The Golden Prince (3 page)

“Are you telling me that
you
were driving?” she said as witheringly as she would have done to a younger brother.

He flushed. “Yes, I’m afraid I was and …”

“Then in taking that corner as you did, you behaved very, very stupidly.”

The older man sucked in his breath. “This has gone quite far enough! You simply cannot speak in such a way to …”

“I can speak common sense to anyone I please.” Rose, now fully recovered from her shock, brushed a stray fallen leaf from her skirt and eyed him coolly. It was men like him who were refusing to give women the vote and keeping them subservient, and she hadn’t the slightest intention of letting him intimidate her. “I don’t care who your young friend is,” she said in the crisp, no-nonsense way that had served her so well at St. Hilda’s and as a member of the WSPU. “He could be Prince Edward or the Aga Khan for all I care. He took that corner in a way that could have ended in someone’s death, and I want to make quite sure he realizes it and never does such a thing again.”

The young man flushed an even deeper red and said, sounding terribly apologetic about it, “Actually, I am Prince Edward.”

Rose ignored this preposterous joke.

“If you have a pen and paper on you,” she said, speaking to the older man, “I would like to give you my name and address so that you can reimburse me for the damage done to my bicycle.”

He didn’t deign to speak to her. Instead he said to his golden-haired companion, “This has gone quite far enough, sir. I propose that I make a financial settlement now, to avoid any further unpleasantness, and that we continue on our way as speedily as possible.”

Rose did a double take. Sir? She wondered if the younger man outranked him. She squinted for a glimpse of gold braid on the naval-looking uniform and couldn’t see any: even if there had been some, she didn’t think rank would still count when they were members of different sections of the armed services.

Slowly she became aware of a growing sickening sensation that had nothing to do with how bruised she was.

That silkily straight blond hair. Those stunningly blue eyes. The handsome face so delicately boned it stopped just short of effeminacy. No wonder she thought she had seen him before. Until now,
because he took no part in public life as yet, there had been few published photographs of the heir to the throne, but with ghastly certainty she knew she was now in his presence—and that she had just sworn in front of him and told him he had behaved very, very stupidly.

She was so appalled that for the first time in her life she didn’t know what to do. Should she curtsy? After all that had happened and in the grass-stained state she was now in, to do so would be ridiculous. She should certainly apologize for swearing in front of him and not addressing him as “sir.” Telling him he had behaved stupidly had been unfortunate, but since it had also been true, she didn’t feel she should apologize for that. Doing so would be hypocritical and compromise her principles.

As she struggled with her dilemma he rescued her by saying in concern, “You’ve grazed your face badly and it’s bleeding, Miss … ?”

“Houghton, Rose Houghton,” she said, adding hastily, “sir.”

The older man clicked his tongue with impatience while Prince Edward clumsily handed her a spotlessly white handkerchief.

She accepted it gratefully.

“I shall now give Miss Houghton a lift to wherever it is she wishes to be taken, Captain Cullen,” the prince said, and for the first time Rose realized that his accent was quite odd. Very plummy, but with a slight trace of cockney in it. She wondered where on earth the cockney had been picked up. She also realized that Captain Cullen was absolutely aghast at the prospect of her being given a lift anywhere.

Seemingly unaware of his equerry’s fierce disapproval, the prince returned his attention to her. “Where is it you would like to be taken, Miss Houghton?”

“Home, sir,” she said, having no desire to continue on to the village when she needed to wash, apply something soothing to her grazed face, and change into clean clothes.

“Then if you would give me directions, we’ll be on our way.”

“That is very kind of you, sir. Snowberry is half a mile on the right-hand side in the direction you were heading.”

She stepped toward her bicycle. It had fallen in the middle of the road, but someone, presumably Captain Cullen, had lifted it out of the road and onto the grass shoulder. The rear wheel was buckled, the spokes dented. She lifted the flap of her saddlebag and took out the two letters she had been on her way to post. At the sight of King George V’s head on the stamps—and at the thought that his son and heir was about to give her a lift—amusement put paid to any lingering remnants of anger. It intensified as a thunderous-faced Captain Cullen yanked the bicycle upright.

