Page 3 of A Prince Among Pirates
It’s Digby’s turn to look disgusted. “You can’t bathe forweeks,” he informs me. “You would absolutely hate that.”
“You know nothing about me,” I counter, pointing at him. “You didn’t even know my name was Christopher-Henry.” But he’s right: Not bathing for weeks sounds positively dreadful. I turn back to the smudge of black on the horizon and wonder what life must be like for the men on board such a vessel.
“It would be quite an adventure,” I say—mostly to myself, as I’ve lost interest in Digby’s opinion. I don’t mean a word of it. I think I just want to be contrary.
“If you’re into that sort of thing, I suppose,” Digby says, to no one.
On second thought… perhaps Idomean it.
I smile and turn on my heel to make my way back inside for the much-needed champagne I promised myself. As I cross the ballroom floor, my feet feel grounded for the first time all night.
I daresay, if only to annoy Digby Hale and the sleepy crowd around me, I may just be intoexactlythat sort of thing.
Two
Dinner parties are insufferable.
Allow me to clarify—dinner parties that my father hosts are insufferable. I love a grand party where I am not pinned under the watchful eyes of my father and his child-bride. But in my own home, where the servants act as his spies and I am the focus of attention, it is impossible to enjoy myself.
Tonight we are celebrating tomorrow’s festivities with a grand dinner. And tomorrow my life will be over. Or rather, my life as a bachelor. My life as a free man. Tomorrow marks the first day of life as my father’s copy.
I am not sure when it became the fashion to make such a fuss about a mere engagement—especially a politically arranged one that neither party is particularly chuffed about. Well, perhaps Kitty is. (Yes, that’s what she has insisted I call her now.) “Kit and Kitty; isn’t it so charming?”
I could have vomited all over her horrid blue gown.
Ordinarily, I am not one to complain about being the center of attention. But in this I feeltrapped. The goddamned prince is here, for Christ’s sake! Why the Prince of Wales cares about my nuptials, I may never know. But here he is, sitting beside me at my father’s table, complimenting the quality of the predinner soup.
I would give anything to slither out of my seat and make my escape by way of the magical fortress I used to pretend existed under the dining table. It is a massive, solid piece of furniture, this table, with ornate, hand-carved flowers along its perimeter. It is always waxed to a high shine that borders on obscene—which seems pointless, as there is a large white linen covering the entire expanse of it tonight.
In a garish display of wealth and waste, my father has ordered a taper on a silver candlestick arranged between each place setting, casting the entire room in a warm, flickering glow. Shadows move across the pink jacquard wallpaper and ivory-painted wainscoting in an elegant dance. I might be impressed by the show of it all, were it not for my irritation. I am far from humble, but showing off like this feels somewhatdistasteful.
At least Elizabeth had the good sense to store my sister away for the evening. The thought of Victoria screaming and dripping snot on Prince Henry is just too much.
“You must be looking forward to becoming a husband, Christopher-Henry,” the prince murmurs to me over the top of his wineglass.
He isn’t an unattractive man, I suppose—for a man in hisforties. His hair is dark, with an unruly wave pattern that he seems to have embraced rather than hidden under a formal wig. He has a long, narrow nose and an angular jaw, both of which may have been more appealing when he was a young man. With the bags under his eyes and the frown lines that crease the skin around his mouth, however, they now give him a rather ghoulish appearance. Or perhaps that is just a trick of the shadows twirling across his face.
I dare not contradict him, but I won’t agree with him either, so I only smile as I bring my own glass to my lips.
“Come now,” he whispers conspiratorially, as if we were old school chums. “You’ll enjoy the wedding night well enough.” He turns his gaze to my betrothed across the table.
My brow twitches as I try to hide my disgust. It’s one thing formeto think or say such things, but for the Prince of Wales to leer openly atmyfiancée and speak of matters of this kind at the dinner table is quite another.
I glance at Kitty and actually feel pity for her. “I’m sure she will make a perfectly adequate wife,” I say carefully.
“I daresay she will,” the prince agrees, sitting back in his chair. “She is my goddaughter, you know.”
I did not.
“I had no idea, Your Highness.”
“I thought, as a wedding gift to my goddaughter and her betrothed, I might bestow upon you a title of your own. I can’t have my goddaughter marrying down in the peerage, after all.”
A title? Is that supposed to tempt me? I don’t want the titlethat is my birthright—so why would I want another? But I do my very best to appear graciously surprised and not offended by his backhanded insult. “Your Highness—”
“Do not thank me yet,” he says. I had not planned to. “You will have to wait until your wedding feast tomorrow to know more.”
My what? The prince plans to attendmywedding feast? Perhaps I should be honored, but instead panic settles into my gut. Why is the Prince of Wales planning to attend my wedding feast, goddaughter or no? I offer him a brief smile, which I’m sure is more of a grimace than anything, and promptly bury my nose in my wineglass to avoid suffering through any more conversation.
