A Queen from the North: A Royal Roses Book Read online

  Chapter 6

  STARGAZING OR STARCHASING? ROYAL LOVERS SIGHTED AT THE OBSERVATORY

  17 February

  Year 21 of the Reign of King Henry XII

  Arthur sent me a list of suggested occasions to appear at together. By Palace courier. And told me to pick the one I liked best.

  So for our first date he’ll be taking me to the Royal Observatory. Except I’m fairly sure it’s not actually a date, even if he does have plenty of reason to woo me. An agreement to marry if we can stand each other enough make small talk for an evening is still not an engagement. And knowing what I want from him — a queen for my people and respect for myself — is not nearly the same as actually getting it.

  In other words, I may be in over my head.

  *

  Priya was out at a speed dating night, so Amelia had the apartment to herself. She dressed with careful deliberation. This was her first public appearance with Prince Arthur, and she wanted people to remember her. Not just as the girl in the grainy pictures at the races or in the horrid photos from outside the wine bar, but as a girl the King and Queen spoke to at a garden party, a girl who looked like royalty already.

  Amelia’s hair was long and chestnut-colored, and she brushed it out and curled it into loose waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, like her mother's, were gray, and she did her makeup carefully — enough to look polished and effortless, not enough to look too young or incite judgment. That accomplished, Amelia wriggled into a wine-colored cocktail dress that showed off her figure without actually revealing anything. Amelia wasn’t tall, but she liked the shape of her body — slim hips, round breasts, shoulders that slouched a little when she wasn’t in public and didn’t have to remind herself to stand up straight.

  Her favorite piece of the ensemble was her necklace: a pendant with the white rose of York traced out in white gold and diamonds. Her father had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she fastened it around her neck. If Arthur wanted to unite the country with their own personal union, people here in London would have to come to terms with her origins.

  *

  Amelia had been to the Royal Observatory before for school trips, but she’d never been there at night and never for an event like this. Certainly she had never arrived there — or anywhere — in a car with Prince Arthur, who had picked her up at her flat.

  The Queen’s House, built by a long-dead king for his wife, was down the hill from the planetarium and observatory proper and lit up against the dark evening sky. It held a distinct atmosphere of privileged and slightly secret sophistication. Such things weren’t unfamiliar to Amelia, but as an earl’s youngest daughter whose closest sibling was ten years older, she was more used to the idea of such parties than actually being in attendance.

  The black and white tiled entrance hall had soaring archways cut into the walls, through which gleamed the sparkle of the ballroom lights and the bright jewel tones of women’s dresses. After their coats had been taken, Prince Arthur put a hand on the small of Amelia’s back and leaned to murmur in her ear.

  “I’d take it as a favor if you called me Arthur tonight.” Goosebumps broke out up and down her arms. “At least when speaking to me. I won’t protest if you put on the show for other people.”

  Amelia turned her face up to him. He wore a dark grey suit that made him stand out amidst the staid black most of the men present had selected. The jacket was double breasted and somewhat old-fashioned, but appropriately dashing as any prince should be. “But you’re the Prince of Wales spending time with a northern girl,” she said. “Do you really want give people something else to talk about?”

  Arthur smiled, the fine lines standing out around his eyes. “Lady Amelia, you calling me by my given name is not going to change my awareness of that fact. Or yours, or anyone else’s I’d imagine. I hardly ever get to be a man who’s interested in things rather than the heir to the throne. Especially not in public.” He glanced about the room. “And there are very few people I can ask to approach me as such. But it seems you might be one of them, so tonight I think it would be very nice to pretend.”

  “Does that mean I’m supposed to tell you to call me Amelia?” she asked, turning to face him fully. She was sad that he let his hand fall from her back, but tilted her head to look coyly up at him. “Or should we just skip straight to Meels?”

  Flirting with the Prince of Wales was a new experience, but she couldn’t fault it, especially when Arthur’s eyes dipped down to her mouth before snapping back up.

