Princess of Glass Read online

  And if he failed, another war might break out.

  This wasn’t remotely what he had thought his father wanted to talk about. Christian slapped the side of the telescope and watched it spin on its tripod. He was being offered an adventure, but was it one he wanted to embark on? There would be no battles to fight on horseback and with rifle in hand, only fancy dress parties and balls.

  King Karl’s gaze softened and he put one hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Son, we need you to do this. You know your mother and I have always tried to keep you safe,” his voice roughened and he barked a laugh. “All right, we’ve fussed like a hen with a new chick. But it’s because you’re our only son and we love you. Sending one’s heir off to a foreign land is never an easy thing, but your sisters are too young. Your mother and I, well, we paced the floor all night arguing about what to do. And we think that this is the right thing.” Karl looked down for a moment. “If you cannot bring yourself to go, we’ll make other arrangements.” The king grimaced.

  It was reassuring to know that this wasn’t an easy decision for his parents. For a brief, wild moment Christian had been wondering if they wanted to be rid of him after all.

  But at last he was being offered a chance to travel! Even if it wasn’t where or how he had dreamed, it was better than nothing.

  “I’ll go,” Christian said.

  His father gave him a rough, quick hug. “Good lad.”

  Ball

  Poppy regretted her decision to go to the ball as soon as they entered the Thwaites’ mansion. The dancing had already started and music poured down the stairs, making Marianne clutch at Poppy’s arm in excitement. The Thwaites were standing at the top of the stairs to receive their guests, and they were delighted to see Poppy, the mysterious foreign princess.

  “Oh, Your Highness,” Lady Thwaite gushed. “We’re honored to have you join us! I’m sure your dance card will be filled before you have time to sit down.”

  Wishing that she could sink into the floor as the guests gathered in the foyer turned to gawk at her, Poppy just nodded and smiled. Then Marianne burst out with the news that Poppy didn’t dance, and they spent ten minutes explaining that she was not ill, and she really did want to attend the ball, and thanking their gracious hosts, until Poppy felt like she was baring her teeth in self-defense rather than smiling.

  It started all over again when they stepped into the ballroom. A footman bustled over to hand the ladies their dance cards, and was confused when Lady Margaret took one, Marianne took one, but Poppy did not. They found some seats along one wall near some friends of the Seadowns’ and young men started coming over to sign their cards. Again Poppy had to decline any dances, holding up her left hand to show that she had no dance card dangling from her gloved wrist.

  “But surely you’ll make an exception for me,” said one duke’s son, lowering his eyelids in a flirtatious manner.

  “Is there something in your eye?” Poppy tried to assume a solicitous expression.

  “Er, no.” The duke’s son backed away, and Poppy fought back a pang of guilt.

  It was all very well, she thought to herself, to say that choosing not to dance at a ball will be no great matter, but things look different once you reach the ballroom. As Marianne’s first partner claimed her, Poppy tried to smile and not feel bereft. The only other ladies not dancing were elderly chaper-ones. Lord Richard and Lady Margaret, who loved to dance, had taken to the floor once Poppy assured them that she was all right.

  But she wasn’t all right.

  She was surrounded by women who smelled of lavender water (a scent she had always detested), and all around the room people were staring at her and whispering behind their hands. In Westfalin, ringed by her eleven sisters, she did not attract much attention. But here in Breton, a visiting foreign princess was the subject of much gossip. A visiting foreign princess who refused to dance for unknown reasons was even more interesting.

  Lady Thwaite, freed from the reception line, came over to Poppy a few moments later. “Your Highness, may I present the Duchess of Hinterdale?” Lady Thwaite indicated the woman at her side, who was shaped rather alarmingly like the prow of a ship.

  Poppy shook the woman’s hand. “How do you do?”

  “Veddy, veddy well,” the duchess replied, staring down her remarkable nose at Poppy.

  Lady Thwaite went off to see to the rest of her guests, leaving Poppy and the duchess to make each other’s acquaintance. The duchess spoke in a drawling fashion that forced Poppy to listen very carefully. She had studied Bretoner since she was three, but her governess had always used perfect grammar and pronunciation.

