The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

She put down her glass and picked up her cue, and sent the white ball spinning in a complicated move that sank two colored balls in different pockets.

“Good shot,” he said, raising his glass in salute.

“My dad taught me to play.” She smiled.

“Thanks, Dad. So,” he said, “shall we play a game?”

“Aren’t we playing one now?” she asked.

“Oh, but this one is much more fun.” He waggled his eyebrows and set up his pool cue. He looked like a sleek, handsome panther as he

leaned over and elegantly dispatched the remaining balls on the table.

“What kind of game?” she asked.

He told her the rules with a grin and she shook her head. “No, I’m not taking off my clothes for you. Not one glove,” she said. “Don’t even think about it!”

“It was worth a shot.” He smiled. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he said as he racked up the balls.

Ronan looked over her shoulder at the door. Vera was in the middle of tea right now, on the second course, gorging herself on scones and cream. Ronan, on the other hand, was alone with a strange, wicked boy in her rooms, and he had just proposed they play a game where they take their clothes off. It was the farthest thing from being a lady, and she would never in a million years acquiesce to something so vulgar.…But somehow, the way he proposed it, and the naughty smile on his face, made her think twice about saying no. It was just a little fun.…She felt a wild impulse to enjoy life, to be a little free-spirited—to be that crazy girl who had no inhibitions, no worries, before she went to London to be a lady and find a husband. She wanted a chance to be young and reckless, and “sow her wild oats,” as they say.

“Fine,” she said, picking up the pool cue and carefully wiping the ends with chalk. “I have to warn you, though, I’m wearing a lot of layers.” She smiled as she sent the balls flying in every direction with the opening break.

Isabelle pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned away from Leo so she could reach for the candle and light her cigarette. She thought her dark hair would make a pretty picture against the satin pillow. She was always very conscious of the best angles and the best light for her features; conscious of her effect on men; on him. Sometimes it was as if she were looking down on her scene, directing it, rather than living it. It gave her a pleasant sensation to have control over the atmosphere, as there were so few things she had control over these days.

“Hand me one, will you?” he asked.

“Sure.” She lit it with the gold engraved lighter he kept by his bedside that she had given him as a Valentine’s Day present. It was embossed with their initials, L and I; a secret souvenir of their love. She watched as he inhaled deeply and exhaled a ring of smoke in the air. She was glad for the oil lamps in this part of the castle, as the dim candlelight made his hair like burnished gold, his skin a warm caramel color. His cheeks were still rosy from their exertions between the sheets. He was as avid a lover as ever, his ardor for her unquenchable as before.

“So, shall we get ready to leave?” she asked, flicking her ashes into the marble ashtray.

Leo raised an eyebrow. “Leave?”

“I’ve brought my bag. I’m ready when you are,” she said. She had signed the papers that morning, breaking their engagement and his obligation to her, guaranteeing peace between their families. House Valois would not seek recompense or restitution from the Prussian kingdom. He had asked her to sign it to protect their future, and now Isabelle wanted to know what the future held.

She was still smarting from her treatment in the royal court earlier. The assembled audience had all been so sympathetic, so pitying, as they watched her sign the papers. She couldn’t stand it. Leave your pity for someone else, she wanted to scream at all the smug noblewomen and their ugly daughters who had gathered to watch and celebrate her humiliation. She wanted to laugh and say there was nothing to pity; Leo was hers. They could make her sign all the papers in the world releasing him from his engagement; it would not make the least bit of difference in the temperature of his passion for her. They would be together, as he promised—always.

Only the queen had smiled, gently. And drat it all, even that horrid ghastly princess, that Marie-Victoria, had been truly kind.

“I am so sorry you have to do this,” Marie had whispered as she handed Isabelle the feathered quill. “Believe me when I tell you, I do not want to take him away from you.”

Isabelle had stiffened. The princess was not half as ugly as they said. She was plain, sure, but had a handsome elegance to her bearing. “I do not want, nor need, your sympathy,” she’d whispered fiercely.

“You have it regardless,” Marie had said. “I am truly sorry, Isabelle.” Then she’d stepped away from the desk to let her have her privacy.

Next to her, Hugh had coughed into his hands and glared at her. Isabelle had pulled herself to her tallest height and nodded. “I am ready.” She flipped through the pages: a negotiated treaty between Orleans and Prussia. Her father’s hard work to ensure her legacy and safety by marrying her off to the Crown Prince had all been in vain. Her father had been dead for years, she was under Hugh’s care now, and Leo had asked her to do this for him. She signed her name with a flourish.

I, Isabelle of Orleans, release Leopold of Prussia from his obligation without penalty of war or threat of battle.…Blah blah blah.

She had fled from the humiliation of that moment and packed victoriously, only taking as much as she could carry. She had snuck out alone in the night, had told no one, not even Louis, what she was doing or where she was going. She’d hailed a hansom cab to take her to the palace, and given the butler the secret code to bring her up through the servants’ quarters. If she was afraid, she was also certain that tomorrow she would be his wife. Of course, when she’d arrived in his room, Leo had pounced on her the moment she walked in the door. That was only to be expected, of course, because he loved her so much. They had a little time, she thought; it was only midnight. They could enjoy each other’s company before running away.

She nestled herself against him, luxuriating in his slow caressing of her hair as they puffed on their cigarettes. “It was awful, you know, having everyone stare at me as if I were to be pitied—I hated it so! Shall we go now? Do you have the carriage waiting to take us to the vicar?”

“A carriage waiting? A vicar?” Leo repeated, his voice amused. He stopped touching her hair and regarded her thoughtfully through the smoke. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she had suffered a brain injury; as if she were speaking nonsense.

“We are eloping, aren’t we? I assumed that was what you’d planned? For our future?” she asked, feeling cold all of a sudden.

He picked up the lighter and flicked it open and closed, playing with the fire, and continued to look at her in that maddeningly casual way. “Ma chérie, you assumed that we would elope tonight?”