Royal Renegade (23 page)

So she only stood up and moved to the door, standing there rigid in her elegant gown. In the face of Buntin's tacit warning, she couldn't cry out what was in her heart: that she didn't care about Cumberland or Russia, that she only wanted to be alone with Michael and ask him if he felt what she felt, if she had imagined the anguish in his eyes when she left him, if they truly shared something rare and lovely, and what they could do if they did. No, she couldn't tell that to Buntin, her closest friend, and she would not have the chance, nor the courage, to tell that to her newest friend.

Buntin brought a white velvet evening cloak, lined with silver satin and trimmed with ermine, and laid it on Tatiana's shoulders. With a cheeriness so false it grated, Buntin declared, "I wonder if Lord Devlyn will be bringing a guest. Lady Sherbourne told me the most delicious
on dit
about our handsome escort, that he has been carrying on the longest affair with his childhood sweetheart, a Baroness Harburton. She's married, of course, but her husband is the accommodating sort. How convenient, don't you think?"

Even through a haze of pain, Tatiana realized that Buntin would never willingly speak so blithely of a man's affairs—not Buntin, who called legs "limbs" and flushed scarlet whenever Tatiana said a naughty word. Not Buntin, who stammered and stuttered so much when the time came to teach the process of reproduction that Tatiana had to get the particulars from a knowing chambermaid. No, Buntin would never speak this way, except for the direst of reasons. She was not so innocent after all, for she could read Tatiana's wanton heart, and understood well enough what message it told.

***

By the time the coach had deposited them at the Carlton House, Tatiana had reconciled with Michael, if only in her own heart. Bachelors had mistresses, and childhood sweethearts, too. It was just like Michael to be so efficient to combine the two women into one. And convenient too for Tatiana, for she had only one rival now.

And not even one, she thought with a painful pride. This Baroness Harburton could not mean so very much to Michael if he could look at Tatiana with eyes full of longing and despair and kiss her so savagely, so sweetly. He was not a man to give his heart profligately. If he loved Tatiana, he loved no one else. Generously, she spared a moment's pity for the unknown baroness, then dismissed her when reality invaded again. Lady Harburton's plight was nothing compared to the coil Tatiana faced now.

Caution, she whispered to herself, even as Lady Sherbourne droned on about discretion and propriety, other qualities as alien to Tatiana's nature as caution had always been. Don't be rash like Napoleon. Be cautious like Wellington. Hold back and get the lay of the land, assess your options, test your strengths and weaknesses. Learn the value of the strategic retreat. Do nothing if there's nothing to be done.

So when they alighted under the great torchlit portico, Tatiana was prepared. On Lord Wellesley's arm, she moved gracefully to the great entrance hall, extending her hand to the Lord Chamberlain, ceremonial chief here at Carlton House. She was very much the proud Romanov princess as their little group strolled between the great porphyry marble columns. But inside she was tense, waitful, wary. She was an alien in an alien. land, accepted only on conditions that had yet to be stated aloud but were nonetheless binding. She mustn't let any of her heart show to any of these Englishmen, not even to Michael, until she understood better the odds against her.

But her caution extended only so far. She refused on principle and perhaps on spite to listen to another word of Wellesley's silken warnings. So she cut him short as he warned her not to mention the labor uprising currently terrorizing the midlands. "Don't be tedious, my lord. I promise not to disgrace myself. Now tell me where you are dragging me."

Wellesley's arm tensed under her hand. She looked up limpidly to meet the full blister of his anger before he hid it under his customary polish. "The Blue Velvet Drawing Room, where the regent receives his special guests. We shall have a private dinner. There will be no dancing tonight, for the prince is no longer able to dance." Unable to resist another chance to direct, Wellesley added, "The regent has assembled quite an art collection, so you might compliment him on it. He is justifiably proud of the beauty of this house."

As usual, the marquess's comment was colored with a cynical tincture. As they passed through the hall, he pointed out the opulent architectural features—the towering pier glasses, the graceful columns everywhere. His hauteur indicated a covert disapproval, but Tatiana said artlessly, "After the Winter Palace, Carlton House seems almost homey. The palace where I grew up was simply echoing, wasn't it, Buntin? The walls were mostly of stone and very cold, and many of the great halls were empty of ornament. There were more than two thousand rooms, after all, and nowhere near enough of the ready to furnish them well."