  “That, like the rest of this undertaking, is entirely up to you.”

  *

  With the cocktail hour before the meal in full swing, Amelia and Arthur followed the rest of the arrivals to the orangerie, which contained no actual orange trees that Amelia could tell. There were only slender marble columns and large dark windows that reflected the lights and colors of the room back at them.

  Arthur acquired two glasses of wine and handed one to her. “Who do you want to talk to?” he asked, taking a sip from his own.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m the Prince of Wales, people like to talk to me. If we must socialize, we might as well choose our company.”

  Amelia wasn't sure if Arthur’s surliness was an affectation or not, but she was delighted nonetheless. “Well, who is here?”

  Before Arthur could point anyone out to her, a couple swept up to them — the man with fine, thinning blond hair and the woman silver-haired in a rustling gold silk dress — to pay their respects to Arthur. Arthur gave Amelia a sideways look as he nodded in acknowledgement of their bows before shaking their hands, a look that clearly said, see what I mean?

  Amelia found herself suddenly able to have conversations with people who ordinarily wouldn’t bother speaking to her — because she was young, because she was merely a member of a minor northern family, or because she was just a graduate student. She wondered if this was why Arthur had selected this event as a potential first evening in public together. He could impress her, yes, but with the scientists in attendance he was also giving her access to something she cared about and could benefit from. He seemed to keep an eye on her, whoever she spoke to. Whether he liked what he saw, Amelia wasn’t sure, but every so often their eyes met and he smiled.

  Amelia was relieved. Her mother had made sure Amelia was well trained to be a pleasant and engaging conversationalist. But this was a dinner party in the grand formal dining room at Kirkham House, times a thousand. Amelia couldn't imagine the girl who wouldn't feel overwhelmed.

  The feeling only increased when Arthur introduced her to the Duchess of Water Eaton, Helen Lawrence; the woman she’d seen come in off the balcony at the races, right before she herself had run into Prince Arthur. Amelia knew of her, vaguely — she and Charlie ran in some of the same circles, and the press talked about her now and then — but hadn’t ever had a real conversation with her.

  Helen shook Amelia’s hand with pale, cool fingers.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” she told Amelia. Amelia responded in kind.

  Helen gave Arthur a significant look that Amelia didn’t understand at all.

  “Who are you here with tonight?” Arthur asked Helen, putting his hand on the small of Amelia’s back.

  “No one, I’m stag tonight. I probably won’t stay long, but I promised I’d come for a little while.” She looked at Arthur coyly from behind the perfect cascade of her dark hair. The brightness of her blue eyes and the faintest of rosy blushes on her ivory cheeks made her seem as though she were glowing.

  Amelia, who had been feeling rather good about her own ability to perform in public, was struck by the degree to which was in her element. Amelia may have been practiced in dutifully attending public functions, but the duchess inhabited her body and rank in a way that Amelia wondered if she’d ever be able to achieve herself — regardless of whatever that rank might turn out to be.

  Once they were seated for dinner — and not wit
h Helen — Arthur leaned over and whispered to her about those they were seated with. “Baron Rothwell, on your right,” he told her. “Writes big checks but couldn’t find the full moon in the sky.”

  “I thought, as the Prince, you were supposed to be nice,” Amelia teased.

  “No, not really.” He shrugged and his shoulder brushed her arm. “Across from you, Viscountess St Quintin. Knows more than she’ll ever let on. She used to be mistress to one of the American astronauts, although she’s smarter than he ever was.”

  “Are you jealous?” Amelia murmured.

  “She did sleep with an astronaut!”

  Amelia couldn’t help laughing. Arthur looked absolutely delighted.

  After dinner, everyone was ushered to the undercroft, which had been set up for more drinks, more mingling, and also, now, dancing. When they reached the doorway, Arthur touched Amelia’s elbow lightly. “This house boasts an operational telescope, and I believe it’s open for use tonight. Would you like to investigate?”

