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

“Who says I love you?” she teased.

He turned scarlet. She put him out of his misery, pulling him down to her by the soldier’s chain he wore around his neck.

“Maybe we should have done this earlier,” he murmured.

“Mmm.” She nodded. “If we had, we would have had so much more time.” She liked the heaviness of his body on hers, but also the way he didn’t rest all of his weight on her—as if she were delicate, and made of porcelain, a china doll he was afraid of crushing or hurting. He was so strong and yet so gentle. “I don’t want to let go.”

“Neither do I,” he murmured.

“Then let’s not. Let’s not let go.” She kissed him again.

He stared at her.

“You are everything I want,” she told him. “The only thing.”

“I have never wanted anything else,” he said.

“Then we shall have what we want,” Marie said decisively, propping herself up on her elbows, her forehead scrunched in concentration. She was thinking of options, obstacles, a way out, a way forward. “We don’t have much time.”

“No, we don’t,” he agreed in a mournful tone. “We don’t have a lot of time together.…”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Time for what, then?”

Her eyes were blazing. An onlooker would have been surprised to see the princess in such a state, sprawled on the floor: her hair a mess, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She looked like Eleanor in one of her many portraits, the painting where her mother looked like a warrior on the eve of battle, ready for blood. “Time to change the future.”

Hotel Claridge figured highly in Ronan’s imagination of London high society, and it did not disappoint. While pollution had turned the once-red bricks of London’s best buildings gray, Claridge’s façade sparkled in the sun. There was no wind on the street and the air was still, but the flags above the entry billowed slowly, their folds animated and graceful. Ivy graced a cast-iron awning, milk-white flowers dotting the foliage. Their white petals winked open and shut as she approached. Magic, Ronan thought. How wonderful, and how utterly luxurious it was to use such a power to make things look nice.

The hotel had been highly recommended by Lady Grosvernor, and Ronan thought she recognized a few titled and noble patrons in the hushed room. However, knowing what had happened to their grand staterooms on the ship, she was fully prepared to be booked into the maids’ rooms when they checked in. Sure enough, the rooms were as small as could be, with a view of the wall next door.

Still, it was wonderful to finally be in London. Ronan spent an invigorating week taking in the sights and visiting museums. She had left her card with Lady Grosvernor, but the grand doyenne had still not returned her call. Ronan tried not to be put out, but without her patron, she had no entrance to any of the fancy parties and dinners that were swirling around her. She hoped the lady would call on her soon.

The next afternoon, Ronan was sitting in the lobby when she noticed Sigrid Van Owen stomping down the staircase, haranguing the army of footmen who strove to keep up with her while carrying all of her luggage. Whitney was hurrying after her mother, looking abashed and apologetic. She saw Ronan and gave her a hapless shrug.

Ronan walked over to her friend. “What happened?” she asked. “Are you leaving?” She watched as the great Mrs. Van Owen swept out of the lobby and into a hansom cab.

Whitney crinkled her nose. “We can’t stay. We just got a letter from the duchess. Apparently she lied about everything, just to get more money from Papa. There was no invitation for the queen’s luncheon at all, and the ball is completely out of the question, since it’s a special year with the princess announcing her engagement. Mother is furious and mortified—says she won’t stay the season if we can’t go to anything except a few little teas and dances at minor houses. We’re to leave for Italy immediately. She says she’ll take an Italian count if she can’t get me an empire peerage.”

“Oh Whitney, I’m so sorry!”

Whitney laughed. “Me too—all my nice things, wasted!”

“Can’t you wear them in Italy?”

“Not a one. We’re going to be doing a Grand Tour, so all I’ll be wearing are practical clothes and walking shoes.”

“Pity,” Ronan sighed.

Her friend agreed. “It’s such a waste of a wardrobe. And I was so looking forward to it, especially—well, you know!” She looked at Ronan. “Speaking of, what are you wearing to the ball? It must be fabulous!”

“Oh, me—” Ronan said. “You saw what I wore to dinner the last night on the ship? That one.” It was a serviceable dress, a nice plum color trimmed with lace—not made in the latest style, of course, and no glimmer on it at all to enhance its beauty. But it was the nicest thing she had; the Paris knockoffs were stiff to the touch, and didn’t fit well. She tried to put a positive spin on things. “Mother wore it when she was presented at court, so it’s a family tradition. It’s a sentimental choice.”

Whitney looked disappointed. “Oh, of course. I understand. But still, it’s a bit out of date, isn’t it?”

Ronan turned red and tried to protest—but Whitney suddenly brightened. “Listen, take my wardrobe for the season! I don’t need it!”

“Excuse me? I couldn’t possibly—!”