“This won’t do, sir. It’s colossally irregular,” he said, so tight-lipped that Rose thought it a miracle he could speak at all. “If news of this escapade gets back to Windsor, it would be catastrophic. I would lose my position, and His Majesty’s trust in you would be greatly damaged.”

“It’s only a half-mile drive,” the prince said with exquisite patience as Homer, anxious for Rose’s safety, tried to clamber into the motorcar with her. “No harm can come of it.” He turned to Rose, giving her a shy, sweet smile. “D’you think your dog would like to get in the jump seat, Miss Houghton? It will be rather fun for him, don’t you think?”

From the expression in his voice, Rose suspected that, now he knew she wasn’t seriously hurt, he was finding this deviation from the routine of his life rather fun as well. She bundled Homer into the jump seat, and a minute later they were passing Captain Cullen who, the bicycle hoisted on one shoulder, was walking up the road, fury and indignation in every line of his body.

“Don’t forget the name of the cottage!” the prince called out helpfully to him. “It’s Snowberry! I’ll wait for you there!”

Giggles fizzed in Rose’s throat. Whatever Snowberry was, it wasn’t a cottage. She just hoped Captain Cullen wouldn’t find the walk up its long drive too fatiguing.

The prince, his lesson learned, was now driving with meticulous
care. The noise of the engine and the sound of the wind streaming past their ears made talking difficult—and this was, she assumed, why the prince had lapsed into silence. Then she wondered if the silence between them was caused by his shyness. He was, after all, very young. Sixteen or seventeen. She couldn’t remember which. Her instinct was to try to put him at his ease, but she knew speaking to the heir to the throne without being spoken to first wasn’t done. Remembering how grossly she had already breached this particular piece of royal etiquette—and in what an appalling way—she decided that any further breaches couldn’t possibly matter.

“I’m very appreciative, sir,” she said as they neared Snowberry’s gates. “We turn in here.”

He swung the wheel to the right and coasted into Snowberry’s grandiose drive, saying, “I take it, then, that Snowberry isn’t your average country cottage, Miss Houghton?”

Her mouth tugged into a smile. “No, sir. It’s a William and Mary house, built in 1689 on the foundations of an Elizabethan manor house. My grandfather is Lord May. Snowberry is his family home. I’ve lived here with my three younger sisters ever since the death of my father sixteen years ago.”

“And your mother?” he asked.

“My mother remarried. She and her husband, the Marquis de Villoutrey, live in Paris.”

They cruised round the last curve of the drive and Snowberry lay in all its mellow beauty before them. With its huge buttressed chimney stacks, gables, and diamond-leaded windows, it was achingly beautiful.

Rose felt her throat tighten. Though she longed to spend time in London, being politically active as a suffragette, she loved her home deeply and didn’t believe there was another house as perfect in the whole of England.

The prince brought the Daimler to a noisy halt. “What a cracking house, Miss Houghton,” he said as, from behind him, Homer rested a friendly paw on his shoulder.

Coming from a young man whose various homes included
Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, Balmoral, and Sandringham, the compliment gave Rose great pleasure.

Under normal circumstances she would have waited until her driver had opened the passenger door before stepping out of the car, but the situation was so bizarre—how could she expect a prince to open her car door for her?—that she opened it herself, stepping down from the running board in such a hurry she nearly fell.

Regaining her balance, she said, flustered, “Thank you very much for bringing me home, sir.”

He, too, had now stepped from the car and she wondered what she was to do with him until Captain Cullen arrived.

The correct thing, of course, was to invite him inside and offer him some refreshment. Orange juice, or perhaps tea. But how could she sit in the drawing room sipping orange juice or tea with her future King when her hair was disheveled, the graze on her face needed attention, and there were grass stains on her skirt?

He said in his habitually hesitant manner, “Does Snowberry have an orangery, Miss Houghton?”

She shot him a blazing smile, aware that her problem was solved. “Yes, sir. Would you like to see it?”

He nodded, and as they began walking he said, “Kensington Palace has a splendid orangery. There aren’t only orange trees in it; there are lemon trees and fifteen-foot-high tangerine trees.”

