. “Use my name to open accounts with cooks or flower arrangers or whatever you may need. If you’ll allow me, I’ll have Fernsby speak to the vicar. And I’ll hire men to make this building safe, as I’ve said.”
She took his cards and stared at his name. She let out a laugh, tearful and disbelieving. The sound slapped against his heart. He ignored it. He was giving her what she wanted. It was fair—this was a fair arrangement.
No, he thought,this was fairenough.
“I wasn’t prepared for the urgency, Captain,” she said, placing his cards on the table with her lists. “I’m not opposed to it, just surprised.”
“You are very agreeable.” He went to the heap of furniture on the wall and untangled a chair. He plunked it on the floor.
“I am?” She laughed again.
“Yes.” He gestured to the chair. She should sit when he told herwhyshe must marry him. The real reason.
“I think disagreements set in when the bridegroomavoidshis wedding,” she told him, “not races headlong to it. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Princess Danielle,” he began. His pounding heart could demolish this building.
“Oh, but wait,” she said, ignoring the chair. “Is there some manner of royal protocolthat we must include in the ceremony? Some custom or... oh, I don’t know... velvet sash or insignia I should wear? Some Orleans family motto read aloud in French, perhaps?”
He frowned. “No—not that I’m aware. We are free to do it however you and the vicar like.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Well, that’s simplest, I suppose. One less thing. No fanfare means less bother. Anything French would be awkward, considering England is at war with France.”
“Right,” he said cautiously, eyeing her.
She stared into the middle distance for a long moment. “Of course there would be nothing.”
Luke frowned. What was happening? Her voice had gone a little off.
“Naturally,” she went on, louder now. “There would be no distinctively French customs or references to the Orleans family. How foolish of me to presume. I’m meant to be this... thisprincess...thishidden princess...the secret of my royal birth so great, no one could even speak of it.For years,no one said a word. And in the end, the silence endures. Because no one really cares. Honestly, why even mention it? Truly? When there’s nothing of France or the family of my birth at my wedding? To a national hero.”
Luke tried very hard to understand her particular concern in this moment. She’d begun to pace. A broom was propped against the wall and she snatched it up, gesturing with it like a staff.
In an affected voice she asked, “What recommendation precedes the bridegroom?” In another voice, she answered her question. “Why, he is a war hero, commended by the Prince Regent.” She chatted back and forth to herself, saying both sides. “How very prestigious. But what of the bride? What of her prestige? Oh, she is a princess from France. A princess? How novel—but how is she distinguished?
“In no way is she distinguished,” the princess finished. “In no way at all. No family. No crest. No decree. Not even a sash.”
“Princess...” he began.
She cut him off. “Why go about suggesting that I’m this... princess, when there is no outward proof or person to say it is legitimate? It’s embarrassing, honestly.No one cares if I’m a princess or not.Literally, no one. Least of all me.”
To Luke’s horror, her eyes welled with tears.Damn.
“Danielle...” he said, crossing to her.
“No, no—I’m alright. It’s all settled, and for the better.” She looked at the broom in her hand and then applied it to the floor, sweeping diligently. “Miriam and Whittle raised me to be a village girl and not a princess. Why, in God’s name, would I presume that anythingroyalwould be featured at my wedding? Why?”
Luke watched her make a maddened half circuit of the room, sending dust motes flying.
“Sorry,” she was saying, “I don’t know what’s come over me. I care nothing for ceremony or pomp and circumstance. Truly.I do not care.”
Luke searched his brain for some way to salvage the conversation.
From the center of the room, she was chanting, “Foolish, foolish, foolish.”
