Royal Affair (12 page)

“What a lovely dress, Marta,” he said. “Have
I seen it before?”

“I don’t believe you know my entire
wardrobe.”

“I was right, then. I would certainly not
forget how that…” His voice trailed off as his fingers roamed
dangerously close to her shoulder.

She stepped far enough away to let him know
not to touch her. Although he gave her an oily smile, he didn’t
follow.

He did sigh. “Another beautiful American
lost to mankind.”

“You mean Dixie Beaumont?”

“A jewel in the rough,” he said. “I could
have polished her to such brilliance.”

No doubt, but what woman wanted that kind of
polishing? “How did your pursuit of her mother go?”

“Bah. Her boor of a husband arrived. Coarse
beyond endurance.”

Which meant, no doubt, that Mr. Beaumont had
given Vaclav an earful about why he should stay away from Mrs.
Beaumont. Well deserved.

“So, sadly, I find myself alone on such a
joyous occasion.” He placed his hand over his heart and hung his
head.

“Odd. I thought more than twenty people
accompanied you from Rosnia.”

“Ah, but I see them all the time. They hold
no mystery.”

“Surely, there must be one lady—”

“None as beautiful as you,” he said. “Let’s
dance, shall we?”

And suffer the same treatment he’d given
Casey at a ball? His hands had landed on her derriere, prompting
some very salty language from Casey. If only Marta had that kind of
courage. Instead, she held up her glass. “I’m still drinking my
champagne.”

He finished his in one gulp, but he couldn’t
make her do the same. As long as she had wine in her glass, she was
safe.

And then, rescue arrived in the person of
Friedrich. No man in the world looked better in formal dress than
him. The tailcoat fit his shoulders perfectly, and the satin sash
across his chest marked him as royalty. Surely, fairy tales were
written for princes like him.

He took one glance at Marta and Vaclav and
sized up the situation. Of course, he’d had experience with his
cousin. Vaclav made a slight bow, which Friedrich reciprocated.

“You promised me this dance, I believe,” he
said to Marta.

“Why yes, I did.” She handed her glass to
Vaclav. “Thank you for the refreshment.”

Vaclav struggled for words briefly, but
before he could get any out, Friedrich had led her onto the dance
floor and taken her in his arms.

They’d danced so many times before, and
she’d always savored the strength and warmth of being close to him.
He led her in the steps without any apparent effort, and soon they
were swirling on a cloud of his making.

This time meant so much more. He’d told her
he loved her. They’d enjoyed a far more intimate dance and then the
tender touches and sounds that followed. Those sensations came
rushing back to her now, when she had to behave like a lady, not
the wanton he’d created inside her. It was almost too much—as if
she should get away before she did something to betray all the
feelings trying to burst out of her.

He didn’t speak for the longest time, and
she had to imagine he felt the same way. Still, she held herself
back, not bringing herself firmly against him nor laying her head
on his shoulder.

“I’m getting quite used to these weddings,”
he said finally. “They’re actually enjoyable once everyone
relaxes.”

“Dixie did beautifully, and Ulrich managed
to get through the service in one piece.”

“He did.” A bit more of a pause. “I wonder
if we shouldn’t have another wedding soon.”

Her heart seemed to stop for a full second.
With no more sons to marry off, the only person remaining in his
family was himself. She couldn’t make herself speak, so she kept
dancing.

“Ulrich was quite scandalized by our
affair,” Friedrich said.

“Was he?”

“He demanded I marry you,” he said. “My
other sons agreed.”

She gazed up into his face. “You discussed
this with them?”

“They did catch me coming out of your suite
in the early morning.”

They had, or Ulrich had and told the others.
She hadn’t helped matters by sticking her head out into the hallway
and taunting him. Still, Friedrich might have made his intentions
clear to her first.

Oh good heaven. Her dream was coming true.
Why should she care about who he spoke to and in what order?

“Well then, I suppose we’re thoroughly
disgraced if we don’t wed,” she said. Had she just agreed to marry
him so glibly? And what kind of proposal started with a command
from his son?

