Chapter Twenty-ThreeDevrimI try to see Wraye, the next day and the day after, but she tells me she’s busy with work and settling into her new home. There’s a ball at the palace the next night, and I’m to wait until then. It seems like an age, and I wonder how I made it through twenty-seven years of prison.
Lady Rugova comes to the house, alone, and thanks me for my part in restoring the Rugova’s fortunes. I’m civil to the woman, only because she’s Wraye’s mother.
Aubrey avoids me as much as she can, coming down late to breakfast and riding her horse late into the evening. I give her space to get used to things, but I go looking for her on the afternoon of the ball.
She’s in the part of the garage that we’ve converted into a temporary stable. She’s dressed in jodhpurs with her hair in a messy ponytail. When she sees me coming through the door, she pauses brushing Cinnamon’s coat, and then turns away and redoubles her efforts.
I get to the point. “Sweetheart, I know that you must feel betrayed, but I need you to understand, because I’m going to marry Wraye.”
“Daddy, please don’t make a fool of yourself like this. She’s too young for you.”
I know she is, but I don’t give a damn. I pick up a brush and turn it over in my hands. “If I could have met Wraye as free man, after your mother passed away, perhaps that would have been easier for everyone, but it didn’t happen that way. I’ve never had a future to look forward to with a wife.”
Aubrey purses her lips, and I see sympathy flit across her expression. Then it’s gone. It’s like she wants to understand, but the fact that Wraye was her friend, first, is too much to accept.
“You’re rushing into things. You barely know her.”
I put the brush down. “When you know, you know. I hope it will be the same for you one day.” Aubrey looks more miserable than ever. I sigh and scrub my hand through my hair. “Please try to be her friend. I know she wants to be yours.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t refuse, either. I suppose that’s as much as I can hope for, right now.
At the ball, many of the courtiers tell me that they never believed the story in the papers about me abandoning my post. I don’t want to talk about that and distract them with the news of my upcoming marriage.
Many of those from my generation regard this news in surprise. “Lady Wraye Rugova?” they repeat, with a lift of their brows. That’s as much as they dare say to my face.
I search the crowd for my bride, wondering where she is, because she promised to come and find me the moment she arrived.
Then I see her. She’s standing a few feet away, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, wearing a rose-colored satin gown, with plush, rosy lips.
I can’t help the stupid grin that spreads over my face as she sees me.
“That’s the smile of a man who’s head over heels in love,” King Anson remarks.
I clear my throat and bow, realizing that my bride is standing next to the King, and they’ve been in conversation. “Your Majesty.”
“My best wishes to both of you. The first of many happy unions at Court, I hope.” With that, King Anson moves away and leaves us alone together.
“We were just talking about you,” Wraye says as she rises from her curtsy to the King’s departing back. We both start to stroll around the edge of the room, watching the dancers a little, but mostly, looking at each other.
“Oh, yes?”
“King Anson tells me that he received an avalanche of letters supporting you after that horrible story in the papers. He said they didn’t tell him anything he wasn’t already sure about.”
I take her hand in mine. “That makes an old man very happy.”
She squeezes my fingers and grins. “You’re not old. You’re mature.”
“I don’t know how much time I have left. You’d better marry me, before it’s too late.”
“Oh, ha-ha. Nice try, Your Grace.”
The crowd in front of us parts, and we come face to face with Aubrey, who’s standing by herself, in a blue satin gown. Her face looks pale.
Wraye’s smile falters as she sees her friend.
I’ve tried to encourage my daughter to visit Wraye, but I don’t think she’s even called her. Aubrey looks like she’s considering turning and walking away, but then she takes a deep breath and addresses Wraye.
“I wish you’d told me about still living in the slums. I wouldn’t have thought less of you. I might have been able to help you.”
Wraye’s brow wrinkles with anguish. “I know you would have. I wish I had said something. I don’t blame you for being angry with me.”