The Princess Plan. Julia London
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prime minister and perhaps pave a path to ratification.”
“Oh? How?” Sebastian had asked curiously.
“Bring home a wife.”
“Pardon?” Sebastian had laughed.
His father did not. “We’ve waited long enough. We must secure the question of succession—Felix’s son Arman has two children. While England believes in our legitimacy, Queen Victoria’s consort, Prince Albert, agrees with the view of his duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, who favors Felix. They depend on Wesloria for iron ore, as you know. We can cement your trade agreement and England’s commitment to us with an English bride.”
This had not been part of Sebastian’s thinking, but instead of debating the point, he’d said nothing. He needed to think about it.
His father had pinned him with a look. “You’re not a young man any longer. You’re two-and-thirty. We must secure the succession—it’s as simple as that, son. If you can’t arrange it, then perhaps you have no business inserting yourself in these affairs.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. You should know that if you don’t settle on a match, when you return, I’ll settle on one for you. A bride from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, perhaps.”
Sebastian had had no choice but to agree.
Now that he was in London, the rumors of rebellion felt dangerously real, whereas in Alucia, the threats always seemed at a remove. His security was the best of his country, and yet, Sebastian felt exposed in London. He didn’t know how his younger brother, Leopold, seemed to live relatively at ease while he studied at Cambridge.
“They’re merely rumors,” Leopold had said with a shrug when Sebastian had questioned him.
Perhaps Leopold did not hear the reports that support for their father was eroding under a relentless propaganda campaign coming from Felix. That was another thing that drove Sebastian—he believed if he could modernize the country, he could shore up support for his father.
And then again, it was entirely possible that those rumors were unfounded but louder in Sebastian’s presence, as he was the heir, the future king. Perhaps they seemed stronger here because of Prince Albert’s support of Felix and Wesloria.
Sebastian had to find a wife in this veritable sea of unmarried English women. Alliances had to be formed, and the ministers of Alucia had hypothesized that a proper English bride with strong connections to the Parliament of the United Kingdom would secure support for Alucia in a deeper rift between Wesloria and Alucia. Which potential bride, however, was an ongoing debate between the ministers that had accompanied him.
Sebastian understood his duty. He wasn’t particularly bothered by the marriage part of this bargain with his father. He’d never entertained the idea that a marriage to a woman could be made solely on the basis of compatibility and affection. He had always known it would be a political alliance in his case, just as his parents’ had been. They’d dispatched their duty to the kingdom and had produced the obligatory heir and a spare. Now they lived separate lives for the most part, his mother generally spending her time in the mountains at their ducal estate, and his father settled in at the palace in the capital of Helenamar. Sebastian assumed his marriage would follow the same path.
The Alucians had narrowed the field of eligible wives to a handful, but the hopes of English parents were evergreen. In addition to hearing the rumors of his demise at every turn, Sebastian was also being bombarded with introductions to unmarried English women.
He’d just endured a long line of them. It was ridiculous, what with all the masks. And what could anyone hope to do in a few superficial moments? Did they think he would look at one of those masked faces and Cupid would sling his arrow into Sebastian’s heart? He’d resented the need to do it, and he’d been so fatigued by the many introductions that he’d actually stepped on the foot of a woman who had greeted him with a hearty Welcome to England, as if she were standing at the port of entry, waving weary travelers through.
“Do you intend to dance?” Matous asked after Sebastian had told him that he would not accept another introduction and had proceeded to walk away.
“No.” Sebastian looked around for a waiter. What were they serving? Was it the punch?
“I would highly recommend it, sir. If you don’t, it will be remarked and your identity revealed.”
“Have I not already been remarked?” Sebastian complained. “You introduced two dozen young women to me in the corner of the ballroom.”
“Two dozen out of what could potentially have been two hundred,” Matous said with a deferential incline of his head. It was a habit of his; he sought to appear deferential when he was disagreeing or correcting Sebastian.
Sebastian groaned and looked around for a footman.
“Is there a...type...that would please you, sir?”
Matous was not asking after Sebastian’s favorite type of dance. The “type” that would please him was a naked one, preferably on a bed somewhere far from this madness. “Red hair,” he said. “I made her acquaintance at Windsor, do you recall? Widowed or separated or something like it. And a drink, man. Wine, punch, I don’t care. I must have something.”
“As you desire, sir,” Matous said crisply, and with a flick of his right wrist, sent one of the four guards, who were dressed identically to Sebastian, hurrying off to find something for him to drink.
The guard returned a moment later with a glass, which he sipped before wiping the rim clean with his handkerchief and handing the drink to Sebastian.
Sebastian downed the drink. It was the rum punch, and it was as good as the first time he’d sampled it. A thought flitted through his mind briefly—was the woman whose foot he’d mangled the same woman in the passageway? He mentally shrugged and thrust the glass at the guard. “More,” he said.
While he waited for the guard to return with more of the drink, Matous went off to find the woman with the red hair. At about the same time as the guard returned with a second round of punch, Matous returned with a woman on his arm. She was wearing a deep blue gown. Her auburn hair looked quite stunning, and her green catlike eyes glittered at Sebastian from behind a mask. She sank into a very deep curtsy.
“Your Highness, may I present Mrs. Regina Forsythe,” Matous said.
“Mrs. Forsythe,” Sebastian said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance again.”
“The pleasure is assuredly mine, Your Royal Highness.” She accepted the hand he’d offered and rose up with a pert smile.
“You intrigued me so with your conversation at Windsor,” he remarked. “I hope it is not an imposition to resume it?”
She smiled coyly. “Which conversation was that? About the soup? Or the fact that my husband is stationed in India at present?”
She was saucy, and Sebastian liked that about her. At Windsor, when he’d asked why she had not accompanied her husband to India to give him comfort, she had slyly explained that her husband saw to his comfort, and she to hers. “Both,” he said to her question. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
“The honor would be mine.”
He presented his arm. She laid her hand lightly on it and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians played a waltz, and Sebastian bowed, then took her hand in his, placed his other hand high on her back, and led her into the dance.
“How are you finding London?” she asked.
“It has been a privilege.” Never give an answer that could be in any way misconstrued.
“How do you find your rooms at Buckingham?” she asked, her eyes glittering.
A clever little inquiry. “We are not housed at Buckingham. The queen has graciously accommodated our large party here.”
“How