The Accidental Princess (5 page)

Shielding her eyes against the morning sun, she saw him standing near the stables while a groom readied his horse. Almost against her will, Hannah’s feet moved forward, drawing her closer to the Lieutenant. She didn’t have the faintest idea what to say, or why she was even planning to speak to him.

The Lieutenant’s hazel eyes were tired, his cheeks covered in dark stubble. The white cravat hung open at his throat, and he held his hat in his hands.

Hannah dipped her head in greeting, and out of deference, the groom stepped away to let them talk. She kept her voice low, so the servant wouldn’t overhear their conversation. ‘I’m glad my father didn’t murder you.’

Michael shrugged and put on one of his riding gloves. ‘I’m a difficult man to kill.’

Hannah found her attention caught by his long fingers, and she remembered his bare hand caressing her nape. No one had ever made her feel that way before, her skin sparking with unfamiliar sensations.

She closed her eyes, clearing her thoughts. Then she
reached for what she truly needed to say. ‘I never thanked you for rescuing me. It means a great deal to me. Even despite all of this.’

The Lieutenant gave a slight nod, as though he didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t acknowledge the words of gratitude, but instead glanced over at the house. ‘Lord Rothburne said you’re going to marry Belgrave.’

Hannah tensed. ‘My father is ready to marry me off to the next titled gentleman who walks through the gate.’ She stared him in the eyes. ‘I won’t do it. He’ll have to drag me to the altar.’

‘I thought you were the obedient sort.’

‘Not about this.’ She could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth. It wasn’t like her, not at all, but then she felt like someone had taken a club to her life, smashing it into a thousand glass pieces.

Obedience had brought her nothing. And right now she wanted to voice her frustrations to someone who understood.

‘Why is this happening?’ she whispered. ‘What did I do that was so wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ the Lieutenant said. His hand started to reach for hers, but he drew back, as if remembering that it wasn’t proper. ‘Your only fault is being the daughter of a Marquess.’

‘I wish I weren’t.’ Hannah lowered her head. ‘I wish I were nothing but an ordinary woman. I would have more freedom.’

No lists, no rules to follow. She could make her own decisions and be mistress of her life.

‘You wouldn’t want that at all.’ The Lieutenant gestured toward her father’s house. ‘You were born to live in a world such as this.’

‘It’s a prison.’

‘A gilded prison.’

‘A prison, nonetheless.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘And now I’ll be sentenced to marriage with Lord Belgrave. Unless I can find a way out.’

He didn’t respond, but she saw the way his mouth tightened, the sudden darkness in his eyes. ‘You will.’

‘And what about you?’ She realised she’d never asked what had happened to him. Surely the Lieutenant had faced his own lion’s den, courtesy of the Marquess. ‘What happened between you and my father?’

He hesitated before answering, ‘My commanding officer will see to it that I stay on the Crimean Peninsula.’

‘What exactly…does that mean?’ A shiver of foreboding passed through her.

‘I’ll be sent to fight. Possibly on the front lines.’ He shrugged, as if it were to be expected. But she understood what he wouldn’t say. Men who fought on the front lines had essentially been issued a death sentence without a court-martial. Certainly it was no place for an officer.

She stared at him, her skin growing cold. Though he might be an unmannered rogue who had taken unfair advantage of her, he didn’t deserve to die.

This is your fault.
Her conscience drove the truth home like an arrow striking its target. If it weren’t for her, he’d be returning to his former duties.

‘You were wounded before,’ she said slowly. ‘With the Light Brigade.’

He gave a nod. ‘I would have been returning to duty anyway. I’ve made a full recovery.’ He spoke as if it didn’t matter, that this was of no concern.

She looked into his eyes, her heart suddenly trembling. ‘It’s not right for you to be sent away again.’

‘I’ve no ties to London, sweet. I always expected to return. It doesn’t matter.’ He started towards his horse, but Hannah stopped him.

He was going to lose everything because of her. Because he’d rescued her and taken care of her that night.

‘It matters.’ She touched the sleeve of his coat, feeling obli
gated to do something for him. There had to be some way she could intervene with her father’s unnecessary punishment.

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ he murmured, his eyes centering directly on hers.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like you’re trying to rescue me.’

‘I’m not.’ She lifted her face to his, studying those deep hazel eyes. He was a soldier, trained to strike down his enemies. Right now, he looked tired, but no less dangerous.

