“I shouldn't have said that,” she squealed, looking in horror at Randolph.
But he too was laughing. “We are all your friends here,” he said. “And we're all proud of you.”
As if to prove it the men applauded some more. Looking around she recognized them all as soldiers who'd been her escorts at various times.
“They volunteered,” Randolph told her, reading her expression. “Your whole army is loyal to you, but these are 'your' men in a special way.” As he spoke he was slipping a robe over her disheveled nightgown.
“How did you all come to be here?” she asked.
“Bertha is more loyal than she seemed. Having pocketed Harold's bribe she came straight to me. I told her not to breathe a word to you, and when you'd gone to bed she let us all in. You were never in any real danger.”
“Thank you so much, all of you,” she said, spreading her arms wide to the soldiers.
“Don't think you really needed us though,” one of them said, provoking a laugh.
Harold was still writhing and choking. Two of them raised him to his feet and would have removed him, but Randolph stopped them.
“My dear cousin,” he said tenderly to Harold, “don't go without being the first to congratulate us. Princess Dorothea has honored me by agreeing to be come my wife.” He turned swiftly to Dottie. “I know you'll forgive me for announcing it like this, but there are reasons why Harold should be the first to know.”
The soldiers were in ecstasies. Dottie regarded Randolph with a fulminating eye, but there was nothing she could say in front of an audience.
What had she expected? Moonlight on a rose-strewn balcony? A tender declaration? This was a marriage of state. Yet his kisses had surely told her of something more, and she felt a quickening of excitement, even through her indignation at his high-handed behavior.
At last they were alone, and she confronted Randolph.
“'First to know' is right,” she seethed. “Harold knew before I did.”
“Nonsense Dottie, you've always known that our marriage was inevitable. You promised to do whatever your country needed. Now you know what it needs, and quickly. We can't take chances. He'll try something else, and we have to spike his guns.”
“Of course,” she said in a colorless voice.
That was how he saw their marriage, she realized-spiking Harold's guns.
Chapter Eleven
Elluria had never known such celebrations. Two royal weddings, one after another. First Prince Harold of Korburg would marry Sophie Bekendorf in Wol-fenberg Cathedral, and the very next day their own Princess Dorothea would be united in wedlock to Prince Randolph. A few weeks after that there would be the coronation. The makers of royal souvenirs were working overtime turning out mugs, tea towels and anything else that they could think of.
Much as she disliked Sophie, Dottie felt sorry for her as she flaunted Harold's huge engagement ring, and boasted of his passionate proposal. Did she know, Dottie wondered, that her future husband was saving face, having failed to seduce Elluria's future queen?
The only story that came out of that night's events was her own betrothal. Randolph had scotched the scandal very effectively. Dottie only wished she knew what other motives he might have had.
These days every spare moment was taken up with preparations for their wedding, and they hardly saw each other except in public. She kept promising herself that she would talk to him privately, but what was there to say? This was a state marriage, and all the talking in the world wouldn't change it.
When they'd discussed a honeymoon he'd suggested Venice, Rome, New York and several other glamorous places. But Dottie had turned them down.
“Too public,” she said. “I'd rather go somewhere quiet in Elluria.”
Several of his friends offered her the use of their country houses, but Dottie claimed that all of them were too large, too palatial.
At last Randolph said hesitantly, “There's my own estate of Kellensee, but it's little more than a farm.”
“Then it'll suit me better than a palace,” Dottie said at once.
If he noticed that after raising difficulties about the others she fell in with this suggestion at once, he never said so. A message was sent that night, ordering Kellensee to be prepared.
The question of who was to give her away had caused a few headaches. As she had no close male relatives it was the prerogative of the chancellor, Sternheim. Dottie had groaned and prepared to dig her heels in, but then she'd noticed Sternheim looking at her like a dog expecting to be kicked, and realized that he was terrified of a public rebuff.
Her reaction was to advance on him with hands outstretched, smiling as she said, “Shall we call a truce? You can hardly give me away if we're not speaking, can you?”
Stripped of his usual self-possession, Sternheim stammered out something about being honored, glared furiously at everyone around him and hurried away. The last citadel had fallen to her. Durmand, watching from the sidelines, murmured, “That's a very clever lady.”
“No,” Randolph said quietly. “That's a very kind lady.”
But Dottie heard none of this.
On the day of the first wedding Randolph and Dottie drove together through the streets of Wolfenberg to the cathedral. Soon Harold arrived and took his place before the altar, waiting for his bride.
Dottie had to admit that Sophie was magnificent as she walked down the aisle on her father's arm, her long train streaming behind her. She wondered if Randolph was thinking that this was the day Sophie should have become his wife, but when she stole a glance at him he was brushing something from his sleeve.
It was much worse at the wedding reception when protocol obliged her to dance with Harold while Randolph danced with the bride. Dottie refused to look their way even once, but she couldn't stop her thoughts following them jealously around the floor.
And then the next day it was all to do again, except that this time she was the bride, despairingly conscious that a person of only five foot one could never match Sophie in splendor.
Her snowy dress was lace, specially woven by Elluria's famous lace makers. Her veil was held by a pearl tiara, part of the crown jewels. More pearls hung about her neck and from her ears. Queen Dorothea II had worn these same jewels to her wedding in 1874. Now they adorned Queen Dorothea III, as she would be known after her coronation.
Sounds below told her that Randolph was leaving for the cathedral. She would have stolen a glimpse but a shocked Aunt Liz barred her way to the balcony, uttering dire warnings about “bad luck.”
A message from the stables gave her details of the horses that would draw her carriage, led by Jack, the oldest animal in service and coming to the end of his working life. To be drawn by Jack was a promise of good luck.
And she was going to need good luck, she thought. She'd taken a huge gamble to marry the man she loved, uncertain of his true feelings for her. And perhaps she would never truly know. That was the real gamble.
But she would take it and risk the consequences. What was life if you were afraid to seize your chances?
Her procession was a long one. As she stepped outside to be handed into her carriage by Sternheim, proud to bursting point, the leading horsemen were already turning out of the main gates. They were followed by two open carriages containing the six bridesmaids, then a division of the royal cavalry and finally the bridal carriage, escorted by outriders.
And all this was for her, little Dottie Hebden, from Wenford.
She never forgot that drive to the cathedral. She'd known her people had accepted her more readily than she'd dared to hope, but now, as she went through streets lined with cheering crowds, smiling, wishing her well, she understood how completely they'd taken her to their hearts. She'd come home. She was eager to accept this place as home, as hers. She could embrace them, as they had embraced her.