“I’m glad you got home safely.”
She stopped and stared at him. “That was you, then? You were the one who took me home?”
He nodded, and had the good sense to blush. “I tried to wake your maid, but she wouldn’t budge—apparently she had quite a good time at the servants’ ball.…”
Isabelle was turning a bit red herself, as a few memories from the night before came back to her. She had sobbed in his arms, she remembered now. It all seemed so terribly melodramatic. “So, you dropped me off and went back to the ball?”
He kicked at pebbles in their path. “Well…not exactly.”
Ah. So he had come back here, then, after dropping her off like a sack of potatoes. She wondered if the girl he was with had witnessed her complete, humiliating breakdown. Isabelle vowed never to drink any champagne again. It was a vow she knew would be forgotten by the evening. “Is she rich, at least?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he laughed.
Just then, footsteps on the pathway alerted them to the fact that they were no longer alone. A girl was coming out of the same apartment that Louis had just vacated. She was radiant and pretty, her hair golden as the sun, her cheeks pink and fresh: a proper English rose. She ran up to Louis-Philippe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Isabelle had guessed correctly: she was one of those ducal daughters. Lady Celestine was her name. “Oh, hi,” she said when she saw Isabelle. “Um, Louis, you forgot your belt,” she said, handing him a black satin one.
“Thanks,” he said, grinning widely.
She wrapped her robe tightly around her person and looked up at him eagerly. There were red love marks all over her neck, and Isabelle hoped the girl would be wise enough to cover them up. Her father was notorious for his temper. The Duke of Montrose had five daughters, each one wilder and more reckless than the next. Celestine was the youngest, and the prettiest by far. “We’re all booked up this week with tiresome dinners, but we’ll be at the vernissage next week. See you there?” she asked.
“You can count on it,” Louis promised. He glanced around and, finding the courtyard clear, kissed her right on the lips.
“You’re so naughty! I’ve got to get back, I’m late for breakfast.” She laughed, pushing him away. “Don’t forget me!” she called gaily.
The young couple looked so incredibly happy that Isabelle wanted to vomit. As she followed the whistling Louis to the waiting carriage, she thought she’d been wrong earlier: it was possible to feel even worse today.
The wedding dress fitting was finishing up. Marie was smiling at the mirror, humming to herself as the ladies who surrounded her clucked and chatted. There was a lightness in the air these days since the royal ball. All talk in the palace was of Marie and Leopold, and the kiss that had sealed it on the dance floor. The prince had taken hold of the princess and, in a smooth gesture worthy of a true Romeo, dipped her back till she was bent at the waist and kissed her soundly in front of the whole court. The clapping and cheering were even more deafening than when the princess had first appeared.
The wedding dress was flamboyant: gold in color, resplendent with magic. It was woven with the stars of the sky and the light of the moon; it was the most amazing, ethereal creation that anyone had ever seen.
Of course, her ladies thought she was in a good mood because of the kiss, because of Leo, and because she was finally happy to be marrying him. None of it was true, but Marie let them think that. It was so much easier. After the ball, the prince had sent a myriad of invitations her way—requests to see her alone, for a stroll in the gardens or dinner à deux. But she had demurred, saying she was ill after the ball—that it had taken too much energy out of her—or that she was busy. This had only led to even more desperate and lovesick entreaties. Aelwyn had agreed to don the glamour and visit him one more time, but so far they had not found the right opportunity to make it happen. They had to be careful; they couldn’t take the chance that anyone would notice Princess Marie had been in two different places at the same time.
“The Lovers’ Waltz.
” Julia smiled.
“Huh?” Marie asked.
“You’re humming it,” her lady said. “Oh Marie, your wedding will be wonderful!”
Yes it will be, now, Marie thought. It will be everything I’ve dreamed of.
When her ladies left, along with the tailor and his seamstresses, Marie put her day dress back on with the help of her nurse, Jenny Wallace. Wallace was the apple-cheeked caregiver who had raised Marie—who had wiped away her tears, fixed her helmet, understood each of her physical regimens. Marie called her “Wallace” because when she was little it was easier to pronounce than “Jenny.” Wallace was the one who had soothed away nightmares, and stayed up holding her hand when she was ill with fever. Wallace wasn’t a young girl anymore—she was now a sensible matron with several young girls of her own. But she still came to the palace once in a while to check in on “her princess” and to make sure the healers were prescribing the right medicines for the wasting plague. Wallace wiped her hands on her apron and frowned at Marie.
“What?” Marie asked, trying to wipe the smile from her face.
“You don’t fool me,” Wallace said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You cannot go away with that boy, my chick,” she said.
Marie put down her book and regarded her nurse with alarm.
“Of course I know. I’ve known you since you were a babe. I’ve seen how you look at each other—the way he smiles at you. The way you light up when he’s around, and only when he’s around. I wanted this for you, but I wanted it to be with someone you were allowed to love as well. Perhaps it was wrong of me to hope that it might happen,” Wallace said, putting her hands on her waist and regarding Marie with forthright disapproval.
Marie paled. “What will you do, Wallace?”
“It’s not for me to do anything,” Wallace sighed. “I’ve already done as much as I can,” she said, giving Marie a hard, knowing look.