  The room watched them. Clearly, Arthur didn’t care about the gossip that would ensue. Or perhaps gossip was his goal. As Amelia stood considering it, Arthur’s fingers moved lightly on her skin. Perhaps Arthur wasn’t looking to provoke gossip; perhaps he was actually interested in the two of them having time alone.

  Amelia wondered if this was how Arthur behaved with all the women he dated. She also wondered if she cared. The Prince of Wales was offering to show her the stars.

  “Yes. That would be very nice.”

  “Well then. Shall we?”

  She took Arthur’s offered arm. She was far too aware of the wool of his suit; nothing else existed but the pinprick of fabric against her skin. As they headed toward the telescope Amelia was shocked at how deserted the Great Hall had become in such a short time. Only the staff was there, busy with mopping up, and they threw glances at them as they walked, Amelia’s heels clicking on the marble. She could hear the footsteps of the Prince’s security behind them as well. She wondered how long it was supposed to take for her awareness of them to disappear.

  The central staircase swirled up three floors in an elegant spiral that curled tightly on itself as it reached for the heavens. Arthur didn’t let her arm go as they climbed.

  “There’s a ghost story about these stairs,” he said as they passed the balcony on the second floor and continued up.

  “Of course there is. It’s a house in Britain,” Amelia said.

  He smiled. “There’s a photograph. A shrouded figure, pursuing another figure, maybe two, up the stairs. The experts have declared it genuine.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we wouldn’t know what to do without our ghosts,” Arthur said as they reached the top of the stairs and stepped out onto the third floor. It was an art gallery, carpeted and quiet, the windows night-dark. Across from the stairs a door stood open, revealing another set of stairs that presumably went up to the roof where the telescope was.

  Amelia frowned. “Perhaps.” Unbidden, the image of Princess Georgina rose before her, her face a living echo of the long-dead Anne Boleyn’s. Amelia fought back a shudder. Arthur certainly wasn’t wrong, either about the human species or their nation’s fondness for superstition. “But we also might be free to do so much more were we to stop believing in them. The thing about science is that it exists whether we believe in it or not.”

  “Unlike everything else in the world, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he muttered. “There’s a new reason to hang on to the Commonwealth. Otherwise I might well go poof in a cloud of smoke.”

  Amelia giggled. If Arthur found her delightful — she thought she might sound charming — that would be a bonus. But her laughter disguised a moment of pure, unadulterated panic. Marrying Arthur to keep their country together would only solve one set of problems. They would still have to deal with several countries’ recent and intense urges to leave the Commonwealth.

  It was cold on the roof. Amelia drew a deep lungful of air, fresh after the heat of the party, and wondered if they should have gotten their coats. The dark sweep of the Thames and the lights of London were behind them. In front of them stretched a long hill, black in the night. At the top was the round dome of the great telescope. On the roof here was a much smaller one, tripod-mounted, pointed up at the sky. Standing by it was a staff member with a museum name tag pinned to her jacket. Amelia felt badly that she couldn’t read it in the dark.

  The docent, however, clearly recognized them, or at least Arthur, for she straightened immediately from a pensive pose at the railing.

  “Good evening,” Arthur said to her.

  “Good evening, Your Highness. My Lady,” she said, with a curtsy for Arthur and a nod to Amelia. “Here for the stars?”

  “Yes,” Arthur said, curtly perhaps, and with a nod to the telescope. “May we?”

  “Sir, I can demonstrate —”

  “I assure you, I won’t break it,” he said. “A Celestron Newtonian, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said a little hesitantly, but she stepped back all the same. “You know it?”

  “I have one at Gatcombe,” Arthur said, referring to his country estate. His astronomy habit was fairly well-known, although, unlike his horseback riding, less prone to produce photos Priya could put on the refrigerator. “Thank you,” he said, clearly dismissing her, but polite. At least Amelia wouldn’t have to call this whole thing off because he was the sort to be rude to waiters.

