Princess Charlotte’s Choice

Princess Charlotte’s Choice
Ann Lethbridge

Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, 1816. As Princess Charlotte prepares to marry Prince Leopold, her most trusted lady, Isabelle Fenwick, must remain chaste and beyond scandal. Yet she has never forgotten darkly handsome Count Nikkolae Grazinsky and the kiss he stole …She later discovered the Russian had only used her for a wager, so why does he still seek her company? And why does the air tingle with anticipation when they are together? Surely this rake cannot be thinking of following Prince Leopold’s example and making a love-match?

Princess Charlotte’s Choice

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, 1816

As Princess Charlotte prepares to marry Prince Leopold, her most trusted lady, Isabelle Fenwick, must remain chaste and beyond scandal. Yet she has never forgotten darkly handsome Count Nikkolae Grazinsky and the kiss he stole…

She later discovered the Russian had only used her for a wager, so why does he still seek her company? And why does the air tingle with anticipation when they are together? Surely this rake cannot be thinking of following Prince Leopold’s example and making a love-match?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Epilogue

Chapter One

Brighton, February 28, 1816

Lady Isabelle Fenwick saw panic in Princess Charlotte’s blue eyes as she stared at her reflection. ‘I w-want him to like me for myself, not only because of the crown.’ The slight hesitation inherited from the House of New Brunswick was another signal of agitation.

‘He will,’ Isabelle soothed. ‘Has he not shown remarkable constancy these past two years?’

They were speaking of His Excellency, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, the man about to become the princess’s betrothed husband. Isabelle wasn’t surprised at the Princess Charlotte’s sudden rush of nerves. She might be next in line for the British throne after her father—the Prince of Wales, now the Prince Regent—but the past two years had been fraught with difficulties.

Mrs Louis, the princess’s dresser, straightened the rose velvet bow at the back of the white satin gown and stepped back. ‘You look lovely, Your Highness. His Excellency must be delighted.’

It was true. The white satin gown set off the princess’s milky skin to perfection and its cut made the most of her buxom figure. The dark golden curls arranged high on her crown with a few curls teased out at the temples gave her a pleasing but youthful dignity.

The princess stamped her foot. It was an impulsive impatient gesture left over from childhood. ‘Then why has he waited so long?’

Sometimes Isabelle, at twenty-three, felt ancient compared to the nineteen-year-old princess. But she did not blame her for her fears, knowing the disaster of her parents’ marriage. ‘The time wasn’t right before now.’

Mrs Louis smoothed imaginary creases from the delicately embroidered skirts. ‘Now the gloves, Your Highness.’

The princess held out one plump hand with a sigh. She glanced at the door to the dressing room through which the other ladies-in-waiting would pass when they finished their toilettes. ‘I do wish I had spent more time in his company when he visited London two years ago.’

Mrs Louis put on her other glove. ‘I will fetch the pearls, Your Highness.’ She disappeared into the bedroom next door.

‘If only my father had suggested him as a possible husband then,’ Charlotte continued, ‘I might not have got into a scrape with Prince Augustus.’ She thrust her chin out, another unfortunate mannerism she occasionally forgot to curb. ‘I am tired of being treated like a miscreant. Cranborne Lodge is little more than a prison. No one visits me there. At least this marriage is a chance to escape.’

Not the best reason to accept a marriage proposal. Guilt pressed heavily on Isabelle’s chest. ‘If I hadn’t left you alone with—’

Princess Charlotte put up a hand. She paced away from the mirror and swirled back to face Isabelle. ‘Nothing happened. Prince Augustus flirted a little. Nothing more. It is because I would not marry that drunkard, William of Orange, that I am hidden away in the grounds at Windsor with no one to talk to but the queen.’

That was one way to look at it. But if Princess Charlotte hadn’t been left alone with Prince Augustus, she might not have fallen for him, and if that hadn’t happened, she might not have infuriated her father by severing her engagement to William of Orange. Topping it off with an impetuous midnight flight alone across London to her mother had sealed her fate. The princess had been confined to Windsor and all her ladies had been dismissed, except for Isabelle, who had been so new and so junior no one imagined she was responsible. In truth, it had all been her fault.

The princess had begged her to say nothing of the way she’d been led astray by her own foolish heart. Count Nikkolae Grazinsky had tricked her shamefully.

‘I am sure Prince Leopold is all you seek in a husband. He always appeared very kind when we met him,’ she said, bringing the princess’s mind back to happier thoughts.

The princess stopped pacing and put her hand to her throat. ‘My heart beats so hard it feels like a wild b-bird in my throat.’ She laughed, the sound loud in the small dressing room. ‘I did like him when we met, I suppose, but I met so many gentlemen, I can scarce recall him. All I know of him, I know from his letters.’

