Maybe he was mad, and maybe he was growing worse. But he would not let this moment slip away. Everyone would know that he loved her, that she was the Queen, that if anything happened to him, it was she they should turn to.
“George?” she whispered, breathless at the end of the kiss.
“I will be all right,” he assured her. “I am all right.”
Her smile grew wide. “Just George.”
“Your George. But if you’ll excuse me, I have some kingly responsibilities to take care of.”
“By all means, Your Majesty.”
Off he went. He had nobles to charm, members of Parliament to reassure. There was much to do, and he knew he must take advantage of this moment, when he felt so well.
He spent an hour or so playing his part. He danced with several ladies—his mother, of course, and Lady Danbury, to whom he would always show favor. He chatted with Lord Bute, and he joked with Charlotte’s brother, and all in all, he acted exactly as a king ought.
He was proud of himself.
But he wanted Charlotte again. He’d done his duty; now it was time to dance again with his wife.
He heard her before he saw her. He was just about to round a corner when he overheard her speaking with his mother. He stopped, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“It is a lovely ball,” his mother said.
“It is,” Charlotte replied. “We enjoy hosting.”
George almost laughed. It was an outright lie. He hated hosting. But he would do it. If it meant more moments like these, he would do it.
“We shall do it more often,” Charlotte said.
“Good,” his mother replied.
“Yes.”
It was growing awkward. Perhaps he should intervene.
But then his mother said, “I have only ever wanted him to be happy.”
“He is happy,” Charlotte said.
“You make him happy.”
George bit back a smile. His mother was not an easy woman, and she had an overabundance of pride. She had devoted her life to his kingship. And now she was ceding her place to Charlotte.
He peeked around the corner.
“Thank you,” his mother said to Charlotte. She swept into a curtsy, the deepest he had ever seen her perform. She looked up at Charlotte and said, “Your Majesty.”
Then she stood, straightened into her usual stiff posture, and the moment was gone. “I must see to Lord Bute,” she said, and she walked away, leaving Charlotte vaguely stunned.
George stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
“Did you see that?” Charlotte asked.
“I did.”
“I am not sure—”
“Don’t question it.” He smiled. “Shall we dance?”
“Yes, but . . .” She glanced about.
“What is it, my love?”
“Let us have one dance just for us. Where no one can see.”
“Does this mean I will be able to kiss you?”
“You mustn’t disturb my hair,” she warned him.
“I would not dare.”
“To the gardens?”
He nodded, grabbed her hand, and took off, the pair of them giggling like truant schoolchildren.
“Shhh . . .” Charlotte admonished. “Someone will hear.”
“Who will hear?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. But we should still be—”
She stopped short.
“Wha—”
She elbowed him, then jerked her head toward something ahead of them.
George followed her line of sight. It was another couple, dancing.
Reynolds and Brimsley.
George put his finger to his lips and pulled Charlotte behind a hedge.
“Did you know?” she whispered.
“I knew that Reynolds preferred men, but I didn’t know about Brimsley.”
Charlotte peeked out. “They look so happy.”
George yanked her back so he could see. They were dancing like a couple in love. Reynolds was leading, probably because he was taller. They were laughing and whispering, and it occurred to George that they looked rather like Charlotte and him.
In love.
Happy.
“Let us go,” he whispered to Charlotte. “They need this moment more than we do.”
She nodded, and they tiptoed back to the palace. King and Queen, tiptoeing like thieves.
“Well,” Charlotte said, once they were out of earshot.
“Well.”
“That was . . . surprising.”
“But nice.”
She nodded slowly. “It was. It is.”
George cleared his throat and glanced toward the ballroom. “It is probably time I make a toast.”
“Wait,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”
He gazed upon her with indulgence. She looked suddenly shy, and this was not an emotion he normally associated with her.
“You and I, George,” she said, “we have changed the world with our love. But the Crown can be fragile, and the fates of many rest on us securing our line.”
While he was digesting that comment, she took his hand and placed it on the pale green silk covering her belly.
“Our line,” he murmured, regarding her with something approaching wonder. “You and me.”
“And them,” she said. “Little Georgie and whoever this might turn out to be.”
He kissed her, and then he kissed his fingers and touched them to her belly. “This is just our news for now, though, yes?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
“I would very much like to retire for the evening,” he said with regret, “but I’m afraid we must go be King and Queen again.”
Off they went, back to the ballroom. Wine was poured, and George stood in the center of the crowd. Charlotte’s pregnancy would be a secret for several more months, but they did have their young son to celebrate.
George raised his glass, waited for the noise of the crowd to subside, then said, “We thank you all for joining us to celebrate the arrival of our new prince.”
Everyone cheered. A baby was always a magical thing. A royal baby, even more so.
“Unsurprisingly, given that I am the third, we have chosen to name him George IV!” He raised his glass again. “To your future King!”
The crowd joined in. “To our future King!”
To the future.
Whatever it might hold.
Agatha
Buckingham House
The Gardens
Shortly after the toast
Agatha did love a good party, much more so now that Herman was gone, and she did not have to monitor his behavior. Or her own, with which he had always managed to find some fault or infraction.
But this party was wearying. It was full of secrets, and of hidden struggles. She had seen the look of terror in the King’s eyes when he and the Queen first stepped into the ballroom. She had seen how Charlotte had held his hand and whispered words that no one else would ever hear.
But Agatha had been granted unfathomable access into their secrets, and she had a good idea of what those words might be.
She felt for her friend.
She could not know what the future might hold—none of them could—but she suspected that Charlotte had many years ahead of her of holding the King, keeping him safe and well. Protecting him from gossip and intrigue.
At some point he would falter, and she would be the Crown. It was a heavy burden.
The party was still very much in full swing, but Agatha decided she needed a break, so she’d wandered out into the gardens. Not too far—a lady had her reputation to think of, even respectable widows like her—but the air was fragrant and cool, and it brought a welcome sense of peace.
After a few minutes, however, she discovered she had company. Adolphus. She had a feeling he’d been looking for her.