The Wild Princess (3 page)

Three

Louise watched the door slowly close, shutting her, alone, inside the Lavender Suite at Claremont House.

Hushed voices came to her from the hallway outside. Lady Car taking her leave for the night. Amanda passing by Lorne with little Eddie in hand, perhaps teasing a blushing bridegroom with a saucy remark about his wedding night.

Louise sat down on the edge of the bed, its embroidered coverlets already turned back to reveal an expanse of pure white linen. She held her breath, waiting for Lorne to step through the door.

Feeling light-headed with anticipation, she at last remembered to breathe. She straightened the delicate peach silk nightgown, trimmed with baby pearls and ecru lace, and pulled the hem down to demurely cover her ankles.

The door remained shut.

She rested folded hands in her lap. Her stomach clenched. Her head spun. She closed her eyes on a wave of nausea.

More than anything, Louise wanted to start her marriage by establishing a relationship of trust and mutual respect. If she said or did anything this very first night to make her young husband angry or turn him against her, they'd never develop the lovely intimacy her mother and father had shared.

She drew another breath and settled herself a few inches farther back on the mattress. Rearranged her gown to reveal, through the side slit, the curve of her calf and a slim ankle. Tugged the neckline down just a wee bit.

Never had showing a modest hint of décolletage hurt a woman's negotiations with a man. Louise stared at the door.

It did not open.

The voices had stopped; Lorne must be alone now. And he'd know she was ready. Wouldn't he?

Perhaps she should call out to him. Invite him to enter. He couldn't possibly be waiting for a formal invitation when it was his right to come in and take her, whether or not she was prepared physically or emotionally. But, she reminded herself, Lorne was a gentle soul. Always so thoughtful and concerned for others' feelings whenever she'd been around him.

Louise slid back all the way onto the bed, drew her legs up under her, turned and plumped up three lavender-scented pillows at the head of the bed, then lounged back against them in a seductive pose. Encouragement, that's what the poor man needed. Until this moment, she hadn't considered that he might be as nervous as she about their first night as a married couple. Though, of course, not for the same reason.

She had a confession to make. And by now it had wedged itself like a lump of stale bread in her throat.

Her head began to ache. She looked down at her hands, unclenched them and blotted her damp palms on the sheets.

What on earth was he
doing
out there?

She was just about to call out to her husband when a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?” More of a croak than a word. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, Lorne, please come in.”

The door swung open slowly, and he stepped through.

She had been prepared to see him in his nightshirt. Or perhaps wrapped in a silk robe. Or even, if he were in an uncharacteristically aggressive mood, entirely naked. She was surprised—no, shocked!—to see he was fully dressed, just as she'd left him nearly two hours earlier, all but for the sword. He still wore the high-collared blue military jacket with braiding, medals, polished black boots and belt. He looked trim and vigorous and glorious, but not at all ready for bed.

Lorne took two steps into the room, his brilliant blue eyes roaming the spacious chamber, as if it were a foreign territory he'd been sent to conquer. He fixed first on the dressing table where Car had arranged her crystal atomizers, gold brush and comb, and velvet jewel case in which rested her wedding diamonds. Then his gaze swept the rest of the room. He seemed almost startled when he found her already on the bed.

Wrong,
she thought in desperation, realizing her mistake in trying to play the seductress. He was evidently terribly shy. And now she'd made it all worse by her sultry posing. She tucked her bare ankles up under the bottom flounce of her gown. Poor boy. He'd been out in the other room, building up his courage, and here she was playing the vamp.

She patted the bed beside her. “I was just trying to relax,” she said giving him an encouraging smile. “It's been such an exhausting day, hasn't it?”

He dipped his squared-off chin in acknowledgment, but his eyes didn't entirely meet hers.

She frowned. “Do you like the gown?”
What an asinine thing to say, Louise
. But it was all she could think of at the moment with her heart racing so.

At last, he gave her an overall scan, and blushed. “Very much. You've never looked lovelier, my dear.”

My dear. That was progress.

She patted the bed again. “Come sit with me. Let's just talk.” She drew a deep breath. “There's something I need to tell you, Lorne.” And suddenly the conversation she'd rehearsed a hundred times seemed tenfold more difficult. Nevertheless she steeled herself and held out her hand to him.

He straightened his long, lean form and strode quickly toward her, his eyes bright and wide, their celebrated blue more dazzling than the delicious cobalt hue she often chose for her palette when painting a landscape sky. As he came closer she could see the perspiration dampening his collar.

No matter. She'd get the hard part out of the way quickly. Reassure him that Donovan—
no, don't say his name!
—reassure him that she had been but a child, innocent, foolish, uneducated as to the ways of men when she'd let herself be led astray just once. She'd swear to him that this stranger from her past meant absolutely nothing to her and, indeed, she hadn't seen him in years. He'd disappeared from her life.

Well, at least that last part was true. Donovan Heath had well and good vanished, just as certainly as if God's hand had reached down from heaven and plucked him up to heaven. But, ah, how she'd adored that boy. What might have come of them if they'd stayed together? Both struggling young artists, though he was from a different social class entirely and never would have been accepted by Victoria.

She jumped, startled when the mattress dipped, bringing her back to her wedding night and Lorne. Louise shook her head, chasing away memories of the young man who had so charmed her when she was but eighteen years old.

She looked up at her husband as he crooked a knee to balance one hip on the edge of the mattress. He leaned toward her, kissed her ever so gently on the forehead, then took her hands in his. “You may well be the most beautiful woman in all of London,” he murmured, his voice a touch hoarse with emotion. “I swear I've never seen lovelier.”