‘Trust me, sweet. I’m not a man worth saving.’ He took her hand in his and, despite the gloves, she felt the heat of his skin. ‘You’d do well to stay away from me.’

The evocative memory of his stolen kiss conjured gooseflesh on her arms. The Lieutenant never took his eyes from her, and Hannah held herself motionless.

It went against everything she’d been taught, to hold an unmarried man’s hand while standing in the garden where anyone could see. He was so close, the barest breath hung between them.

Something wanton and unbidden unfurled from within her, making her understand that Michael Thorpe was no ordinary man. He fascinated her. Tempted her.

And the daughter of a Marquess could never, never be with a man like him. He was right.

At last, she took her hand from his, ignoring the pang of disappointment. It was better for her to stay away from him. He was entirely the wrong sort of man.

Yet he was the only man who had noticed her absence at the ball. He hadn’t stopped to notify her father and brothers, but had come after her straight away. An unexpected hero.

The Lieutenant’s ill-fitting coat had a tear in the elbow. Shabby and worn, he didn’t fit into the polished world in which she lived. But beneath his rebellious air was a man who had fought to save her.

Would he do so again, if she asked it of him?

‘Lieutenant Thorpe, I have a favour to ask.’

He eyed her with wariness. ‘What is it?’

It felt so awkward to ask this of him. She dug her nails into her palms, gathering up her courage. ‘If I am forced into marriage with Lord Belgrave, would you…put a stop to the wedding?’

A lazy smile perked at his mouth. ‘You’re asking me to kidnap you from your own wedding?’

‘If it comes to that—yes.’ She squared her shoulders, pretending as though she hadn’t voiced an inappropriate request. ‘I shall try to avoid it, of course. You would be my last resort.’

He expelled a harsh laugh and went over to his horse, bringing the animal between them. Grasping the reins in one hand, he tilted his head to study her. ‘You’re serious.’

‘Nothing could be more serious.’ It was an arrangement, a practical way of preventing the worst tragedy of her life. And though it might cause an even greater scandal, she would do anything to escape marriage to Belgrave.

‘I have to report to duty,’ the Lieutenant warned. ‘It’s likely I would be gone within the week.’

She gave a brisk nod, well aware of that. ‘Believe me, my parents want to see me married as soon as possible. It’s likely a wedding will be arranged in a few days. I simply refuse to wed Belgrave. Any other man will do.’

‘Even me?’ He sent her a sidelong smile, as though he, too, couldn’t believe what she was asking.

‘Well, no.’ She pinched her lips together, realising that she’d led him to believe something she’d never intended. ‘I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Don’t worry, sweet.’ His voice grew low, tempting her once again. ‘I’ll stop your wedding, if it’s in my power.’

She breathed once again, her shoulders falling in relief. ‘I would be most grateful.’ Knowing that he would be there in
the background, to steal her away from an unwanted wedding, gave her the sense that somehow everything would be all right. She held out her gloved palm, intending to shake his hand on the bargain.

The Lieutenant took her gloved hand in his. Instead of a firm handshake, he raised her palm to his face. ‘If I steal the bride away,’ he murmured, pressing his lips to her hand, ‘what will I get in return?’

‘W
hat do you want?’

Michael’s response was a slow smile, letting her imagine all the things he might do to a stolen bride, if they were alone.

Hannah’s expression appeared shocked. ‘I would never do such a thing. This is an arrangement, nothing more.’

Her face had gone pale, and Michael pulled back, putting physical distance between them. ‘Don’t you recognise teasing when you hear it, sweet?’

She looked bewildered, but shook her head. ‘Don’t make fun of me, please. This is about Belgrave. I simply can’t marry him.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘It’s not that simple. Already my mother has decided it would be the best future for me.’ Hannah rubbed at her temples absently. ‘I don’t know what I can do to convince her otherwise.’

‘It’s very simple. Tell her no.’

She was already shaking her head, making excuses to herself. ‘I can’t. She won’t listen to a thing I say.’

‘You’ve never disobeyed them, have you?’

‘No.’ She seemed lost, so vulnerable that he half-wished there was someone who could take care of her. Not him.
There was no hope of that. She was far better off away from a man like himself.

‘No one can force you to marry. Not even your father.’ He adjusted her shawl so it fully covered her shoulders. ‘Hold your ground and endure what you must.’