  As the docent stepped back, she gave Amelia a sympathetic look. Amelia found it unnerving. The kindness, that was perhaps pity, could only be directed at what Amelia’s life had already started to become. Still, compassion she would take.

  Arthur bent over the telescope, squinting one eye closed as he twiddled knobs on the side, adjusting it.

  “Here,” he said, gesturing to her with his free hand, then straightening up to beckon her toward the eyepiece. “Take a look.”

  “What am I looking at?” Amelia brushed her hair over her shoulder to peer through the eyepiece.

  “You can adjust the focus here,” he told her, tapping a long finger at a wheel near her cheek. “As for what you’re looking at, a fraction of what you should be able to see. The London light pollution is terrible. Marginally better in the winter, though not by much.”

  Amelia lifted her hand to the focus wheel and accidentally brushed Arthur’s. A spark ran from her fingers up her arm, setting her nerves alight.

  “Sorry,” she said, jolting back as though she’d been burned.

  At the same time Arthur said, softly, “Your pardon,” and pulled his hand away.

  “It’s the Crab Nebula,” he went on as she blinked into the eyepiece and shifted her focus to the tiny smears of light, brought into startling clarity. “It used to be a star. It went supernova a thousand years ago. And a thousand years before that was the last time your people had a queen.”

  He was standing next to her, not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him in the cold night air. His voice was low, probably to keep their conversation private.

  “You’re seducing me,” she murmured.

  “I should hope so.”

  There was humor in his voice — there was always humor in his voice — but Amelia had no idea what to do with the conversational cul-de-sac they’d arrived at. Was she supposed to declare her desire for him and the crown he had offered her? Were they supposed to kiss? With his security and the docent watching?

  She turned her head from the telescope so suddenly and sharply she almost smacked herself in the face with it. Arthur, when her eyes focused on him in the dark, seemed unaware of her clumsiness. But he was smiling, something small and secret and, most importantly, as much at his own expense as at hers.

  “The light — or lack of it — really is better out at Gatcombe,” he said, deftly shifting the conversation to safer subjects. “That’s where I first started learning about the stars. And I�
��ve always preferred it. Not just for the light. It’s beautiful there.”

  “I miss spending time out at Kirkham House,” Amelia said. “At Christmas it’s a lot, with all my family there and all the neighborhood functions, but the rest of the year…. The land is so beautiful, but with school I hardly ever have the time.”

  “Perhaps we could go there together,” he said.

  Amelia’s heart gave what could only be described as a flutter. Staged dates for the sake of public image were one thing, travels together outside of London were another. “If you’re going to win my heart and sway my part of the country, I hope we’ll be spending some time in the north,” she said daringly.

  “Certainly for official business. But we should go sometime, just ourselves.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “Easy, no. But it’s possible,” Arthur shrugged. “Our theoretical lives will be difficult enough. We might as well make the effort to take pleasure in them when we can. But,” he added with an awkward laugh. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  Even in his awkwardness he was attractive. Amelia wrapped her arms around herself and tipped her head back to look up at the sky with her naked eyes. She needed a moment of not looking at Arthur before she was faced with the choice of whether to kiss the Prince of Wales on a rooftop.

  “You’re shivering,” Arthur said.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Still,” Arthur said. “It’s been a lovely evening so far. I’d hate to mar it by having you catch your death.”

  “Why?” she asked absently. “You could be cursed, and I could haunt the Observatory.” Only then did she remember, although she was not sure how she ever could have forgotten, that Arthur was a widower. “I’m sorry,” she said frantically, “I shouldn’t joke about —”

  “Death?” he asked mildly as he unbuttoned his jacket. “That would be like not commenting on the rain.”

  Amelia wondered whether Arthur was wonderful or just used to enduring terrible things.