Page 74 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 24

Constantia reached behind her and closed the door, and he gestured her to the chair opposite his, beside the fire. “In case it’s of use to you, I compiled a list of solicitors who could be trusted to look into Schenk’s claims,” he told her, nodding toward a writing desk a few feet away. She could see at least two pieces of paper covered with his precise hand. “And then I decided to brush up on my German history.” He gestured with the closed book. “Did you know that the principality of Friedensfeld has been defunct since—?”

“The mid-eighteenth century, yes,” she said, suddenly wishing she had brought along Herr Schenk’s notes—or rather, Harriet’s translation of them. “After a series of skirmishes along the border with the Duchy of Knechtsburg, in which the Friedensfelders suffered many losses, the then-prince, my great-grandfather, was driven into exile. Herr Schenk wept as he told me the story. The family has remained in Transylvania ever since, allowed to retain their titles, but forfeiting much else.”

Alistair looked impressed by the amount of knowledge she had acquired in so little time. But also a little grim.

“Shortly after his father’s death in 1780, my father, Prince Christoph, embarked on a grand tour of sorts, to study art. Italy, Paris, eventually London, where he met my mother, painted her portrait, and, evidently, showered her with gifts.” Reaching up beneath her hair, most of which had long since escaped the elegant coiffure over which Georgiana and Frederica had labored so earnestly, she plucked the earbobs from her ears. She hadn’t known where else to keep them. “Do you”—she fiddled absently with them, making the firelight dance across the gems—“do you believe my parents really were married? Wouldn’t there be some record—something in an English church?”

He mused on that question for a long moment. “Perhaps, when you’re some sort of prince, a royal proclamation is all the authority you need. Truth be told, I’m far more interested in how you and your mother came to be left all alone.” His jaw was set in a hard line; she ought to have known he would have little patience for a man who failed in his most important duty, who hadn’t done everything he could to protect his family.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the whole story.

“Herr Schenk said that his brother, my uncle, wrote to urge his return by lying about their mother’s health. That when he arrived and realized what his brother had done, he knew trouble was afoot, which was why he issued a proclamation that very day. He wanted to ensure that my mother would be taken care of if anything happened to him. But of course, my mother never knew anything about it, because within a week, my father was . . . dead.”

He leaned forward and encircled her hands with his. “I don’t know what sort of condolence to offer under circumstances such as these. I am sorry you will never know him, but he left you with a marvelous gift.” Surprise must have flashed across her face, for he added, by way of explanation, “Your artistic gift—the one you share with him.”

She nodded and gnawed on the soft flesh behind her lower lip. For just a moment, she had thought he must have guessed the rest. “There’s something else.”

“Oh?”

“If we didn’t misunderstand Herr Schenk, or make a terrible mistranslation, it seems that when the family went into exile and forfeited their lands, they still escaped with a sizable fortune in gold and gems. And in that proclamation, well, my father left it all to me.” She had been trying all evening not to think about how different her life would have been if Herr Schenk had caught up with her sooner. Far fewer struggles and hardships. No damp cellar room beneath a modiste’s shop.

No Alistair either.

“That’s marvelous,” he exclaimed, though his hands went slack. “You will finally be free to paint what you choose, to have whatever sort of life you’d like.”

“Mm-hmm,” she agreed, still worrying her lip. “Alistair? What if . . . what if I decided what I really want is a home? Here? With you?”

The almost imperceptible cloud that had formed on his brow a few moments earlier slowly cleared as the meaning of those words sank in. “Constantia, are you—are you asking me to marry you?”

He was a proud man, she knew. Was she no better than those Bristol merchants’ daughters, trying to buy his hand, but in the process losing his heart?

“Should I get down on one knee?”

He shook his head, never taking his eyes from hers as he slid from his chair onto the hearthrug at her feet. “No, I believe it’s I who should be kneeling in the presence of royalty.”

“Alistair,” she chided, trying to slip her fingers from his grasp.

But he paid her no mind. “Promise me you’re not doing this because you think you should. Because you feel some ill-conceived responsibility for the situation in which I’ve found myself.”

“I’m far too selfish for that. I’m doing it for myself. Because every moment I spent on that portrait forced me to confront how much I w-wanted you.” She stammered out the word, knowing his eyes would flare hotly at it. “How much I love you.”

He lifted his hand to cup her head and draw her closer even as he rose up on his knees. The intensity of his dark gaze was softened by the sparkle of unshed tears as he tipped his forehead to hers.

“Are you certain you want to say yes?” she asked, swallowing against the prickle of tears in her own throat. “I’m not much like the ideal bride you described to me.” A wry laugh pushed past the tears. “Other than rich.”

“And pretty, and intelligent, and good with my sisters,” he reminded her.

“But totally inexperienced in the duties of a lady. Sometimes messy. And a little wild.”

His dark eyes flared. “Perhaps I’ve decided I like wild.”

At that, she laughed and tossed her head; her hair tumbled around them. “I intend to keep painting,” she warned him. “Under my real name. I mean to refurbish the studio—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Their lips met with a combination of sweetness and heat that until recently she hadn’t known existed. It was a kiss rich with passion and promise, and when her tongue slicked daringly over his, he groaned.