“We have lemons and tangerines, and a few years ago we began growing Persian limes.”

“Persian limes?” He looked fascinated.

Rose suppressed a smile. It was like being with a very likable nephew. If over the last forty minutes or so royal protocol had gone to the winds, he showed no signs of minding. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that he was trying to prolong the experience.

She was just about to tell him that one of the advantages of Persian limes was that they had no seeds when they rounded the corner of the house to be greeted by the sight of Lily sprinting toward them over the vast lawn as fast as her skirt would allow.

“We heard the motorcar, Rose!” she shouted, her waist-length
dark hair held away from her face by tortoiseshell combs. “Who is our visitor? Would he like to make a double at tennis?”

Rose clamped her mouth tight shut, knowing that to yell that their visitor was His Royal Highness Prince Edward would be even worse than remaining silent until Lily was near enough for a dignified introduction to take place.

Her hopes that Lily would also now stay silent were shot to pieces. “It’s jolly hot, isn’t it?” she called out to the prince cheerily as she drew nearer. “There’s a jug of lemonade down by the tennis court.”

There was a happy smile of welcome on her face—and then she registered how disheveled Rose was and saw the graze on her face.

Her smile vanished instantly. “Rose! You’re hurt! What’s happened?”

“I came off my bicycle,” Rose said as Lily raced up to her, “and Lily, before you say anything further, I must explain who …”

“But you must go and bathe it, Rose!” Lily was too concerned about Rose’s injury to care about introductions. “It looks dreadful! It might turn septic and leave a scar!”

It was a possibility Rose hadn’t thought of.

As he saw her flinch, David’s horror at having caused the accident returned and, dragging his attention away from the most angelic face he had ever seen, he blurted, “Is there a family doctor who can get here quickly, Miss Houghton? If not, as soon as Cullen arrives I’ll have him go for one.”

“Cullen?” Lily was bewildered.

He looked toward her again. In the May sunshine her turbulent hair shone blue-black. Her eyes were wide set, thick lashed, and the most extraordinary shade of violet. Unlike her sister, who was five foot six or five foot seven, she was small-boned and so petite that just looking at her robbed him of breath.

“My equerry,” he said, bewildering her even further. He flushed a deep scarlet. “It was my idiotic driving that caused your sister to
fall from her bicycle. The bicycle got pretty mangled, and Captain Cullen is carrying it back. He’ll be here in ten minutes or so.”

“So Rose’s accident was
your
fault!”

There was so much reproach in her voice that he was mortified beyond speech.

Rose was equally mortified, but for a very different reason. Five years ago, when she was eighteen, she had been presented at court and knew from firsthand experience just how rigid royal etiquette was. One didn’t speak until one was spoken to. In a private situation, any prince with the title of “Royal Highness” was addressed as “sir,” but in asking a direct question, “Your Royal Highness” had to be used.

Prince Edward’s mention of his equerry had meant nothing to Lily, and it was obvious that she still had no idea with whom she was speaking. It was also obvious that Prince Edward had never been spoken to by a nonfamily member as he’d been spoken to first by herself and now by Lily, and Rose wasn’t at all surprised at his stupefied silence.

Taking a deep breath, she said in a firm voice and with heavy emphasis on his title, “Your Royal Highness, allow me to introduce my youngest sister, Miss Lily Houghton.”

Lily blinked.

The graze was still leaking blood and Rose pressed the handkerchief with the royal crest hard against her cheekbone, saying tautly, “This isn’t a tease, Lily.”

To her despair Lily still didn’t drop into a curtsy but, completely baffled, remained motionless.

Rose flashed a glance toward the prince and saw that he was looking discomfited.

Her embarrassment was so intense she found herself wishing Captain Cullen would arrive. Instead it was Iris who put an end to the impasse.

Curious as to who their visitor was and what was keeping Lily, she’d walked from the tennis court to join them and as she came
within speaking distance, she said, alarmed, “What’s happened, Rose? Why is your cheek bleeding? Did you come off your bicycle on the gravel?”

“Rose came off her bicycle on the road,” Lily said before Rose could answer. “Prince Edward knocked her off it in his motorcar.”

“
Who
knocked her off it?”