Visions flooded his mind, of the battle at Balaclava where his men had obeyed that same command. They’d tried valiantly to stand firm before the enemy. A hailstorm of enemy bullets had rained down upon them, men dying by the hundreds.

Was he asking her to do the same? To stand up to her father, knowing that the Marquess would strike her down? Perhaps it was the wrong course of action.

‘I don’t think I can,’ Hannah confessed. She tugged at a finger of her glove, worrying the fabric. ‘Papa can make my life a misery. And I’ll be ruined if I don’t marry.’

Though she was undoubtedly right, he could not allow himself to think about her future. They were worlds apart from one another. She would have to live with whatever choices she made.

‘Time to make your own fortune. If you’re already ruined, you’ve nothing left to lose. Do as you please.’

Hannah stared at him, as though she hadn’t the faintest idea of how a ruined woman should behave. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always…done what I should.’

She took a step towards the house, away from him. He suddenly understood that she’d asked him to rescue her, not because of her parents, but because the need to obey was so deeply ingrained in her. If he kidnapped her from the wedding, she could lay the blame at his feet, not hers.

She’s not your concern,
his brain reminded him.
Let her make her own choices. Tell her no
.

But he didn’t. Though he shouldn’t interfere, neither would he let her marry a man like Belgrave. He let out a breath, and
said, ‘Send word to me if anything changes. Your brothers know where I can be found.’

‘Will you be all right?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘What if my father—?’

‘He can do nothing to me,’ Michael interrupted. Within a week or two, there would be hundreds of miles between them. He’d be back with the Army, fighting the enemy and obeying orders until he met his own end. Men like him weren’t good for much else.

The troubled expression on her face hadn’t dimmed. Instead, a bright flush warmed her cheeks. ‘Thank you for agreeing to help me.’ Hannah reached up to her neck and unfastened the diamond necklace. ‘I want you to have this.’

‘Keep it.’ He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones. An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept. Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.

‘If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.’ She placed it back in his palm.

He hadn’t considered it in that light. ‘You’re right.’ The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewellery within his pocket.

‘Return in a day or two,’ she ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.’

He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out. ‘It’s not necessary.’

‘It is.’

In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future. Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.

She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage. ‘I won’t let my father destroy my future.’ Her expression shifted into a stubborn set. ‘And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.’

The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.

Mrs Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.

‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, tipping his hat.

No recognition dawned in her silver-grey eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.

Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs Turner had been his neighbour and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.

He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.

And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.

Today she didn’t recognise him at all.

Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. ‘You’re Mrs Turner, aren’t you?’ he commented, keeping up with her pace. ‘Of Number Eight, Newton Street?’

She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘No, no, you probably don’t remember me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’m a friend of Henry’s.’

The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Henry sent me to fetch you home,’ he said gently. ‘Will
you let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.’

The mention of her favourite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. ‘I’m lost, aren’t I?’

He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. ‘No, Mrs Turner.’

As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognised her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.

Michael helped her inside, and saw that she was out of coal. ‘I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.’ Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait.

After purchasing a bucket of coal for her, he returned to her dwelling and soon had a fire burning.

Mrs Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet. He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous colour, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.

‘Why, Michael,’ she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile. ‘I didn’t realise you’d come to visit. Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?’

He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him. When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining. There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.

‘You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.’ She beamed. ‘Where did you get those clothes?’

He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night, from her son’s clothing. Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.

‘A good friend let me borrow them,’ was all he said. When
her tea was ready, he brought her the cup, lacing it heavily with whisky.

She drank heartily, smacking her lips. ‘Ah, now you’re a fine lad, Michael. Tell me about the ball last night. Did you meet any young ladies to marry?’

‘I might have.’ The vision of Lady Hannah’s lovely face came to mind. ‘But they tossed me out on my ear.’

She gave a loud laugh. ‘Oh, they did no such thing, you wretch.’ She drained the mug, and he refilled it with more tea. ‘I’m certain you made all the women swoon. Now, tell me what they were wearing.’ She wrapped the blanket around herself, moving the rocking chair closer to the fire.

While he answered her questions about the Marquess and his vague memory of the women’s gowns, he tried to locate food for her. Scouring her cupboards, he found only a stale loaf of bread. Beside it, he saw a candle, a glove and all of the spoons.

He searched everywhere for marmalade, finally locating it among her undergarments in a drawer. He was afraid to look any further, for fear of what else he might find. Ever since she’d begun having the spells, he’d found all manner of disorganisation in her home.