  Unlike the Duchess of Hinterdale.

  “You are a strenge gel, Princessss Puppy,” the duchess said. “He-ere you are, with ev-er-y young man in Breton to dence with you, and you well not dence.”

  “Ah,” Poppy said after deciphering this. “No. I don’t den—dance.”

  “Wuh-hy not?” The duchess raised one overplucked eyebrow.

  “Because my mother and sisters and I were cursed to dance for the pleasure of an evil king,” Poppy thought. She reached up and straightened her knitted silk choker. “I do not care for dancing,” she said finally.

  “Do not care for dencing?” The duchess’s face was abruptly purple. “My godson was Prence Alllfred!” And with that the Duchess of Hinterdale stormed off, leaving Poppy with burning cheeks and a hammering heart.

  “Alfred,” Poppy muttered under her breath. “Duel? Or horse accident? He was the horsy one… yes.” She put one hand over her eyes, then snatched it away, knowing that people were watching her and whispering behind their fans.

  Alfred, King Rupert’s late son, had gone to Westfalin to find out the secret of their ruined dancing slippers, failed, and returned to Breton to die in some sort of accident a week later. He had been foolish and vain, but no worse than a lot of spoiled princes.

  And it was because of Alfred that Poppy had been sent to Breton. In the wake of his son’s death, King Rupert had stirred up rumors of witchcraft and foul play at the Westfalin court, which even now continued to circulate.

  But since the mystery of the slippers had been solved (even though the solution had not been widely broadcast), and three uneventful years had passed, Rupert and Gregor had reached an uneasy truce and Rupert had come up with this grand fostering program to establish stronger ties among the Ionian nations.

  The first to be taken from her home and family? Poppy. In an effort to appease his royal neighbors, Gregor had volunteered all of his unmarried daughters. Poppy and Daisy had asked to go together, but no one seemed to want two of the mysterious Westfalian princesses at once. It had been a wrench, leaving her twin behind, but she didn’t envy Daisy, who had pulled Venenzia out of the hat.

  Daisy hated boats, and humid air made her hair frizz, and the streets of Venenzia were paved with water. Her first letter to Poppy had been a hysterical recitation of horrors, from her wild hair to the shaky gondolas to the food, though Poppy argued that Bretoner cuisine was far worse.

  “Are you all right?” A tall young man saw her shudder and strode over to her. It was Richard “but everyone calls me Dickon” Thwaite, the genial eighteen-year-old son of her host and hostess.

  Poppy blurted out, “I was just thinking about kippers and blood sausage,” and then bit her lip, feeling like a fool.

  Dickon took a step back, startled. “I see. Well. I thought you might be bored, sitting alone here, but it seems that you are more than capable of entertaining yourself.” He gave a little bow and started to move on. He had been hovering near Poppy’s chair, waiting to talk to Marianne, whom he had already danced with twice.

  “Wait!” Poppy stretched out a hand. She was bored, and more self-conscious than she’d ever imagined she could be, and she didn’t want to have another encounter with another indignant matron like the Duchess of Hinterdale.

  “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Er, where are you going now?”

  H
e paused. “Well, since Marianne’s dance card is full now and you are occupied with important thoughts about breakfast meats, I thought I might take myself to the card room for a hand or two.” He nodded in the direction of a little door to one side of the ballroom. Through it, Poppy could see part of a table occupied by four men, deep in their game.

  “I shall join you,” she told him with relief. She got to her feet and took his arm before she saw the shocked expression on his face. “What is the matter?”

  “Young ladies don’t … I shouldn’t really … ,” he spluttered.

  “Oh, nonsense! I love to play cards.”

  And Poppy steered him out of the ballroom and into the rather smoky little card room, where their appearance briefly stopped all conversation. She felt a flush of regret: apparently young ladies really didn’t play cards.

  “Ah, Poppy dear,” Lord Richard said, coming to her rescue. “Care to join me?” He had been standing to one side, talking to a friend and watching a game that looked to be ending. “Poppy and young Thwaite and I will take this table next, if you don’t mind, Robert. And perhaps Geoffrey will consent to make up the fourth.”