“So if you would be good enough to make an
honest man of me, I’d be honored if you’d become my wife,” he
said.

“That does seem the prudent thing to do,”
she said. “So, yes.”

Everything she’d ever wanted in the world
slid right into place. She’d have the man she loved, and she could
share his children. She’d be a grandmother. She should be laughing
and kissing him and hugging him, not minding the steps of a dance.
They’d do all that later.

Finally, he looked down at her and gave her
the sort of smile that lifted her off her feet. “Thank you,
Liebling
. I’ll make you happy. I promise.”

“You already have.”

“We’ll have to introduce you to the people
as Princess Royal, but Grigori sees no problem in that.”

“You spoke to him about this, too?”

“I had to consider Danislova,” he said. “A
Prince Royal can’t simply follow his heart in these matters.”

She could point out that Dev had. But why?
They came from different generations, and Felice wouldn’t become
Princess Royal for many years, God willing. The people would have
to accept Marta now.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Good, we’ll make the announcement in a week
or so.”

The music stopped, and he studied her for
few seconds. Then, he smiled, curled her arm around his and led her
from the dance floor. As they walked, he bent to place his lips to
her ear. “
Ich liebe dich
.”

“And I you,” she answered softly.

And that was it. She was engaged to him. And
his family and Danislova. He hadn’t dropped to his knee and
declared his undying love. He hadn’t recited poetry or sworn that
he’d shrivel and die without her. She should be used to the men of
her generation by now—not demonstrative but showing their
dedication through their actions. He’d been an excellent husband to
Cecile, and he would to her as well. And she could share his bed
and his life every night and every day.

“I’m happy,” he said. “What about you?”

“Delirious.” And she was. She truly was.

*

Now that the family knew their news, Marta
could be freer with Friedrich, at least at the palace. There had
been no official announcement for the public yet, but she’d stood
by his side with his arm around her as they’d said good-bye first
to Dixie and Ulrich as they headed out on their honeymoon in the
Danislovan countryside and then to Kurt and Casey as they returned
to New York. That had felt so good.

She’d let him bid farewell to the Beaumonts
on his own, thank you very much. But at least they’d left.

Now she could sneak into his study in the
middle of the day for a kiss if she wanted, and she always wanted.
They’d made it into a little ritual.

A few days after all the departures, the
weather was so lovely, she’d decided to pull him away from his work
long enough for a walk in the forest that surrounded the palace.
Away from the public eye, they’d walk hand in hand down to the
river where Kurt loved to fish.

She’d grasped the knob to his study door and
opened it an inch when she caught an unusual sound. A sob.
Friedrich’s voice. He was crying?

She quietly let herself in and closed the
door behind her. Sure enough, he sat behind his desk, his eyes red.
He swiped a tear away, started to shove some papers into his desk
drawer and then changed his mind, leaving them on the surface.

“Come in, please,” he said.

“Friedrich, what’s wrong?” Such a strong
man, she’d never imagined that anything could make him cry except
for a tragedy. Something terrible must have happened. “Your sons
are all right, aren’t they? Their wives? Felice?”

Oh, God, Felice. Had she lost the child? Oh,
no. Her heart pounding, Marta sank into a chair across from him and
waited for him to speak.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “When I
was very young.”

“I don’t understand. You’re frightening
me.”

“Read this.” He handed one of the papers to
her. It was a hand-written letter.

“Esteemed Prince Royal, Friedrich
VonRamsberg,

We never met, but early in my marriage my
wife confided in me that the two of you had become lovers whilst on
holiday in Italy.”

“What is this?” She reached for the
envelope, turned it over and found a return address in England.

“My first love. A woman named Pamela,” he
said.

Indeed. She continued reading.

“I’m writing to inform you that Pamela died
in her sleep early this morning. She’d had cancer for several
months and was in considerable pain, but her passing was a peaceful
one.”