He cut her a thick slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade. God only knew when she’d eaten last.

Mrs Turner bit into it, sighing happily. ‘Now, then. Who else did you meet at the ball, Michael?’ She lifted her tea up and took another hearty swallow.

‘A foreign gentleman was there,’ he added. ‘Someone from Lohenberg.’

The cup slid from Mrs Turner’s hand, shattering on the floor. Tea spilled everywhere, and her face had gone white.

Michael grabbed a rag and soaked up the spill, cleaning up the broken pieces. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.’

But when he looked into Mrs Turner’s grey eyes, he saw consummate fear. ‘Who—who was he?’

‘Graf von Reischor,’ he said. ‘The ambassador, I believe. It was nothing.’

He said not a word about the man’s impossible claim, that he looked like their king. But Mrs Turner gripped his hand, her face bone white. ‘No. Oh, no.’

‘What is the matter?’ He stared into her silver eyes, wondering why the mention of Lohenberg would frighten her so. Neither of them had ever left England before.

A few minutes later, Mrs Turner’s face turned distant. She whispered to herself about her son Henry, as though he were a young child toddling toward her.

It was useless to ask her anything now. The madness had descended once more.

Hannah wasn’t entirely certain what a ruined woman should wear, but she felt confident that it wouldn’t be a gown the colour of cream. This morning, Christine Chesterfield had inspected every inch of her attire, fussing over her as if she were about to meet the Queen.

‘Now remember,’ her mother warned, ‘be on your very best behaviour. Pretend that nothing happened the other night.’

Nothing did happen
, she wanted to retort, but she feigned subservience. ‘Yes, Mother.’

Christine reached out and adjusted a hairpin, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place. ‘Did you read my list?’

‘Of course.’ Hannah offered the slip of paper, and her mother found a pen, hastily scratching notes.

‘I’ve made changes for tonight. At dinner, you are to wear the white silk gown with the rose embroidery and your pearls. Estelle will fix your hair, and you should be there by eight o’clock.’

Her mother handed her the new list. ‘I have advised Manning not to serve you any blanc mange or pudding. And no wine. You have been indulging far more than you should, my dear. Estelle tells me that your figure is a half-inch larger than it should be.’

Her throat clenched, but Hannah said nothing. She stared down at the list, the words blurring upon the page. Never before had she questioned her mother’s orders. If she couldn’t have sweets, then that was because Christine wanted her to have an excellent figure. It was love, not control. Wasn’t it?

But she felt herself straining against the invisible bonds, wanting to escape. Her mother was worried about the size of her waistline, when her entire future had been turned upside down? It seemed ridiculous, in light of the scandal.

With each passing moment, Hannah’s discomfort worsened. ‘Mother, honestly, I don’t feel up to receiving visitors. I’d rather wait a few days.’ She hadn’t slept well last night, and her mind was preoccupied with the uncertain future.

‘You will do as you’re told, Hannah. The sooner you are married, the sooner you can put this nightmare behind you.’ Her mother stood and guided her to the parlour. ‘Now wait here until Lord Belgrave arrives. He told your father he would come to call at two o’clock.’

Hannah realised she might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. In her mind, she envisioned her parents chaining her ankle to the church pew, her mouth stuffed with a handkerchief while they wedded her off to Belgrave.

At least she had an hour left, before the true torment began. She contemplated escaping the house, but what good would it do to run away? Nothing, except make her parents angrier than they already were.

No, if she had to face Lord Belgrave again, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Perhaps he would call off his plans.

Her father, the Marquess, stood beside the fireplace, his pocket watch in his hands. Disappointment and sadness cloaked his features as he put the watch in his waistcoat. He paced towards the sofa and sat down, his wrists resting upon his knees.

Hannah went and sat down beside her father. She reached
out and took his hand. Anger would never win a battle against her father. But he had a soft spot for obedience.

‘I know that you are trying to protect me,’ she said gently. ‘And as your only daughter, I know that you want someone to take care of me.’

His grey eyes were stormy with unspoken fury, but he was listening.

‘I beg of you, Papa, don’t ask me to marry Lord Belgrave,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t care if he reveals the scandal to everyone.’

‘I do.’ Her father’s grip tightened around her knuckles. ‘I won’t allow our family name to be degraded, simply because you lost your judgement one night.’