In London she'd charmed him, but that had been another world. Here, where she was taking over his birthright, it was hard for him to regard her without hostility.
He turned, meaning to tell her coldly that her humor was inappropriate, but he met her eyes, fixed on him, and saw the small crinkle of bewilderment in her forehead. She looked smaller, more vulnerable than he remembered, and his anger died. It wasn't her fault.
“Eat your breakfast,” he said more gently. “Then Aunt Liz will attend you. She knows all there is to be known about clothes. I suggest you appoint her as your Mistress of Robes, but of course that decision is yours.”
The countess was in an ebullient mood, having spent a hugely enjoyable night making plans for Dottie's appearance. She mourned Dottie's lack of height but praised her dainty build.
“We'll have clothes made to measure, but for your appearance this afternoon we will apply to a boutique, fortunately an extremely exclusive establishment. Once we've purchased the garments, they will withdraw them from their range, of course.”
“Of course,” Dottie murmured. “It'll be interesting to visit some of the shops.”
“What are you thinking of? You can't go to a shop.”
“Well, it won't come to me, will it?”
Aunt Liz was scandalized. “Of course it will.”
Within an hour four young women, trooped in, curtsied and proceeded to display an array of clothes that almost made Dottie weep with ecstasy. She spent two blissful hours trying on, discarding, trying again, changing her mind, going back to the one she'd first thought of. And not once did anyone grow impatient with her.
More young women. Shoes. Underwear. Finally Aunt Liz chose three dresses, “Just to tide you over while your official wardrobe is being made.”
“What about paying for them?” Dottie muttered, conscious of everyone looking at her expectantly.
“These matters are dealt with by your Mistress of Robes.” The countess paused delicately.
“In that case, Aunt Liz, will you do the honors?”
She had made her first appointment.
A hairstylist appeared and transformed Dottie's shortish hair into more sophisticated contours. While she was still in rollers she took a bath, and emerged to find her underwear and hose laid out ready.
The dress was simple, cream silk, with a high waistline. The shoes matched it exactly. About her neck she wore a pearl necklace that, Bertha said, had been a gift from the Tsar of Russia to Queen Dorothea I in the eighteenth century. Dottie gulped.
At last she was ready. Everyone curtsied their way out, leaving her to wait for Randolph, who would escort her to the reception. Now she felt good, full of confidence knowing that she looked terrific. She wondered if Randolph would think so.
She wandered out onto her balcony that overlooked the deer park. There was the lake she'd seen last night, blue and beautiful glinting in the afternoon sun. She could pick out the exact spot where the man and woman had walked.
There was a woman standing there now. She didn't move, but stood, looking down into the water, as though sunk in thought, perhaps dreaming of the man, and the intimate moments they'd shared. Suddenly she began to walk purposefully back toward the palace. As she neared the balcony she stopped and raised her head, looking straight at Dottie. It was a direct, challenging gaze, almost angry, and it revealed her face clearly enough for Dottie to recognize her from the magazine photographs.
This was Sophie Bekendorf, Randolph's fiancé, and perhaps the woman he loved.
Dottie sensed that Sophie was looking her over. She was getting used to that, but there was something disagreeable about this woman's manner, and the slightly scornful smile that touched her mouth before she moved on and vanished from sight.
A moment ago she'd felt full of confidence and courage. Now she saw herself for what she was, an impostor, playing a role that was beyond her, and making herself ridiculous. With a sinking heart she went to survey herself again in the mirror. She even looked different, she thought dismally. Everything was wrong.
Randolph found her in this mood. “It's no use,” she sighed. “I can't be a princess.”
He laid his hands on her shoulders, and spoke gently. “Why ever not?”
“I'm too short.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I'm too short. Princesses should be tall and elegant, looking down their noses at everyone, and I'm…” she made a helpless gesture, “short.”
His lips twitched. He tried to control it but with her wicked little face gazing at him control was impossible.
“What are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“At you, and your scatty way of thinking.”
“Well there you are. If people are going to laugh at me I can't be a princess, can I?”
“I won't let anyone laugh at you,” he promised.
“Except you.”
“Except me.”
“But I'm still too short. You couldn't fix me another six inches, could you?”
“Dottie, I would fix you anything you wanted in the world, but I'm afraid that is beyond me. You'll just have to be a short princess. Now stop fretting. I've brought something to show you.”
He laid out before her a small painting, in the style of the eighteenth century. It showed a woman of about thirty, at the height of her beauty. On the top of her elaborately arranged hair was a diamond tiara. More diamonds hung from her ears and around her throat was a magnificent diamond necklace, the same one that Dottie was wearing now. They were jewels for a queen, and she wasn't surprised to read, at the foot of the portrait this had been Queen Dorothea I. What did astonish her was the woman's face.
“But…that's me,” she gasped.
“It's a family likeness that has carried down through the generations,” Randolph agreed. “There is no doubt that you are her descendant, and it will smooth your path as queen.” When she didn't answer he frowned slightly. “Dottie? Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said vaguely, her eyes fixed on the portrait.
Almost in a dream she went to the mirror to look at herself, then back at the picture. It was happening again, the feeling of morphing into somebody else. From a great distance she could hear the voice of Dottie Hebden saying, “I can't do this. Me, a queen? Don't be funny.”
Against that she set her own face looking back at her from the portrait. The lips never moved, and yet it spoke to her in a voice she knew, silently telling her that this was where she belonged.
Chapter Five
“Don't try to take it all in,” Randolph advised Dottie in the last few seconds before she met the members of her court. “Just smile at everyone.”
“I can't smile,” she gasped. “My stomach's full of butterflies.”
“Trust me.”
It was too late for her to say anything more. The heavy gilt doors were being pulled open in front of them, and she was staring along the length of a room that seemed to go on forever. Down the center was a long crimson carpet, leading to a dais, at the top of which was a chair upholstered in crimson plush. A crimson canopy, bearing the royal coat of arms, rose high overhead. The room was lined with faces.
Randolph took her hand in his, holding it up, almost to shoulder height. She wondered if he could feel that she was shaking. Strangely it felt as though he too was shaking. She gave him a quick, disbelieving glance, but he was staring straight ahead. “Lead with the left foot,” he murmured. And they were off.
As they walked slowly along the carpet the faces came into focus, so that she could discern bafflement, hostility, but mostly curiosity.
Nearing the dais she murmured to Randolph, “That chair…is it?”
“Yes, it's the throne.”
She gulped. “Blimey!”