“Lorne.” She was moved nearly to tears by his sincerity. And this from a man who, if men could be called beautiful, truly was. His smooth almost boyish face was unravaged by the sun, despite his love of the outdoors. His eyes shone with the innocence of youth yet his mouth was full lipped and sensual. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to
really
kiss him, to feel his lips and hands on her body.

This can work. This has to work.

She'd wait to tell him she was no longer a virgin until after they had made love. He'd of course by then have discovered the truth for himself, but having already pleased him between the sheets, she might find it easier to explain and ask for his understanding. After all, new brides assumed their husbands had bedded other women before them. Although she thought the double standard ridiculous, society adhered to the old ways. A man might be forgiven his mistresses and affairs so long as he provided for his wife and children and treated them fairly.

She closed her eyes, hoping the gesture, faintly submissive, would further encourage him. She lifted her face to him. He squeezed her hands again. But no kiss came.

When Louise opened her eyes, tears were coursing down her young husband's face.

“Oh, Lorne! My darling, what is it?” She pulled her fingertips out from his suddenly cold hands and framed his stricken face with her palms. “Tell me, what have I done to—”

But he shook his head, murmuring, “No, no, nothing. Not you.”

She assumed in that horror-stricken moment that he was weeping because someone—not Amanda, surely not her—had told him about her affair. But now it occurred to her that something else was wrong. Incredibly wrong.

“I-I have a confession to make, my dear.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to hold it forever before letting it out.

Possibilities raced through her mind.

He's had affairs
—not a shocker.

He's been with a prostitute and feels unclean for me.
To confide such now was merely being considerate.

He's in love with another woman.
Much more difficult to accept.

He's having second thoughts about our marriage and wishes to back out of it.
But why? He benefitted hugely by their union. Simply by taking his wedding vows today, he'd stepped up from the expected inheritance of a minor Scottish duchy to becoming the consort of a royal princess, daughter of the Queen of England. That was an immense leap, socially and financially. Lorne would receive a royal stipend for life, an estate (or, at the very least, luxurious apartments in one of the family's castles), and additional prestigious titles. And he'd never need to lift a finger to support himself, his wife, and their children.

At last he seemed to catch his breath. She captured his eyes with her own, without words demanding of him an explanation.

“Dear Louise,” he said, “I have used you. I have used you abysmally. I fear I will never be able to make it up to you.”

She stared at him, her breath coming in hysterical gulps. She couldn't imagine where in God's name this was going. “Lorne, please. What is it? You're frightening me. If you mean that our social stations are so very diff—”

He flushed bright red. “Society and stations be damned! That has nothing to do with this.” He seemed almost restored by his sudden anger. His voice gained strength. “You deserve a full accounting. Please, be patient. In the end, I hope you will forgive me for what I've done to—Actually, I don't know
what
I've done.” He choked on a nervous laugh, looking close to tears. “Probably nothing short of mucking up your entire life.”

She opened her arms and drew him to her, cradling his head against her breast as if he were a child, stroking the back of his sweat-damp neck. He let her hold him for a few moments before pulling away again to face her. This time he held her hands firmly in his, resting them on his thigh just above the top of his boot.

She had the strangest feeling that he'd intentionally pinned her in self-defense. As if he feared she might strike him if she were free to do so.

“Your mother,” he began, looking directly into her eyes, “I believe she is very fond of Mr. Oscar Wilde?”

“Ye-e-s,” she said. Although what the new playwright might have to do with their marriage she had no idea. “She believes Mr. Wilde is a gifted and promising writer. He's already had more than one success on the stage.”

“He is”—Lorne's voice hitched, hesitated—“quite brilliant. And—”

“And?” she prompted.

“And he is a dear and close personal friend of mine.”

So?
Then it struck her—what he was getting at, and why the subject of the playwright had come up at all.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to suck down air to stop her head from spinning. But Lorne said nothing more, as if waiting for her to process the information he'd merely hinted at. He let her make the mental leap alone. A trapeze artist without a net.

“Mr. Wilde,” she began again, “has been rumored to prefer the company of other men.”

“So they say.”

“Which, by law, is considered lewd and unnatural behavior, and is punishable by imprisonment.”

“Exactly.” Lorne watched her expression.

Her heart felt as if it were cracking down its middle. She was spiraling down into the dark space between its broken halves. “And you are an . . . an
intimate
friend of his?”

He blinked his beautiful china blue eyes and touched her cheek tenderly. “Yes, my dear. I am.”

Oh Lord.

“Lorne, just to be clear, are you telling me . . . That is, do you also prefer the physical closeness of other men to the touch of a woman?” She'd never asked a more difficult question in her life.

He gave her his sweetest smile. “I do, my dear. I really do.”

What was left of her heart exploded into a thousand jagged, opalescent shards . . . which fell at her feet. For a long moment, she felt sure the shock had killed her. She felt nothing.

“Then why—why this marriage?” she demanded, anger driving blood back into her ice-cold hands.

“But isn't it obvious?” He had the temerity to shrug his shoulders in casual surprise. “I admit I've been abominable, putting you in this position. But I was terrified, you see. Titled men of good families, men far more famous than Oscar are being packed off to prison for their so-called sins.” His voice became clipped, indignant. He peered deeply into her eyes, as if through them he could reach her better than with words alone. “I believed it was only a matter of time before the law made the connection between us—Oscar and I—and others in our circle. Who knows how dedicated Scotland Yard will be in rounding us all up and shoving us into some dank cell like common criminals.”