protested.
“You were raised to be a wife to a powerful, well-bred man, which includes princes.” She beamed at Sorcha. “I hear Oxenburg is lovely, too.”
“ Oxenburg? ”
Everyone looked at Bronwyn, and she realized she’d said the word much louder than necessary. “I . . . I read about Oxenburg somewhere recently. The name seems familiar.” So the huntsman must be one of the prince’s servants, and not employed by Selvach, after all. That explains many things, such as the fluffy dog. I daresay he was watching it for the prince. A smile tickled her lips. No doubt the man was as small and poofed as his pet.
Unaware of the unattractive image Bronwyn had of the prince, Mairi sighed dreamily. “I think marrying a prince would be the best of all things. Coaches and eight, diamond tiaras, new gowns every day of the week, jeweled slippers, people to bring you whatever you want, whenever you want it—how could you hate being a princess?”
Bronwyn poured herself some tea. “Perhaps I’m too particular for my own good. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave all princes to you and Sorcha.”
Sorcha shook her head. “But Bronwyn, just think of all the books a princess might have.” She waved her hands. “ Rooms of books.”
“That might make it worthwhile.” Bronwyn pretended to consider it. “But then again, I could also get a subscription to the library in Inverness and have access to their rooms of books, without having to stand in receiving lines until my feet and back ache.”
“Nonsense,” Mama said briskly. “Being a princess would be lovely, and I won’t hear anything otherwise. Sorcha, which gown will you wear? We’ve only five days until the ball and we’ve much to get ready between now and then.”
Instantly, Sorcha, Mairi, and Mama began to discuss gowns, shoes, hair ribbons, and other absorbing items. Bronwyn listened for a short while, then found her book and tried to read.
But somehow, her mind kept wandering to the huntsman from Oxenburg. Was the country as beautiful as the man? And why, oh why, was she still thinking about him, wondering about him, dreaming about him? Fortunately for her, there was very little chance she’d ever see him again. And yet . . . she wondered where he was now, and if he thought about that moment in the forest at all. For she did, far more than she wanted.
But all first kisses were like that, weren’t they? she told herself, trying to reduce the memory into something that wouldn’t disturb her sleep or her imagination quite so much. But her task was hopeless. The huntsman had possessed an unearthly skill that even her novice lips had recognized. Blast it, why couldn’t he have been horrible at kissing? I might have stood a chance then. But she’d had no such luck.
With a resigned sigh, she forced her mind to the pages of her book and to the adventures of Roland, whose words now echoed in her mind with a distinct accent and a smoky-smooth tone.
Roland remembered the first time he’d laid eyes upon Lucinda, and how he’d been instantly taken by the innocence that shone from her face like a beacon on a misty shore.
What more could a man wish of a maid than purity of mind and heart?
— The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
Alexsey Vitaly Grigori Romanovin, Royal Prince Menshivkov of Oxenburg, and honored guest of Sir Henry Davidson, was bored. Here he was, a man of action forced by his position to don silks and stand in a ballroom filled with preening peahens.
Alexsey bit back a growl as he surveyed the women before him. There were redheads, brunettes, and blondes. Tall ones, short ones, and middling ones. There were plump ones, thin ones, and curved ones. Some were quite attractive, some were not, and at least three of them were beautiful. But what none of them was, was interesting .
“Well?” Tata Natasha asked from where she stood at his elbow, her voice impatient. “Which do you wish to meet?”
Alexsey’s gaze swept the room again,
“You were raised to be a wife to a powerful, well-bred man, which includes princes.” She beamed at Sorcha. “I hear Oxenburg is lovely, too.”
“ Oxenburg? ”
Everyone looked at Bronwyn, and she realized she’d said the word much louder than necessary. “I . . . I read about Oxenburg somewhere recently. The name seems familiar.” So the huntsman must be one of the prince’s servants, and not employed by Selvach, after all. That explains many things, such as the fluffy dog. I daresay he was watching it for the prince. A smile tickled her lips. No doubt the man was as small and poofed as his pet.
Unaware of the unattractive image Bronwyn had of the prince, Mairi sighed dreamily. “I think marrying a prince would be the best of all things. Coaches and eight, diamond tiaras, new gowns every day of the week, jeweled slippers, people to bring you whatever you want, whenever you want it—how could you hate being a princess?”
Bronwyn poured herself some tea. “Perhaps I’m too particular for my own good. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave all princes to you and Sorcha.”
Sorcha shook her head. “But Bronwyn, just think of all the books a princess might have.” She waved her hands. “ Rooms of books.”
“That might make it worthwhile.” Bronwyn pretended to consider it. “But then again, I could also get a subscription to the library in Inverness and have access to their rooms of books, without having to stand in receiving lines until my feet and back ache.”
“Nonsense,” Mama said briskly. “Being a princess would be lovely, and I won’t hear anything otherwise. Sorcha, which gown will you wear? We’ve only five days until the ball and we’ve much to get ready between now and then.”
Instantly, Sorcha, Mairi, and Mama began to discuss gowns, shoes, hair ribbons, and other absorbing items. Bronwyn listened for a short while, then found her book and tried to read.
But somehow, her mind kept wandering to the huntsman from Oxenburg. Was the country as beautiful as the man? And why, oh why, was she still thinking about him, wondering about him, dreaming about him? Fortunately for her, there was very little chance she’d ever see him again. And yet . . . she wondered where he was now, and if he thought about that moment in the forest at all. For she did, far more than she wanted.
But all first kisses were like that, weren’t they? she told herself, trying to reduce the memory into something that wouldn’t disturb her sleep or her imagination quite so much. But her task was hopeless. The huntsman had possessed an unearthly skill that even her novice lips had recognized. Blast it, why couldn’t he have been horrible at kissing? I might have stood a chance then. But she’d had no such luck.
With a resigned sigh, she forced her mind to the pages of her book and to the adventures of Roland, whose words now echoed in her mind with a distinct accent and a smoky-smooth tone.
Roland remembered the first time he’d laid eyes upon Lucinda, and how he’d been instantly taken by the innocence that shone from her face like a beacon on a misty shore.
What more could a man wish of a maid than purity of mind and heart?
— The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
Alexsey Vitaly Grigori Romanovin, Royal Prince Menshivkov of Oxenburg, and honored guest of Sir Henry Davidson, was bored. Here he was, a man of action forced by his position to don silks and stand in a ballroom filled with preening peahens.
Alexsey bit back a growl as he surveyed the women before him. There were redheads, brunettes, and blondes. Tall ones, short ones, and middling ones. There were plump ones, thin ones, and curved ones. Some were quite attractive, some were not, and at least three of them were beautiful. But what none of them was, was interesting .
“Well?” Tata Natasha asked from where she stood at his elbow, her voice impatient. “Which do you wish to meet?”
Alexsey’s gaze swept the room again,
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