  The men all agreed despite their shock at seeing a young lady in their midst, and got up as soon as the hand was finished. Robert, the winner, gathered up his chips with a bemused expression.

  “Didn’t think you played anymore, Seadown,” he said.

  “Ah, well, a hand or two with my lovely houseguest hardly counts as gambling deep,” Lord Richard said airily.

  Poppy could tell by the look in his eyes and the surprised way that many of the men in the room were staring at Lord Richard that it was a weightier matter than he made it seem. She wondered if he had come to grief because of cards in the past. She wondered, too, if she ought to let him win.

  Before marrying her two oldest sisters, Poppy’s brothers-in-law had both been common soldiers. They had taught the girls a number of things: to shoot a rifle and a pistol, make a fire, knit, cook stew, sing all twenty-eight verses of “Baden-Baden Mädchen,” and play a number of card games not normally enjoyed by young ladies.

  It came as quite a surprise to her family when Poppy proved to be fairly adept at knitting. It did not surprise them, however, when she also turned out to be the best card player in the bunch. Although Poppy’s gambling had proved far less dangerous than Petunia’s fascination with bonfires, which had resulted in her chopping up one of King Gregor’s prize rosebushes for kindling.

  Sitting down at the table, Poppy unbuttoned her gloves and folded them back so she could handle the cards better. She shuffled and dealt while Geoffrey and Dickon Thwaite stared in amazement. Lord Richard just chuckled.

  “The princess is an uncommon young lady, you will find,” he told the others. “Oh, and forgive my manners! Poppy, this is the Honorable Geoffrey Wainwright. Geoffrey, this is Princess Poppy of Westfalin.”

  “Charmed,” the Honorable Geoffrey murmured.

  “Shall we set a minimum bid, gentlemen?” Poppy picked up her cards and arranged them.

  “Let’s keep it small, shall we?” Lord Richard also situated his hand, and the other two scrambled to pick up their cards. “Otherwise Margaret will think I’m corrupting the innocent.”

  Poppy glowered a bit at this, but Lord Richard just laughed. “Not you, my dear. But young Thwaite has only had a year at university.”

  Now it was “young Thwaite’s” turn to glower.

  Poppy sighed, realizing that it was up to her to break the heavy mood in the card room.

  “First bid?”

  Guest

  And this is the portrait hall,” Prince George said.

  “Very nice,” Christian agreed, and tried not to yawn.

  He’d traveled for two days to reach the Bretoner capital of Castleraugh, and when he’d arrived George had insisted on giving Christian a guided tour of Tuckington Palace. Christian had seen more portraits of unfortunately horse-faced Bretoners than he cared to remember, and passed more inviting chairs and sofas than he could bear. At that very moment they were standing two paces away from a silk-upholstered couch littered with small round cushions, and Christian thought he could hear it whispering enticingly to him.

  “This armor belonged to my great-great-great-grandfather, King Gerald,” George was saying. Then he frowned at the plaque affixed to the pedestal the armor stood on. “No, wait. It was my great-great-great-great-uncle, Prince Everard’s.” George pulled at his lower lip. “I could have sworn it was Gerald’s,” he muttered. “What’s become of Gerald’s kit, then?”

  Christian swayed on his feet and then pinched himself to stay awake. “George,” he interrupted the prince’s musing, trying not to stare at the couch. “Do you suppose we might take the tour in the direction of my room? I hate to admit it, but I’m exhausted. Perhaps I could see the portraits another time.”

  Blinking, George looked from Christian to the armor and back. “All right,” he said finally, clearly flummoxed by this lack of interest in Prince Everard’s breastplate and greaves. “Let me show you our guest rooms.”

  Apparently, when Prince George was in the mood to give a tour, nothing would deter him. On their way to Christian’s room George led him through a number of other chambers, listing the famous guests who had stayed there over the years. When they at last reached the “Blue Room” assigned to Christian, which had once housed a Shijnren empress, they caught a little maid in the act of laying the fire.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Your Highnesses!” She scrambled to her feet and curtsied. She had frizzy red hair under a white linen cap and a smudge of soot on her nose.