“This would have been before your marriage,”
she said. It would have to have been. He never would have cheated
on Cecile.

“Before my parents’ death,” he said. “I
shouldn’t have allowed it to happen, but I was so young.”

He’d loved someone before Cecile, and he
hadn’t told her about the woman. She’d told him everything, even
about loving Etienne and their clumsy attempts at sex. Why was she
only learning about this now?

“Pamela asked me before she died to send you
a picture of us with our children and grandchildren,” the letter
went on. “She wanted you to know that her life had been a full and
happy one.”

“There’s a picture?” she said.

He passed a photograph across the desk to
her, and she found herself staring at the face of a woman he’d
loved so profoundly that her death brought him to tears decades
later.

Pamela and her husband sat surrounded by
several pairs of adults—their children and sons- and
daughters-in-law, no doubt. Some held babies in their arms. Pamela
was a striking woman with golden hair shot through with white.
She’d obviously been very beautiful when young.

“It was good of him to send you this,” Marta
said. But her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside of her.
The right words. She always knew the right words. Her thoughts,
though, were swirling in chaos. Why hadn’t he told her? Why did he
care so deeply after all this time? Did he still love this other
woman? Was her own upcoming marriage to him only to be for comfort
and—yes—sex?

And she couldn’t keep her treacherous mind
from remembering—why had he proposed the way he did? Why had he
consulted with his family and his advisor before telling her he
wanted to marry her?

She shouldn’t read any more, but some devil
inside her demanded to know everything. So she continued.

“I never doubted that she loved me with her
whole heart,” the letter continued. “But you were always her
fairy-tale prince. Not many women have the opportunity to
experience that dream, and I want you to know I’m grateful you
could enrich her life in that way.”

The words started to swim, and she had to
set the letter in her lap.

“I’ve hurt you,” Friedrich said. “I didn’t
mean to.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Here’s the last of it, then.” He handed her
another photograph. A very old one. It showed him and Pamela posed
before an outdoor bistro, no doubt in Italy. He was the prince
she’d fancied herself in love with as a child, and he had his arm
around a beautiful blonde woman. They were obviously besotted with
each other.

“She saved it, and her husband sent it to
me,” he said.

“Oh, God.” She hadn’t meant for that to
escape.

“Marta?” In an instant he rose, rounded the
desk, and sat in the chair next to hers. Taking her hands, he
stared into her face. “You must realize all this happened a long
time ago.”

“Were you planning on telling me about
her?”

“I hadn’t decided. Perhaps.”

“When?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He stared down at their
joined hands. “Cecile cried when I told her about Pamela. She
thought it meant I didn’t love her. I didn’t want to hurt you that
way.”

“I see.” Words kept coming out of her mouth,
but they didn’t make sense. Just sounds to fill the void while she
tried to absorb it all.

He looked back up at her. “I have hurt you,
haven’t I?”

She suddenly realized she’d been crushing
the letter in her hand. She smoothed it out and set it and the
pictures on the desk. “I’d resigned myself to being second in your
heart—”

“You’re not second in anything,” he
said.

“But I’m not sure I want to be third.”

His fingers gripped hers. “Marta, no.”

“It’s not your fault. I loved you, but you
hardly noticed. You fell in love with another woman, and you still
love her. It’s just the way life works out.”

“No. It was years ago. I gave her up out of
duty and found love again. I never told anyone about her other than
Cecile…” His voice trailed off. “Except…yes, Felice.”

She pulled her hand back. “Felice knew?”

“I told her the story of my sacrifice to
convince her she couldn’t marry Dev. Stupid, but I thought it was
necessary.”

So, he’d told Felice but not her. And now
she’d found him in tears over another woman. How was she supposed
to feel about that? How was she supposed to get her mind around it?
At least, she wasn’t married to him yet. She had options. She’d
have to decide how important this revelation was to her and then
settle on where to go from here. Right now she needed space and
room to breathe.

“Cecile forgave me,” he said. “I hope you
can, too.”