Unable again to resist, Wellesley murmured, "There's not enough of the ready here, either, but that hasn't stopped our regent." Then he cast a glance at her, but she only fluttered her eyelashes innocently, as if she hadn't understood his reference to his monarch's extravagance.

She did note that all the pomp of the bowing courtiers was not nearly so creakingly formal as an occasion in Petersburg. "I suppose the prince has not taken on all the formalities of reigning yet, for hasn't he only been regent for a few months?"

Wellesley's warning not to tell the prince his home wasn't sufficiently regal was lost as the great doors to the Blue Velvet Room opened silently. Then even her tongue-in-cheek critique was stilled by the grandeur that awaited them.

From floor to ceiling the great room was covered in the most soothing blue-gray. The sculpted carpet that softened her every footstep perfectly matched the silk-hung walls and the lovely velvet settees. From the vast painted ceiling hung a three-tiered chandelier whose crystal reflected back the same blue-gray. She felt almost as if she were underwater, in the cool blue recesses of the ocean, where all was hushed and tranquil. The nervousness she had felt at the prospect of meeting the regent dissipated under the serene effect of his decorating.

In the midst of his careful splendor, the Prince Regent sat with a few others near a blazing fire, his portly form filling a delicate brocade chair, a decanter of cherry brandy at his elbow. He was encased in an exquisite scarlet uniform, as elegant as his figure was not. Though his face was now fat and wattled, the fineness of his features and the shock of dark curls testified to the beauty he had once possessed. But now he looked unhealthy, simultaneously flushed and pale, the result of excessive leeching by his physicians. Tatiana stole a pitying glance at him, then cast her eyes down courteously.

With some difficulty, the prince rose as the Lord Chamberlain announced, "Your Highness, may I present Her Highness, the Princess Tatiana of Saraya Kalin."

There were others around the prince, but Tatiana was schooled well in royal deportment and kept her eyes discreetly lowered as she dropped into a deep curtsey. The prince came to take her hand and she rose gracefully as he murmured some pleasantry. "So kind of you to receive me, Your Highness."

"I thought you were Russian. What is this Saraya Kalin?" the prince asked with a jolly sort of petulance, as if suspicious he had been sold a bill of goods but wasn't yet sure if it were all a prank.

Wellesley swiftly intervened. "The princess is a Russian princess, Your Highness, for her mother was a Romanov. She is also the Princess of Saraya Kalin, which was her grandfather's small kingdom. Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

It was a moment before Tatiana realized this "Your Highness" referred to her and not to the prince. "Oh! Oh, yes, that is so. I am a typical royal mongrel." When the prince's eyes narrowed and Wellesley made a strangled sound, Tatiana hastened on, "I have German connections, too, through the Houses of Hesse and Baden and Holstein."

Relieved that she was no longer comparing royal bloodlines to those of a dog, the prince took her hand in his own warm fat one. "Then we are cousins, and you must call me so," he said, smiling a bit foolishly. "We are cousins, aren't we?"

"In some fashion," she answered lightly, waving her hand in the direction of Buntin. "My companion here can explain better than I, for she's made a study of the genealogies of the European monarchs."

The prince compliantly turned toward Buntin, who stood trembling, nearly overcome with vapors. But the Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to take charge again of the introductions. In a piqued voice, he started with the next highest-ranking guest. "First, Your Highness, may I present Lord Wellesley?"

"Well, I know him, man, he's in my cabinet, ain't he? See him every week. And how do you do, Lady Sherbourne? Yes, yes, I know her, too. I just don't know this charming lady in mauve—you complement my Blue Velvet Room so well, madame."

With a huff, the imperious Lord Chamberlain broke in. "Your Highness, may I present Miss Anne Buntin, originally of Kent, who accompanied Her Highness from Russia."

The prince's predilection for older women was well known, though he usually preferred ladies more substantial than the fragile Buntin. So perhaps he was only being charming in his odd way when he frankly ogled Buntin, refusing to release her hand and assuring her he was enchanted. Whatever his motive, Tatiana felt a sudden affection for the man, for her dear companion was in utter transports of delight, and Lady Sherbourne was left tapping her elegant long foot with envy.

