Mike found himself in a small conservatory just off the ballroom, a drink in his hand, and Sophie's ardent eyes turned on him.
“I really only drink beer,” he protested.
“But this wine is practically our national drink,” she said, sounding hurt.
So he tried it, and had to admit that it wasn't bad after all.
“Everyone wants to talk to you,” Sophie said admiringly, “because nobody knows our new queen as well as you. We're all so glad to have her. She's refreshingly natural.”
“Aye, speaks her mind, does Dot,” Mike confirmed.
“So I've observed. Tell me, did her royal birth really come as a surprise to her?”
“Oh yes. She had no idea. Mind you, her grandpa always knew. Used to say all sorts when he'd had a few.”
Sophie gave a tinkling laugh and Mike began to feel that perhaps he was a heck of a fellow after all. He drained the second glass and a third appeared as if by magic. Or perhaps it was the fourth.
“But I don't suppose he knew very much,” she said.
“Well, he had some very strange stories. Nobody believed a word of them, mind.” Mike held out his glass to Dagbert, wondering why he'd ever been worried. A glow of content was settling over him.
Deep in the ballroom Dottie was beginning to feel relieved. So far she'd managed without mishap. Every foreign ambassador had to be honored with a dance in strict order of importance. Somewhere near the lower end of the list was Count Graff, the ambassador from Korburg, who danced correctly, spoke like a robot and barely bothered to conceal the fact that he was looking her over with mingled interest and contempt.
Sometimes she caught sight of Randolph, splendid in dress uniform. He too was doing duty dances, although her quick eyes never saw him in Sophie's arms. Why? she wondered. Had they made a pact to avoid each other in this public place? Or was Randolph simply too heartbroken to be near her?
Then she realized that he never looked at her. She'd dared to be pleased with her own appearance. She knew that she really looked like a princess. And for all the notice he took she might as well not have bothered.
At last her duty dances were done, and she could sit on the plush chair on her dais, and wiggle her toes. Randolph would approach her now, but he seemed deep in conversation with a general, so Dottie set her chin and summoned a footman.
“Inform my cousin that I would like to speak to him,” she said, sounding more imperious than she felt because she felt uneasy behaving like this.
After a moment Randolph approached her and bowed correctly. His air was polite but formal. He bowed again when she indicated the chair beside her, and took it.
“Is there some way I can be of use to you?” he asked.
“You can tell me how I've offended you.”
“Your Royal Highness has not offended me.”
“Oh stop that!” she said, letting her temper flare a little. “Why haven't you asked me to dance?”
“Because it's not my place. I've already explained that it's for you-”
“But surely that doesn't apply to you?”
“I'm afraid it does.”
“Then I'm asking you to dance with me.”
He rose and extended his arm. “As Your Royal Highness commands.”
She was about to speak to him crossly again but she noticed how sad his face was, and it silenced her. They danced together correctly for a few minutes, and Dottie became more depressed every minute. When had they ever been correct? Perhaps his misery over Sophie was more than he could conceal. Whatever the cause, he seemed to have become almost a stranger.
He saw her looking at him and smiled self-consciously. “I trust you're enjoying your first ball?” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I'm enjoying it extremely.” She thought that sounded about right.
Randolph heard the elegant phrasing and his heart sank. For some reason tonight he found himself remembering their first evening in London, when she'd laughed and talked outrageously. At first he'd been shocked, but shock had passed as he became charmed by her springlike freshness. And all the while he'd been deceiving her, and he knew that she'd never quite forgiven him.
Now a change had come over her. She was beginning to learn her role, to dress correctly and speak elegantly. But, inch by inch, she was ceasing to be Dottie, and he didn't like it.
He reminded himself that to her this was just a game, that she was looking forward to calling a halt and returning home to marry Mike, the man to whom her heart clung with a stubbornness that drove him wild. He thought of the secret action he'd taken to ensure that her dream would never come true. He was deceiving her again, and his guilt tormented him.
For a moment her attention was distracted, and he followed her gaze to where Sophie was floating by in the arms of the Korburg ambassador, the third time she'd danced with him.
Oh, no! he thought in dismay. Please Sophie, not that!
He didn't blame her. He knew the family pressure she was under to find a royal husband, and Harold was now the most eligible. But he felt sick at the thought that she might ally herself with a man he despised. Then he realized that Dottie was watching his face, and he hastily smiled.
The dance was coming to an end. He led her back to her dais, bowed and excused himself. Suddenly feeling very lonely, Dottie looked around for Mike, but there was no sign of him. What she did see was Randolph approaching Sophie and firmly cutting out the Korburg ambassador. She watched miserably as they circled the floor, until Aunt Liz touched her arm and indicated somebody that she really ought to honor with her attention.
For a while Randolph and Sophie waltzed in silence. But at last he could contain himself no longer and said in a soft, urgent voice, “Don't do it, Sophie. For pity's sake, don't do it.”
“Are you the man who should say that to me?” she asked softly. “What else should I do? Wear the willow for you?”
“No, not that, but how could we marry when I have nothing to offer? There was no choice for either of us. Your father made me see that.”
“I understand. Forgive me for what I said, beloved. You're a good man. I know your heart too is broken.”
A frisson of unease went through him. Perhaps she sensed it, for she gave a beautifully modulated sob.
“Sophie, please,” he murmured. “Don't cry here.”
Swiftly he danced her out onto the terrace. She was still weeping, and he felt vaguely embarrassed, and then ashamed of his embarrassment. Once he'd thought her cool, composed, a good friend but no more. Her apparent desolation at his loss made him awkwardly conscious that his own feelings had always been weaker.
“Sophie, my dear,” he said as they slowed to a halt, “what do you want me to do?”
“I know you can't change anything,” she sobbed. “I accept it, but you mustn't blame me for what I do.”
“How could I ever blame you? But it hurts me to think of you as that man's wife.”
“And yet you yourself will soon be married, won't you?”
“Hush,” he placed his fingertips gently over her mouth. “Don't speak of that.”
“No, there's nothing more to say, for either of us. Kiss me goodbye.”
Saddened by her grief, and what he felt to be his own inadequate response, he drew her close and laid his lips tenderly on hers. It was the kiss of a generous friend, but from a short distance it could have had the appearance of a lovers' embrace.
At least, that was how it seemed to Dottie, standing at a window, looking out with bleak eyes.
Chapter Seven
Mike appeared in her room at noon next day, hung-over and apologetic.
“Don't know what was in that stuff I drank,” he said. “Maybe I should have stuck to beer.” He rubbed his head.
“What made you change the habits of a lifetime?” Dottie asked. She too wasn't feeling at her best today.
“I didn't want to offend Countess Bekendorf. Mind you, she wasn't so bad.”