plum.
But that was the problem. Alina had not stuck her thumb into a pie. None of what had already happened had been at her desire or volition. His Majesty had stuck all of her into the pie, and she would have to find her own way out.
Except there was no way out. Luka had convinced her of that. Her mother dead these past three years, her father perishing at Waterloo, she’d had no one but her aunt Mimi to represent her wishes at court. Which was the same as to say she had no one to protect her, to fight for her, to convince His Majesty that his sometimes troublesome ward should not be sacrificed in some ridiculous gesture to help cement relations between her country and that of the greedy English.
Aunt Mimi had called the betrothal an honor, even as she could not hide her triumphant smile at the prospect of being rid of the now grown-up niece whose beauty was on the rise just as her own was teetering toward a slippery slide into middle age.
Once Alina had resigned herself to her fate, she had demanded only two things, one of which she received.
Her insistence on knowing everything there was to know about this Baron Wilde fell on deaf ears. She knew no more about the man today than she had two months previously, except for Tatiana’s silliness just now.
Her second demand had been not only met, but exceeded, as the ermine-adorned cloak well demonstrated. If she was to represent the court, the king, then she must be of the first stare, her wardrobe and retinue worthy of the emissary of His Majesty.
Gone were the childlike gowns her aunt had insisted she be limited to, replaced by only the finest silks, the most elegant designs, the most fashionable of accessories—including the full jewelry boxes that had once belonged to her mother but for the past years had somehow become the possessions of her aunt.
Alina had gifted the woman with the set of garnets and a pretty speech filled with gratitude for her loving care of her, and done so in the presence of the king, so that Mimi could not throw the nearly worthless stones back in her face.
Small victories, few and far between, but Alina took pleasure in them just the same.
She had been delighted to learn that Luka would accompany her, remain with her as long as deemed necessary, and that Tatiana had declared she would rather die than be left behind.
She had been flattered when Danica had been added to her retinue, as she had never before had her own dresser, but only shared her aunt’s. It was only proper that those closest to her be people with whom she could be comfortable, and not cold English strangers.
But the guardsmen? They had been a surprise to her.
Those guardsmen now stood at attention, clearly awaiting Alina’s descent to the dock. Very well, she had done as she’d planned; her first steps on the island of her mother’s birth would be taken with all the accompanying pomp and ceremony she could have wanted.
All she had to do now was face her betrothed, look into his eyes, allow him to take her offered hand, perform her necessary curtsy that indicated her subservience and willingness to obey.
And pray she did not throw up on his feet.
For the space of a full minute (she knew, because she had counted out the seconds in her head), Alina had cast her gaze about the dock without really seeing anything or anyone. But now she had no choice but to look to the bottom of the gangplank, where Luka and the “near-god” waited.
She drew in a quick, silent breath. This was her affianced husband? This tall, disturbingly beautiful man whose heavy-lidded green eyes smiled at her and mocked her all at the same time? She’d expected older, jaded, even a paunch and a cane. She’d prayed for amenable, stupid, easily led.
What in the name of the Virgin was she supposed to do with this?
The self-assured creature approached the gangplank, planting one gleaming black Hessian boot on it as if this somehow claimed not only her as his own, but this ship as well, and held out his hand to her, openly daring her to take it.
“Your servant, my lady,” he said, his eyes still mocking her. “On behalf of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, I, Baron Justin Wilde, your delighted betrothed, welcome you to the homeland of your mother. Her passing was England’s loss, yet her daughter is clearly England’s gain.”
Very prettily said, she supposed. It was only as she opened her mouth to parrot the words she had learned by rote that must be spoken on this occasion, that she realized the baron had addressed her in flawless German, now the official language of Austria.
Alina supposed he’d wish to be complimented on his expertise.
She’d rather poke hot sticks under her fingernails. Although how silly of him to let her know she could not speak German in front of him and think he would not understand. Should she thank him for forewarning her? No, probably not.
Instead, she answered him in English as flawless as his German, putting her hand in his open palm and then watching rather intently as he bent his dark head to within a whisper of placing a kiss on her bare skin.
She ignored the tingle that ran up her arm, all the way to her shoulder.
“You’ve met my secretary, Major Prochazka?”
The baron had not released her hand, but had deftly drawn her arm through his, leading her back to where Luka and an odd-looking periwigged creature stood waiting, the latter beaming at her as if personally responsible for some wonderful occurrence. Then they both bowed—the little man with much more élan than poor Luka, who had to contend with his sword—turned and began leading the way off the crowded dock.
“Your secretary, my lady? Ah, yes, of course he is. And, in turn, I am the King of Siam.”
Alina stopped in her tracks, which made the baron do likewise. “What are you suggesting, my lord?”
“Suggesting? I? Nothing more, my dear, than that we begin as we plan to go on. All that faradiddle you spouted about improving trade relations? Very nicely said, but we both know the truth. Or do you wish that we go on with you pretending that you’re a pretty yet brainless twit, and that I…well, dear me, didn’t I just paint myself into a corner with my tongue? Very well, that I also continue pretending that I am a pretty yet brainless twit.”
Alina looked him up and down, amazed to hear a man call himself pretty; besides, he was much too much the male to be termed pretty, even in his fashionable clothes. But what did he mean? Pretending. Pretending what? Had she been betrothed to a lunatic?
“You’re saying that you’re not a brainless twit? Are you quite certain of that?”
“At this precise moment? No.” His smile reached all the way to his eyes, but then stopped, as if something barred the way. “Very well, then. We shall for the moment allow the definition of secretary to stand.”
“I don’t recall granting it permission to sit down,” Alina said, with just the sort of offhand sarcasm that had landed her in trouble so often, had called her to the king’s attention in ways that probably had hastened her banishment to an English marriage. She behaves as if she’s queen, her aunt had told anyone who would listen. Queen of the Romany, I suppose, for all her thin Englisher blood.
Alina walked forward once more, her gaze on the major’s militarily straight spine. “He’d die for me, you know.”
“Commendable
