Marguerite Kaye - Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride

A lump rose in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes. She had come all this way at Mama’s behest, even though she was pretty sure—no, she was absolutely certain—that what Mama wanted was not in her best interests. What would Mama want her to do now? The answer to that had not changed. She certainly would not want her to return to England. Constance sighed, her breath misting the glass. It was rather dispiriting to discover that whether one was dead or alive didn’t much matter to anyone. Save herself, of course.

A gentle rap on the door preceded the entrance of a small procession of servants, which diverted her from her melancholy introspection. One after another, they clasped their hands and bowed slightly before her in formal greeting. One maid set out breakfast. Two others began to lay out a selection of clothes in the most delightfully cool materials, and yet another maid presented her with a note, written in English. Prince Kadar requested her presence.

Constance gazed around her at the flurry of activity, which included two more maids setting out a huge bath in the bedchamber. Honestly, she had no cause at all to be downhearted. She had days, perhaps even weeks of respite ahead of her here as a guest in this fabulous royal palace. Days in which to enjoy being becalmed, cast adrift, shipwrecked. She was going to savour every one of them.

* * *

Constance learned that it took an inordinately long time to prepare one for an audience with a prince. First she was bathed in water delicately perfumed with rose petals. Her freshly washed hair was tamed into something resembling submission thanks to some scented oil. The clothes, which she had eventually allowed the collection of maids to select for her, were also unlike anything she had ever worn. Loose pantaloons, gathered tightly at her ankles and cinched at her waist, made from a creamy gossamer-fine fabric that clung revealingly to her legs. A thin-strapped camisole was her only undergarment. Over this, a simple tunic in cream muslin which stopped at her thighs, and on top of that, a sort of sleeveless half-dress in apricot silk which fastened with tiny pearl buttons, leaving the slip beneath, and the bottom of those shocking pantaloons, exposed. Soft kid slippers adorned her feet.

Studying her reflection, quite unrecognizable to herself, Constance thought she resembled something between a milkmaid and a concubine. Not that she’d ever actually seen, far less met, a concubine. It felt decidedly odd, being fully dressed without being laced into a corset. Though the overdress was buttoned tightly at her waist, the neckline skimmed the top of her breasts, which were confined only by the thin muslin of the tunic—or rather cradled rather than confined. Staring critically at the swell of her bosom, she supposed she was at least more decently covered than if she had been wearing a ball gown in the latest fashion.

And the posse who had created this vision seemed to be happy with the effect. She was, finally, fit to be seen by the Prince. Smiling and miming her thanks, Constance trailed in the wake of another servant through a warren of corridors before being ushered up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. She paused for a moment at the top, her eyes dazzled by the brightness of the sun. Blinking, shielding her eyes while she became accustomed to the glare, she found herself on a large rooftop terrace.

The floor was laid out in mosaic, white with swirling patters of green and yellow and red, like the floor of a Roman villa. A parapet of red stone bounded the terrace, and tall terracotta pots filled with exotic ferns stood sentry at each corner. In the centre a large angular object shrouded in canvas took up much of the available space, and over in one corner an awning had been set up, under which a desk strewn with papers, scrolls and stacks of leather-bound books had been placed. Seated behind it was Prince Kadar.

‘Lady Constance.’

His hair was damp, slicked back over his head, though it was already beginning to curl rebelliously. He wore a long tunic in broad grey-and-white stripes, grey trousers, black slippers. She still couldn’t decide whether his eyes were grey or green, but she had been right about his mouth. Sensual. There was no other word for it. Except perhaps sinful. And if she didn’t want to appear like a blushing idiot, she had better stop thinking about it.

‘Good morning.’ The Prince bowed over her hand, in the European style. ‘I trust you are feeling better? You look quite—quite transformed.’

‘I have certainly never worn exotic garments such as these,’ Constance replied, flustered by her thoughts, and by his touch, and by that gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, which she must have imagined.

‘I regret our markets were unable to provide the kind of clothing you are accustomed to—or so I was informed by the female who selected these. The wife of one of my Council members.’

‘Please thank her. And please believe me when I tell you that I like these clothes much better. They are infinitely more suitable to this climate. In my own clothes, I would be far too hot. All those petticoats and...’ stays was not a word one said to a gentleman, never mind a prince ‘...and things,’ Constance finished lately. ‘What I mean is, thank you, Your Highness, for being so thoughtful. I am afraid that I have no means to pay you back for these, but...’

‘Do not, I pray, insult me.’

His manner changed so abruptly that Constance flinched, only then realizing how informal he had been moments before. She bit her lip. She dropped into something that could be construed as a curtsy. ‘I assure you, no insult was intended.’

Silence. A nod. More silence. Constance stared down at her feet. ‘I expect you’ve brought me up here to tell me I’m to be packed off on a ship at first light,’ she said resignedly.

Prince Kadar pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘It is, unfortunately, uncommon for trading vessels from the west to call in at our port. Most sail straight for India once they have navigated the Cape of Good Hope. I have confirmed that the next ship is not expected until August.’

‘August! But this is only May.’

‘Unfortunately we have no other ship here at Murimon which is fit for the voyage. Apparently my brother commissioned a schooner to be built. A three-master. Ocean going.’ Prince Kadar shook his head. ‘Why Butrus imagined he needed such a thing, I have no idea, but it is beside the point. It is not completed, and will not be until July at the earliest.’

‘So I am effectively stranded here for two months,’ Constance said.

‘Possibly three.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

Prince Kadar gave her one of those assessing looks. ‘For what?’

‘I shall be inconveniencing you. Three months is a long time for an uninvited guest to stay.’

The Prince smiled. ‘But I did invite you, last night, to stay for as long as you wish.’

‘Yes, but...’

‘Lady Constance, I repeat, your presence here is most welcome.’

Goodness, but when he smiled she quite lost track of her thoughts. It was like the dazzle of a faraway star captured in the lens of her telescope, temporarily blinding her to everything else. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, blinking. ‘If there is anything I can do while I am here to work my passage, so to speak, then I would be delighted to help. I’m afraid I’m not a very good needlewoman, but I’m very good with accounts. Though I can’t imagine why you would need a bookkeeper when you most likely have a treasurer.’

‘And an assistant treasurer and any number of scribes,’ the Prince said. ‘There are any number of needlewomen here at the palace too, I expect. Your time will be your own.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with it. I like to be busy.’