Page 3 of Prince of Scandal

“Yes?” asked Ashton, dreading the reply.

“The morning post has arrived. Including a letter from your mother.”

And there it was, the death knell to any peace or contentment he’d found here.

For an entire decade, Princess Anna-Louise Freyberg von Hagan had pretended he didn’t exist. Her missive certainly wouldn’t be forgiveness, absolution, or an enquiry about his welfare; his Bavarian mother didn’t indulge in tender sentiment. Which could only mean she wanted something. Badly.

Ashton beckoned his manservant closer. “Hand it over, then. And don’t…stop bowing, damn it.”

“Humblest apologies, Your Highness,” said Franz, unrepentantly. “I forget.”

The man didn’t forget anything, and they both knew it. But it would be easier persuading the sun to rise in the west than a Prussian courtier to discard protocol. They lived and breathed rules. Order. Discipline. Duty. In fairness, he did too. However, if anyone overheard them speaking German, or Franz calling him ‘Your Highness,’ then every sacrifice would have been for naught.

Reluctantly, Ashton slid his letter opener under the wax seal stamped with the royal black eagle crest and unfolded the thick cream parchment.

Wilhelm Heinrich Ashton,

It is time you returned to Berlin and resumed your place in society as our heir. I have an understanding with a suitable young lady from the House of Mecklenburg-Schwerin who is willing to overlook your shameful past and do her duty as the wife of a prince.

King Frederick has expressed support for the match and sends his regards as both your monarch and a fond cousin. I expect to receive you in my drawing room no later than June 1.

Anna-Louise Freyberg von Hagan.

Hell and damnation.

The urge to burn the parchment was overwhelming. Marriage? To a stranger? No. Life was far simpler without a woman, and he’d learned to live celibately. Besides, he was thirty-four years old, not some green pawn to be played on his mother’s dynastic chessboard.

Ashton glanced up at Franz. “Mother insists I return to Berlin and marry the Mecklenburg-Schwerin bride of her choosing. By June first.”

The manservant clicked his heels together, a common habit whether happy, perplexed, or thinking hard. “I see. What are your instructions? Shall I begin packing your trunks?”

“No. I’m not going.”

“Oh.”

Ashton almost laughed at the wealth of meaning in that one syllable. Quiet horror at such rebellion, certainly. A valiant but unsuccessful effort to remain stoic in the face of unexpected news. But mostly…pure relief. While Franz enjoyed the tranquil Brundall estate, the truth was, his manservant had fallen head over heels for Tommy Jones, the theater costumer he discreetly met each week in Norwich. It was rather amusing, someone so staid loving someone so exuberant, but Franz just sniffed and said the heart wanted what it wanted, and that was that. Really, if it weren’t for Franz and Tommy, Ashton might insist that true love didn’t exist. But it did. Just not for him. His brush with the emotion had caused a goddamned diplomatic incident.

What a cocky fool he’d been.

As both the son of an official envoy and a wealthy hereditary prince, he’d arrived in London with his parents ready to cut a swathe through English society ballrooms and bedrooms. But within months he’d been bewitched by the beautiful and vivacious Lady Virginia Sloane. While the duke’s daughter did have an understanding with another man, she’d ended that attachment for the chance to be a princess, and they’d become betrothed.

He'd thought Virginia was the woman of his dreams.

Instead, she’d become his nightmare.

All was well until the day Virginia accused him of shackling her. He’d assumed there would be an investigation, a call for witnesses, at least an opportunity to refute the shocking lie. But no. Not for a foreigner. English society swiftly turned on him, his parents disowned him and fled home to Prussia, and he’d been forced into seclusion. Since Virginia, he’d sworn off women. Actually, he’d sworn off people in general. An imperious summons from the princess who’d birthed him wouldn’t change that.

“My mother’s wishes are not mine in this matter, Franz. Even if His Majesty has expressed support for the match.”

“She has the king’s blessing?” Franz practically squeaked, now fully rocking on his heels. Ugh. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned that particular detail. This much defiance of supreme authority might actually result in a Prussian head explosion.

“You’ve gone pale. Shall I fetch some cravats to starch so you can soothe those jangled nerves?”

“I’m the only one who does it correctly, Your Highness,” replied the older man repressively, thankfully regathering his wits. Franz losing his mettle would certainly indicate the coming of the Four Horsemen.

“A truth,” admitted Ashton. “Now—”

“Forgive the interruption, but are you expecting a message?”