  Christian tapped his own nose. “You have a smut,” he told her kindly. She turned bright red, dropped the basket she had been carrying the kindling in, snatched it up again, and backed out of the room with more apologies.

  “Of course she had a smut,” George said, laughing. “She’s a maid. The question is: why hadn’t she laid the fire earlier, sparing us the sight of seeing her and her smut?” He shook his head in exasperation. “Still, we’ve had worse… that dark-haired one …” He shuddered.

  The Dane court was a good deal more casual, Christian reflected, shedding his coat and flopping into a chair by the hearth. At home the maids came and went whether or not he was in the room, and Fru Jensen, the housekeeper, had scolded him a number of times for tracking mud on the carpet or mussing a freshly made bed. Breton was going to take a great deal of getting used to.

  Not the least of which was because of George.

  “Ball tonight,” George said, taking the other hearthside seat. “Duke of Laurence, so we’d best make an appearance.”

  Glancing at the clock, Christian stifled a groan. He’d have to start dressing in an hour if they were to attend a ball, and he was so tired the room was swimming.

  “Perhaps you could give my excuses to the duke,” Christian said. “I really am done in by my journey—”

  “Nonsense,” said George. “I’ve already told Laurence you’d be there. I’ll have some tea and scones sent up for now. Very restorative, tea and scones.” And George left.

  Since this was not the Danelaw and Fru Jensen was not here to scold him, Christian threw himself facedown on the bed with his boots on. He’d been looking forward to having Prince George around for the first few weeks of his visit; another young man of the same rank would be interesting to talk to. But having just spent three hours in George’s company, Christian couldn’t wait for him to depart. Christian buried his head in a pillow and tried to erase the portrait of George’s great-grandmother, the dowager queen Louisa, and her mustache from his mind.

  He managed a whole hour of sleep before Prince George’s valet woke him. While Christian stumbled about in tired befuddlement, the man silently found his evening clothes and helped Christian dress, even combing his hair for him.

  Before he knew it, Christian was a guest of honor at the Duke of Laurence’s Harvest Ball. As soon as they had greeted their hosts, he found a chai
r and sank into it, waving off George, who turned away without any evidence of regret and positively threw himself at a knot of giggling young ladies.

  Christian yawned and looked around. A dance was starting, and George was leading a tall blonde to the floor. Other couples followed, except for a black-haired girl across from him. Despite the lively music and the fact that there was plenty of space on the floor for another couple, the young woman did not get up to dance. Christian decided she must have too many suitors to choose from, and turned to look around the room.

  The Duke of Laurence’s mansion was huge, and the ballroom ran the width of the house, looking out over the gardens at the back. He could see through an open door into the supper room, where the tables had been laid for what he hoped was a splendid feast. The scones he’d gulped while dressing were nothing but a fond memory now.

  “No card room, if that’s what Your Highness is looking for,” said the duke gruffly.

  Christian looked up to see his host standing over him with a young woman on his arm.

  “The wife and I disapprove of gambling,” the duke explained, frowning at Christian.

  “Oh, no, I was just … admiring your home,” he said lamely.

  “Forget the house, admire the ladies!” The duke gestured to the girl on his arm. “Marianne, this is His Royal Highness Prince Christian of the Danelaw. Prince Christian, this is Lady Marianne Seadown. There, you’re introduced; ask Marianne to dance.”

  Christian felt his ears grow hot, and was mollified to see that Lady Marianne was also blushing. He hadn’t planned on dancing, but he didn’t want to embarrass anyone either. He stood and took her arm.

  “This dance is almost finished,” she said timidly, looking down at the toes of her slippers. “Shall we take a turn about the room until it is over?”

  “That would be fine,” he agreed.

  “Here, speed things up for you,” the duke said. He stalked over to the corner where the orchestra sat and shouted, “We’ve done with that tune, start the next!”