“No one?” he asked. He had an accent she could not place. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Then don’t be,” he said reasonably.
She laughed, she couldn’t help it. He looked funny, all beat up like that. What did it matter who she spoke to now? She saw Whitney giving her an odd look, and Ronan waved her handkerchief gaily, as if she spoke to uncouth young men at the docks all the time. “What happened to your face?” she asked.
“It fell on a fist.” He shrugged.
“That happens a lot?”
“Enough.”
“You say that as if you enjoy it,” she said tartly.
“Perceptive and beautiful,” he said. “I like that.” His blue eyes sparkled and there was merriment there, and possibility. What cheek to speak to her so frankly! She was hot all over, but for a different reason now. Ronan had never met a boy quite like him before. All her suitors had been of the starchy variety, and after the parade of uglies she’d had to memorize, his handsome (if bruised) face was very appealing. He was not good-looking so much as striking: the sort of man you could lean on, could count on, who could do hard work and not be afraid of it. She thought of the aristocrats with their wobbly chins and soft hands, and wondered what it would feel like to be pressed against his body.
“What else do you like?” she asked, feeling incredibly daring all of a sudden. It was not the kind of question a lady of gentle birth would ask.
His eyes lit up at her challenge and he moved closer to her. Startled, she dropped her parasol. He picked it up and handed it back just as Vera finally appeared, bustling toward them like a ship with a full head of steam. She gave the boy a sharp look. “Do excuse us.” She took Ronan’s arm and led her away, as the young man returned to his party by the ticket window. “My dear, you know it isn’t proper to talk to strange young men,” she reprimanded with a scandalized air.
“What does it matter? Where we’re staying, I’m sure there will be a lot more of them,” Ronan said crossly. “Let’s go.” She motioned to the porter, and together they walked up to the entrance of the ship.
The ship’s conductor glanced at her tickets and told the porter, “The first-class parlor suite.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
But the conductor had already moved on to the next group and when he handed her back her tickets, she noticed they were indeed for first-class berths. She stared at them in disbelief. How had that happened? She was certain she had been holding second-class tickets—why was she being led to the first-class suite? Ronan was about to correct the mistake, but decided it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Better to accept it as her due all along, and pretend as if nothing had been the matter.
As they made their way up the gangplank, Ronan saw the young man with whom she had been conversing. He was walking onto a lower deck with an older gentleman.
“Second class,” Vera hissed. Making it sound like not just a statement about his ticket, but a verdict on his character.
“Vera, a moment ago we were second class,” she said, still wondering about her sudden change of fortune. Could it be at all possible that the handsome young stranger had something to do with her new tickets somehow? Was he a thief? Or a lord in disguise? She shook the thoughts from her head—he was obviously neither. Just a handsome, but nosy, pest. Ronan chastised herself for having an overactive imagination. Perhaps the mistake was that she had not been given her correct tickets in the first place, because anyone could see she clearly belonged in first class.
On the lower deck, Oswald was admonishing his ward. If he could have hit him with the newspaper he was holding, like a master reprimanding a puppy, he would have. “Wolfgang, what have you done with our tickets? Why are we booked in a lower-class cabin? I can’t help but think this must be your doing,” he rumbled, his tone dark. “You do realize the beds are stacked on top of each other—they are called ‘bunks’—and we have to share a privy with a dozen men? And that there is only one bathtub for the whole lot?”
The prince’s smile was glorious. He liked the spirited American girl, and had decided to save her from embarrassment on a whim. “I met a damsel in distress, Oz. She needed the rooms more than we did. Come on, you always said I should be open to new experiences.”
Leopold of Prussia was a fine royal specimen. He looked kingly already as he entered the formal state room in his dress uniform of grays and reds, an array of gold medals pinned to his chest, so tall and proud; a lone scratch on his cheek was his only souvenir from the battle he had won so handily. He looked at e
ase and exuded confidence—a natural aristocrat, with his brilliant golden hair and generous smile. There was a gasp from the gathered ladies of court—one could practically hear them swooning—and the men were just as embarrassing, subtly edging each other out of the way to be closer to him.
“My princess, it is lovely to see you again.” His voice was like honey, full of sweetness and affection, and his smile was kindness personified. Even his hand was warm and comforting as it held hers. Only his lips were dry as they brushed the back of her hand, and Marie was relieved because it meant he was not as perfect as he looked. Maybe Aelwyn was right—she should give him a chance. She shouldn’t hold his perfection against him. Some people were as bright as the sun; if the majority of her own days were gray, it was not his fault.
“My prince,” she said demurely as she took back her hand. “Welcome back to London.” They were standing in front of the full audience of the entire court, from the lowliest page to the haughtiest ladies-in-waiting, innumerable cabinet ministers, the ageless Merlin, and the ancient queen. This was the formal reception of the future king of the empire, and certain rituals must be observed. The grand hall had been given a dazzling shine, from the marble colonnades to the granite floor to the array of crystal chandeliers that marched down the length of the room.
They bowed to each other and, with a signal from Eleanor, Marie took his arm so that she might introduce him to their loyal and noble subjects. Their courtship would be a choreographed performance, from initial meeting to the royal wedding. She saw Eleanor beaming at the two of them, and the queen smiled at Leo in approval before taking his father’s arm herself and introducing the Prussian monarch to her lords and ladies.
When they had greeted every member of the court as well as the Prussian delegation, Marie led Leo to the end of the gallery to show him the famous view of the gardens. “Do you remember? You used to run in those mazes,” she said, pointing to the topiary.
“I remember a certain little girl chasing me.” He smiled.
“Oh, that wasn’t me you remember. I had crutches then.”
Leo’s forehead wrinkled. It was obvious he didn’t remember her at all, which was just as well. “My mother tells me you were very brave at the battle,” she said. “That you held the Box yourself and loosed it upon the field. You could have been killed! Our Merlin says the Pandora is the world’s deadliest and most dangerous weapon, one that only the most talented sorcerer can wield.”
“Is that so?” the prince asked politely. “I don’t mean to contradict your Merlin, but it just happened that I was closest to it, and any of my men would have done the same.”