The princess had been flattered by all the attention from foreign nobility visiting London that summer. Given the rampant neglect of her parents, it was hardly surprising she had fallen for any man who smiled her way. The quiet and serious Leopold hadn’t stood a chance among the flashier noblemen, despite his impeccable lineage, handsome face and the dashing uniform of a Russian general.

Mrs Louis returned with the pearls and placed them around the princess’s white throat and looped them around her wrists with a smile.

Lady Ilchester, the chief of Princess Charlotte’s ladies, sailed in, her beak of a nose ready to sniff out trouble. That was her job at the Prince Regent’s behest. ‘It is time we went down, Your Highness. We must not keep Her Majesty waiting.’

Princess Charlotte smoothed her gloves against her arms and leaned close to Isabelle to whisper in her ear. ‘I meant to mention that Count Grazinsky accompanies the prince.’

Isabelle’s heart sank to the soles of her pale blue slippers. Her chest constricted painfully. Nikki was here at the pavilion? How on earth would she face him without giving her anger, her hurt, away to the world?

She must. Numb, she followed the princess out of her suite of rooms. Tightly grasping the balustrade cunningly wrought to resemble bamboo, she trooped downstairs behind the rest of the ladies.

Music greeted them as they entered the gallery which led to the staterooms. In the daytime it provided a magnificent view of the sea. Everything at the regent’s seaside pavilion was either from China or designed to look as if it came from the Orient. With Chinese lanterns reflected in the mirrored doors hiding the staircases at each end, it seemed to stretch for miles. Indian cabinets and ivory sofas lined the walls. Scattered tables held illuminated lotus flowers and porcelain vases, all adding to the opulence. The guests, adorned with diamonds and other jewels, sparkled as much as their surroundings.

At the midpoint of the gallery, the Prince of Wales and his mother, the queen, waited to greet the princess. The Prince Regent in finely embroidered coats over his gargantuan stomach, welcomed his daughter with royal affability. The diminutive elderly queen acknowledged her granddaughter’s curtsey with a warm smile. But everyone’s eyes were on the darkly handsome and slender Prince Leopold. The silver buttons on his dark blue coat and the star on his chest gleamed as he bowed with the grace of a courtier. His stern, almost sombre expression softened when his gaze rested on the princess. Isabelle was sure she heard the ladies around her sigh in unison and she smiled her pride as her royal mistress made her stylish curtsey, showing not a morsel of the nerves she’d evinced above stairs.

One by one, the prince introduced his attendants to the princess. Isabelle’s heart faltered as she watched Count Nikkolae Grazinsky achieve an elegant bow for such a big man.

Tall and dark, with sculpted features, she’d thought him beautiful the first time she saw him riding in Hyde Park with Prince Leopold two years before. Where the prince was slender, Nikki’s broad shoulders strained at the fabric of his dark blue uniform. While the prince employed exquisite manners honed in the courts of Europe, Nikki exuded power and energy and the sense he would take what he wanted. He observed the world from piercing blue eyes without revealing his thoughts; yet, in the few short hours they’d spent alone, she’d thought she’d seen the man behind the uniform, a man lost and alone. She’d been horribly mistaken.

When the princess turned to introduce her ladies to the prince, Isabelle dared not look up, in case she should somehow lock gazes with Nikki and show her anger. Now was not the time or the place.

When it was her turn to curtsey, she felt quite ill. Was the prince aware of what she’d done? How she managed to remain steady as she dipped her knees, she wasn’t sure.

‘Lady Isabelle,’ the prince said in his thick Germanic accent. ‘I am glad once more to make your acquaintance.’

‘Your Excellency,’ she said, painfully aware of the flush on her cheeks. When she glanced up, she found the prince’s expression kindly, even if his dark brown eyes were a little stern. She managed a hesitant smile before he turned his attention elsewhere.

She studiously avoided any possibility of meeting Nikki’s mocking glance.

The introductions over, the Prince Regent sank into his wheeled chair, his bulk clearly too much for his gout. The footman pushed him into the dining room alongside the queen. Lady Hertford, the regent’s mistress, a handsome if somewhat stout woman past the first blush of youth, followed along on Lord Castlereagh’s arm, leaving her long-suffering husband to escort Lady Ilchester.

Lord Alvanley, the close friend of the prince’s assigned to escort Isabelle into the banqueting room, adeptly flicked open his snuff box and inhaled a pinch with practiced dexterity. ‘Such a bore, don’t you know,’ he said quietly. ‘No wonder you look depressed. I feel like crying myself. No doubt after dinner the queen will insist upon cards and backgammon for the meanest of stakes.’

The portly dandy’s mock expression of agony made her smile.