Page 8 of A Problem Princess

“Are you certain?” The glimmer in Marie’s eyes told Cordelia she wanted to do exactly that.

“No need for you to remain here.” A thought popped into her head. “And you can tell me what the guests are like when you return for me. Especially the royal dukes.”

“That is a good idea.” Marie smiled and curtsied. “Your Highness.”

No, Cordelia decided as she watched the comtesse leave the room and close the door after herself. What was a good idea was finding a way to carve out a moment’s peace for herself.

Cordelia let her shoulders ease down at finally being alone and removed her tiara to set it aside until Uncle Ernest returned for her.

She approached the wide window to take a small glimpse of the city around her. She stared out at the street where dozens of carriages jammed the wide avenue in front of Carlton House. How she wished she were down in the tangled mess with them! How she wished she wereanywherebut here.

What she wanted… “To be normal,” she whispered and reached up to play with her necklace.

She twisted her fingers in the chain as she watched lady after elegant lady and gentleman after grand gentleman exit the carriages and enter Carlton House in a rustle of silks, satins, ostrich feathers, and jewels. They were all coming here to look at her, she knew, as if she were nothing more than an animal in a menagerie.

Just once, just for a little while…normal. Or at least not a princess with the weight of two monarchies resting on her shoulders.

For a few minutes, at least, she could put the burden out of her mind and enjoy watching the congested mess unfolding below her. She fiddled with the little clasp on her necklace and laughed at the spectacle. Goodness, were thoseswansin those giant cages? That was exactly how she felt, like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. And that woman in bright pink with ostrich feathers standing three feet—

Snap!The fragile clasp broke. The necklace chain slipped through her fingers as she made a frantic grab for it and landed on the rug at her feet.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, bother!”

As she bent down to retrieve it, she heard the door open behind her. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.Perfect.Now Devereaux or the comtesse would scold her for not being more careful.

“It’s only a necklace,” she called out as she picked it up from the floor. With a chagrined smile, she straightened. “Thank goodness it happened here instead of in front of—”

A hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream.

Three

Clayton snatched up a champagne flute from the tray of a passing footman and lifted it to his mouth. He scanned the room, searching for any ally in the crush.

The main audience room was filled with aristocrats and politicians of all stripes, including Wellington in his field marshal’s uniform and at least two of the royal dukes. Dozens of footmen carried trays of champagne flutes through the jostling crowd, while men stood in groups like gossipy old hens and the women fought to keep bored expressions from their faces. Undoubtedly, though, they were all thankful that the gathering was being held here at Carlton House instead of the palace where court dress was required.

God knew he was.

He spied Marcus Braddock and blew out a grateful breath that he wasn’t alone in this sea of serpents.

The former general turned duke—and one of Clayton’s best friends—stood in the rear of the room and apart from the crowd as if he, too, were contemplating the fastest route to the nearest exit to slip out unseen. But he would never be able to hide his commanding presence, here or anywhere in the empire.

“General,” Clayton greeted him as he arrived at Marcus’s side. He turned to follow his friend’s gaze toward the raised dais at the front of the room where the speeches would be made.

“You’re late,” Marcus commented.

“I’m lucky to be here at all.” Clayton swept another glance around the crowded room. “And where are Sinclair, Merritt, and Pearce? Aren’t they required to be here, too? We shouldn’t be the only ones forced to suffer.”

“They weren’t invited. The palace is keeping tonight’s welcome ceremony to a small, cozy affair of only four hundred or so peers, government officials, and their wives.”

Clayton grimaced at that bit of sarcasm, then finished off his champagne in a single swallow and snagged a fresh glass from a passing footman.

“Relax, will you?” Marcus urged quietly. “You’re behaving as if this is your first visit to Carlton House.”

Clayton looked around the grand room with its red carpets, marble columns, and gold accents. Inside it gathered the most important people in the British empire…and him. He tugged at his jacket sleeves from nervous habit. He’d never felt comfortable at Carlton House, Buckingham House, St James’s Palace—well, no place where royals might be lurking in the woodwork, actually. “Hopefully, it will be my last.”

“Not a chance. Whitehall is grooming you to be the next Home Secretary.”

“Not a chance,” Clayton repeated pointedly. Men like him didn’t rise to the level of king’s cabinet, and everyone in the room knew it, too.