Another lady's pique was more intrusive. Lady Hertford, the prince's latest mistress, appeared at his elbow, almost shoving Buntin out of the way. The haughty matron cast a honeyed glance at the regent and a vinegarish one at the innocent Buntin. "Ah, yes, Cousin Tatiana, this is Lady Hertford. These others"—he waved vaguely at the other courtiers standing about—"can introduce themselves. Come and meet the princess, all of you. Then can we sit down?"

After the most cursory of presentations, the prince guided Tatiana to a couch near the hearth. He fell back onto the seat, sticking his sprained ankle out to the fire. Patting the blue velvet upholstery, he said, "Come sit, cousin, let's be cozy."

Tatiana had to squeeze into the small space between the prince and the arm of the couch. Her heavy satin skirt spilled over onto his thigh, his doughy hip pressed intimately against her side. They were, in fact, quite cozy.

Tatiana forced herself not to lean back away from the prince's bulk and hid her discomfort with a bright smile.

She was hot enough without proximity to the roaring fire, but the prince shivered and rubbed his hands together. "Cold in here. But you're from Russia, so you wouldn't credit that, would you? Vicious winters there, haven't you?"

The Prince seemed a bit nervous, glancing over to her with a weak smile. Tatiana wondered why, for she was the one who should be anxious. He was much older than she, and far more senior in rank, for all that they were both of royal blood. And Britain, of course, far outranked poor Russia in influence and cultural importance. But his smile was almost imploring as he addressed the always fertile topic of Russian winters, while Wellesley and Lady Hertford and all the rest hovered around eavesdropping.

Tatiana's heart went out to this awkward prince in his anomalous position. He was a ruler but not a king, holding the power of the monarchy but none of the love his subjects had granted his poor mad father. And perhaps the regent was foolish and vain and extravagant, and perhaps his figure was egg-shaped and his face florid with excess. But she could see the handsome, vulnerable boy inside that absurd man, a boy indulged into excess by his exalted birth, then denigrated because he had not lived up to his role. With quick sympathy she realized how they both shared the disadvantages of royal birth. A generation ago, he had been denied the woman he loved and forced to marry the unfortunate Princess Caroline, just as Tatiana was expected to make a political marriage. That her Cousin George was a party to her situation did not mitigate her sympathy for him. She supposed he had to make some dramatic move to show that he was, in fact, the nation's ruler. And knowing that she might have to disappoint him, no doubt making him look more foolish than ever, Tatiana made a great effort to put him at his ease at least for the moment.

"And that tsar of yours, does he mind the winters? I hear he's a sturdy man, well-looking, in fact."

The prince's voice was tinged with envy, and Tatiana responded instinctively. "Oh, he's handsome, of course—it's that German connection, for his mother was a Wurttemberg. But his dress! Why, Cousin George, those Russian tailors just don't know how to dress a king. You should send your tailor to St. Petersburg to give them lessons!"

It was almost pathetically easy to make him beam, this silly-sad prince. She had only to use the same teasing tone and light flattery that her little students loved so. He did not conceal his pleasure, replying graciously, "But if your gown is any example of the art of Russian dressmakers, they have nothing to learn from the English."

Tatiana glanced sideways at Lord Wellesley, but he was occupied with Lady Hertford, a rabid Tory whose favor was essential for all successful cabinet members. "Actually," the princess whispered confidentially, "my designer is French. He was Empress Josephine's couturier—don't tell Lord Wellesley!"

His jowls quivering, the prince roared with laughter to the consternation of the other guests, who had missed the joke. Finally, between gasps, he managed, "Don't you worry, cousin. There's much I don't tell Wellesley!"

Tatiana chuckled as the marquess's elegant head jerked up suspiciously. But before Wellesley could detach himself from Lady Hertford's side, a footman stepped forward to help the prince heave himself out of his seat. Tatiana rose with rather more grace, smoothing her flowing satin skirt as the Lord Chamberlain opened the great doors and announced another contingent of guests.

Of the elegant crowd, Tatiana had eyes only for one. As soon as she saw his lean figure, however, she looked away, unable to trust her own expression. She nodded and smiled at the Bourbon count and the English duke and all the other important people who bowed before her. But all their compliments and questions subsided into a hum, through which she finally heard, "Your Highness, and Your Highness, may I present Major Lord Devlyn?"