Prince Charming in Disguise. Bronwyn Scott
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point of view. He was nearly twenty-five, and the heir to Great Britain part aside, he needed a wife, preferably one that he liked at least a little. Ideally, one that he liked a lot. It would have surprised his father to know the thoughts running through his son’s mind at the moment. He might have grown up knowing the expectations of a political marriage but that didn’t stop him from acquiring expectations of his own. Surely, some affection, some mutual regard, was possible.
George stood and tugged at his waistcoat, pulling himself together. What was done was done. Hedwig Sophia had refused. ‘I thank you for informing me, Father. It’s time to move forward from this and start thinking afresh about who might suit.’ He gave his father a short bow and exited.
The prospect of returning to Marie-Thérèse had diminished in light of the news. He wanted to be alone, to think about what had happened and what he’d do next. A walk in the gardens would help clear his mind and re-establish a sense of clarity. He was level-headed enough to understand this: his disappointment over the refusal stemmed from the obstacle it created, not from any fond affection. He’d never met the dowager duchess. All he knew of her was contained in reports from diplomats and the small miniature. He was merely disappointed that his goal of marriage had been thwarted.
Having embraced the idea of marrying, George was set on seeing it accomplished with his usual dogged determination. Once he’d committed to a concept, he was seldom swayed from his course whether it was the wisest or not.
George stopped by a fountain to watch the rhythmic trickle of water into the basin. Soon it would be winter and the fountain would freeze until spring. Not unlike his marital expectations, he thought wryly. It would take at least the winter to search out another alliance.
He threw back his head and laughed at his own impatience. It was something of a revelation to him that, future king or not, he was no different from other men of his age, full of the fires and passions of youth. From the lowest farmer to the most powerful ruler, every man had an empire to rule and that empire was the one he created himself—his family.
It seemed unfair that when he rode through the Hanover villages he saw men younger than he, with far fewer prospects than his, with pretty young wives waiting for them at home and chubby round-faced children to toss in the air while he had riches to command, titles to offer and yet he had no wife.
George threw a small pebble into the basin. He would make a new start tomorrow. He would commission a miniature or two of himself. He knew himself to be not unattractive with his fair hair and square-jawed features. People often said the strong set of his chin hinted at the strength of character beneath. He was of a middling height, although some said ‘short,’ but that was a matter of opinion. He preferred ‘middling.’ But what his stature might lack, the youthful physicality of his body supplied, a fact to which the courtly ladies of Hanover could well attest. Perhaps he’d hire a portraitist as well. The miniaturist would show off his face but he secretly thought in vainer moments his legs were one of his best features with their supple calves, muscled from hunting and horses.
Having a plan soothed his disappointment and he headed back into the palace. His bride was out there, somewhere, he just had to find her. In the meantime there were ladies waiting or ladies-in-waiting, if one preferred.
The Elector of Hanover drummed his long fingers atop the desk. George had taken the news much better than he’d expected. He was just as disappointed with the news as George. In his opinion, the duchess was precisely what George needed in a wife—a young woman with intelligence who would long be at his side, helping him govern with a borrowed intelligence George’s directness lacked. But there would be others to choose from. But who would be best?
His thoughts sifted through conversations and letters he’d exchanged with his mother, the dowager electress, over the past few years. There was one name his mother was fond of interjecting into matrimonial discussions. If only he could remember. Ah, yes, Caroline of Ansbach, if he recalled correctly.
There was a moment of elation at remembering the name. Then he recalled why he’d not seriously pursued the offering in the first place. Caroline’s brother was the Margrave of Ansbach. She had no significant dowry and no family connections to make up for the lack of personal wealth. In fact, she’d been orphaned at the age of eleven. If it hadn’t been for her late mother’s friendship with the Electress of Brandenburg, Caroline might have faded into ignominy.
Therein lay Caroline’s one redeeming asset. The elector remembered now. The Electress of Brandenburg had become the Queen of Prussia three years ago, making Caroline the official ward of King Frederick, a mighty connection indeed. Well, the elector thought with a private smile, if you were only going to have one political connection, it might as well be that one. It was time to revisit the Caroline question.
Chapter Two
The Court of the King of Prussia at Berlin, late November 1704
‘Is that your final answer?’ Frederick, King of Prussia, speared the young woman in front of him with a dark gaze. She held his stare, menacing though it was. He was her guardian, and in the ten years she’d been his ward, his dark eyes and long face had been nothing but friendly. Today that was not the case. Barely disguised anger and disappointment seethed below the surface of his countenance. It took no small amount of courage to offer her response.
‘Yes.’ Caroline fought the urge to glance down at her hands but that would be a show of weakness as she uttered the last. ‘I do not wish to marry the King of Spain.’
Caroline sat alone with the king and queen in a private receiving room set aside for the royal family. Frederick rose to pace, giving full vent to his spleen. ‘The archduke is heir to the King of Spain—he will be the next Holy Roman Emperor.’
‘Titular.’ Caroline managed her objection in a single word.
Frederick rounded on her. ‘Titular? What in the name of all that is holy does “titular” mean?’
‘He is the titular King of Spain. It is a probability that is not as ironclad as they’ve been represented,’ Caroline argued.
‘Is that the only reason you refuse?’ Frederick all but growled.
Caroline swallowed and sighed. They all knew it wasn’t the true reason for refusal. The archduke’s suit had been pressed since the summer in full force. Charles was considered by most of the royal world an ‘amiable prince’ and he’d courted her earnestly, even sending his own priest, Urban, to answer her theological questions. The visits with Urban had left Caroline in tears, however, and had not solidified Charles’s claim for her hand.
‘He is a Catholic and I am not, nor will I be,’ Caroline said resolutely.
Frederick shot his wife a hard look. ‘Who should I blame for this interference? This smells of a Hanover plot to prevent the marriage.’ By ‘Hanover plot’ he meant the queen’s mother, the Dowager Electress Sophia, a powerful, opinionated woman.
Caroline shook her head vigorously. ‘The plot is all mine. I will not convert.’ It was true that her friend, the philosopher Leibniz, who acted as factotum for the Hanover Court, had helped draft her official letter of refusal. But the decision was all hers, based on the convictions she’d shaped after years of being with Sophia-Charlotte at her intellectual court in Lutzenburg.
‘Not for all the riches Charles offers? I know you to be an ambitious girl, Caroline,’ Frederick coaxed, softening just a little. ‘A marriage with Charles would fulfil that ambition.’
She heard the unspoken message: marriage to Charles was far beyond what a girl of her background aspired to. Caroline was well aware the princesses of Ansbach had a history of marrying minor lords or other local gentry and fading into the family tree unrecognised. To be the Queen of Spain far exceeded the achievements of her house to date.
It was not her ambitions alone that would be fulfilled. She heard the other unspoken message as well: ‘After all we’ve done for you, will you not do this one thing for us?’ But she could not relent.
‘I am sorry, I cannot,’