But now that it was happening, she didn’t know what to do.
“I know,” Adolphus said. “It is quite soon. You are just barely out of mourning, and we have only just begun to court. But I believe we could be happy together.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” she murmured.
“You do not need to say anything just yet,” he told her. “I will not say words with hearts and flowers because I know you are not a hearts and flowers woman, but I believe there is something here.”
He sat next to her. Touched her chin. “There is something between us,” he said. He kissed her, gently at first, but then with a growing spark of passion.
“Do not answer me now,” he said. “Think on it. I shall await your response.”
He stood, his posture perfect, and gave her a smart bow before departing. Agatha sat in stunned silence for about a minute before Coral came running in.
“Are you going to say yes?” Coral demanded.
“Were you listening at the door?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
Agatha rolled her eyes.
“He is quite a handsome man,” Coral said.
“Yes.”
“And you would not have to worry about your future.”
“Yes.”
“Or the title issue.”
“Yes.”
“And it does signify that his sister is Queen Charlotte. Imagine, staying at the palace when we come back to visit.”
“Yes,” Agatha said, yet again.
Coral plopped down next to her on the sofa, not something she ordinarily did. “I have been practicing my German. Ich diene der Königin. That means ‘I serve the queen.’ That’s you. You would be a queen. Never have another moment’s worry when you are royalty—”
“Stop talking, Coral,” Agatha begged. She needed to think.
Coral pulled a bit of a face, stood up, and headed for the door. At the last moment, she turned back around. “You are going to say yes to his proposal?”
“Go, Coral,” Agatha said.
Because she had no idea what she was going to do.
George
Buckingham House
The Gallery
“It’s a fine likeness, don’t you think?”
George held his wife’s hand as he stared at his wedding portrait. “A portrait for which I did not even sit. I am an insertion.”
“It is still us,” Charlotte said. “You and me.”
“Yes. But not real.” And that was what worried him. There was so much in his life that was not real. Charlotte didn’t know the extent of it; he had become adept at hiding all but the worst of his mental jumbles. But the heavens never stopped. Even when he was able to talk and act normally, he felt them encroaching.
Even now. Even with his beloved by his side, in this palace he called home, a little piece of his mind was marching off in its own direction.
Venus, it called. Venus.
“George,” Charlotte said.
He forced himself back to the moment and looked at her again. She was magnificent, every inch a queen. She was wearing a wig—the first time he had seen her do so—but it was colored to look like her natural hair. It added nearly a foot to her height, made her taller than he was, even.
“Look at you,” he said. “You are a rare jewel.”
He reached out to touch her face, but his hand was trembling. Uncontrollably. He could not remember the last time he had seen it shake so.
His gaze moved from her face to his hand. He could not take his eyes off his fingers. They shook and shook, and yet somehow it was Charlotte’s face that looked blurry behind them.
He did not touch her. He dared not. Not with that hand.
But Charlotte dared. She always dared. She took his hand in hers and held it steady. “You and me,” she said.
He managed the tiniest of nods. “You and me.”
“You ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. He prayed it was true.
They walked to the ballroom, already filled with guests. Reynolds and Brimsley trailed behind them, just in case.
Just in case.
George hated that. Charlotte shouldn’t have to spend her life with someone who always needed a just in case.
“Your Majesty?” Reynolds asked when they reached the door.
George gave him a nod.
Reynolds stepped forward and announced, “His Majesty King George III and Queen Charlotte!”
Venus. Transit of Venus.
George grabbed Charlotte’s hand. Hard.
“I am here,” she whispered. “I am Charlotte.”
He nodded jerkily, but his feet wouldn’t move.
The crowd had gone quiet at Reynolds’s announcement, but when the royal couple did not immediately appear, a low rumble began to hum through the air.
So many voices.
So many people.
Venus. Venus.
And then, somehow, Lord Bute’s voice. “If he cannot even face his people, he is finished.”
“I cannot,” George said to Charlotte.
“You can. You and me,” she reminded him. “Together. We are one.”
He nodded again, and somehow—he would never know how—his feet began to move. He entered the ballroom, Charlotte at his side.
So much noise.
So many faces.
“George,” came Charlotte’s voice. “George?”
He focused on her face. Her smile.
“Do not feel nerves,” she said.
“I am fine,” he said. “Do I not seem fine?”
“You are hurting my hand.”
He looked down. Dear God, he was clutching her fingers with a death grip. Instantly, he released her. “Charlotte,” he said. “I did not mean to— This was a mistake.”
He had to go. He started to turn.
But she took his hand again. Gently.
“George, look at me,” she said. “Only at me. Squeeze my hand if you must. It is all right. Softer. There. Now. Let us smile and wave. Ready?”
He smiled. It was forced, but it was good enough.
“Now we wave,” she said.
And they did. They smiled, and they waved, and the crowd cheered.
“You are Just George,” Charlotte said. “My George. Let us dance.”
Together they walked to the center of the dance floor. “Keep your eyes on me,” Charlotte said. “Do not look at anyone else. There is no one here but us.”
“You and me,” George said as the music began.
“You and me.”
The first few notes floated through the ballroom, and the music swelled. George never took his eyes off Charlotte’s face. He didn’t need to. The steps of the dance were as ingrained in his muscles as walking or riding a horse. His body knew what to do. And his mind . . . all it needed was to focus on Charlotte.
Just Charlotte.
Their hands touched, then separated. They came together, stepped apart. They circled. They nodded. And as the music moved through him, something miraculous happened. That little piece of his brain, the part that was owned by the heavens . . .
It went silent.
It would not be forever; he knew that. But for this moment, in this room, with this music and most importantly, this woman . . .
He was here.
All of him.
When the music ended, he took his Queen’s hand and kissed her fingers. And then he thought—
That is not enough. That will never be enough.
Right there, in front of all the ton, in front of his mother and Lord Bute and all the rest, he kissed her. He kissed his wife, his Queen.
His Charlotte.