Mary Perry: The Wild Princess: A Novel of Queen Victoria's Defiant Daughter

Well, at least that last part was true. Donovan Heath had well and good vanished, just as certainly as if God’s hand had reached down from heaven and plucked him up to heaven. But, ah, how she’d adored that boy. What might have come of them if they’d stayed together? Both struggling young artists, though he was from a different social class entirely and never would have been accepted by Victoria.

She jumped, startled when the mattress dipped, bringing her back to her wedding night and Lorne. Louise shook her head, chasing away memories of the young man who had so charmed her when she was but eighteen years old.

She looked up at her husband as he crooked a knee to balance one hip on the edge of the mattress. He leaned toward her, kissed her ever so gently on the forehead, then took her hands in his. “You may well be the most beautiful woman in all of London,” he murmured, his voice a touch hoarse with emotion. “I swear I’ve never seen lovelier.”

“Lorne.” She was moved nearly to tears by his sincerity. And this from a man who, if men could be called beautiful, truly was. His smooth almost boyish face was unravaged by the sun, despite his love of the outdoors. His eyes shone with the innocence of youth yet his mouth was full lipped and sensual. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to really kiss him, to feel his lips and hands on her body.

This can work. This has to work.

She’d wait to tell him she was no longer a virgin until after they had made love. He’d of course by then have discovered the truth for himself, but having already pleased him between the sheets, she might find it easier to explain and ask for his understanding. After all, new brides assumed their husbands had bedded other women before them. Although she thought the double standard ridiculous, society adhered to the old ways. A man might be forgiven his mistresses and affairs so long as he provided for his wife and children and treated them fairly.

She closed her eyes, hoping the gesture, faintly submissive, would further encourage him. She lifted her face to him. He squeezed her hands again. But no kiss came.

When Louise opened her eyes, tears were coursing down her young husband’s face.

“Oh, Lorne! My darling, what is it?” She pulled her fingertips out from his suddenly cold hands and framed his stricken face with her palms. “Tell me, what have I done to—”

But he shook his head, murmuring, “No, no, nothing. Not you.”

She assumed in that horror-stricken moment that he was weeping because someone—not Amanda, surely not her—had told him about her affair. But now it occurred to her that something else was wrong. Incredibly wrong.

“I-I have a confession to make, my dear.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to hold it forever before letting it out.

Possibilities raced through her mind.

He’s had affairs —not a shocker.

He’s been with a prostitute and feels unclean for me. To confide such now was merely being considerate.

He’s in love with another woman. Much more difficult to accept.

He’s having second thoughts about our marriage and wishes to back out of it. But why? He benefitted hugely by their union. Simply by taking his wedding vows today, he’d stepped up from the expected inheritance of a minor Scottish duchy to becoming the consort of a royal princess, daughter of the Queen of England. That was an immense leap, socially and financially. Lorne would receive a royal stipend for life, an estate (or, at the very least, luxurious apartments in one of the family’s castles), and additional prestigious titles. And he’d never need to lift a finger to support himself, his wife, and their children.

At last he seemed to catch his breath. She captured his eyes with her own, without words demanding of him an explanation.

“Dear Louise,” he said, “I have used you. I have used you abysmally. I fear I will never be able to make it up to you.”

She stared at him, her breath coming in hysterical gulps. She couldn’t imagine where in God’s name this was going. “Lorne, please. What is it? You’re frightening me. If you mean that our social stations are so very diff—”

He flushed bright red. “Society and stations be damned! That has nothing to do with this.” He seemed almost restored by his sudden anger. His voice gained strength. “You deserve a full accounting. Please, be patient. In the end, I hope you will forgive me for what I’ve done to—Actually, I don’t know what I’ve done.” He choked on a nervous laugh, looking close to tears. “Probably nothing short of mucking up your entire life.”

She opened her arms and drew him to her, cradling his head against her breast as if he were a child, stroking the back of his sweat-damp neck. He let her hold him for a few moments before pulling away again to face her. This time he held her hands firmly in his, resting them on his thigh just above the top of his boot.

She had the strangest feeling that he’d intentionally pinned her in self-defense. As if he feared she might strike him if she were free to do so.

“Your mother,” he began, looking directly into her eyes, “I believe she is very fond of Mr. Oscar Wilde?”

“Ye-e-s,” she said. Although what the new playwright might have to do with their marriage she had no idea. “She believes Mr. Wilde is a gifted and promising writer. He’s already had more than one success on the stage.”

“He is”—Lorne’s voice hitched, hesitated—“quite brilliant. And—”

“And?” she prompted.

“And he is a dear and close personal friend of mine.”

So? Then it struck her—what he was getting at, and why the subject of the playwright had come up at all.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to suck down air to stop her head from spinning. But Lorne said nothing more, as if waiting for her to process the information he’d merely hinted at. He let her make the mental leap alone. A trapeze artist without a net.

“Mr. Wilde,” she began again, “has been rumored to prefer the company of other men.”

“So they say.”

“Which, by law, is considered lewd and unnatural behavior, and is punishable by imprisonment.”

“Exactly.” Lorne watched her expression.

Her heart felt as if it were cracking down its middle. She was spiraling down into the dark space between its broken halves. “And you are an . . . an intimate friend of his?”

He blinked his beautiful china blue eyes and touched her cheek tenderly. “Yes, my dear. I am.”

Oh Lord.

“Lorne, just to be clear, are you telling me . . . That is, do you also prefer the physical closeness of other men to the touch of a woman?” She’d never asked a more difficult question in her life.

He gave her his sweetest smile. “I do, my dear. I really do.”

What was left of her heart exploded into a thousand jagged, opalescent shards . . . which fell at her feet. For a long moment, she felt sure the shock had killed her. She felt nothing.

“Then why—why this marriage?” she demanded, anger driving blood back into her ice-cold hands.

“But isn’t it obvious?” He had the temerity to shrug his shoulders in casual surprise. “I admit I’ve been abominable, putting you in this position. But I was terrified, you see. Titled men of good families, men far more famous than Oscar are being packed off to prison for their so-called sins.” His voice became clipped, indignant. He peered deeply into her eyes, as if through them he could reach her better than with words alone. “I believed it was only a matter of time before the law made the connection between us—Oscar and I—and others in our circle. Who knows how dedicated Scotland Yard will be in rounding us all up and shoving us into some dank cell like common criminals.”