Lucy Gordon
The King's Bride
© 2008
CHAPTER ONE
A SILENCE fell over the packed room. Lizzie looked up quickly, eager to see the man she’d come to find.
His Majesty King Daniel, hereditary ruler of Voltavia, twenty-fifth of his line, thirty-five years old, monarch of his country for the last six months.
Since he’d arrived for his state visit London had been full of official pictures, so she’d thought she knew what he looked like. But while photographs had shown the proud carriage of his head and the stern authority of his lean face, there was no way they could convey the vividness of his features. Lizzie noticed his eyes in particular. They were dark, but with a brilliance that she’d seen only once before, in a picture of his grandfather.
He was tall but carried himself stiffly, and she guessed that a press conference, such as this, came hard to him. In Voltavia he was a monarch, with a good deal of power. He wouldn’t take kindly to answering questions from journalists, and Lizzie knew he’d been persuaded to give this conference only for the sake of ‘good international relations’.
Before his entrance they had all been warned-no personal questions, no reference to his late wife. No questions about his three children, none of whom had accompanied him to London.
Now he was here and every line of his body showed how ill at ease he felt. He took his seat behind a table on a platform, facing the crowd with a practised air of polite interest.
The questions flowed. They were largely routine and his answers were the same, giving nothing away-the friendship of their two countries-mutual interests, etc, etc. Somebody mentioned his grandfather, the late King Alphonse, whose death, six months earlier, had brought Daniel to the throne. Daniel made a short, restrained speech in praise of his grandfather, whose lasting legacy etc, etc.
In fact, as everyone knew, for the last ten years of his life Alphonse had lived in a twilight world, struck down by a massive stroke. At twenty-five Daniel had become regent, and king in all but name. But Alphonse was still associated with the great days of monarchy. His long reign had begun when kings had had real power, and his personal prestige had ensured that some of it clung to the throne, even as he lay dying.
As Daniel mouthed polite nothings Lizzie mentally compared his features with those of Alphonse, whose personally signed photograph hung on her wall at home. There was a close family resemblance, not only in the dominant nose and firm chin, but in the expression of the face: proud, closed, unyielding.
They’d said of Alphonse that he was the handsomest man of his generation, and had still been saying it when he was in his eighties. But they’d said, too, that he was the most puritanical. He could have had any number of liaisons, but he’d
been a faithful husband for twenty years. After his wife had died, if he’d indulged himself he’d been so discreet that the world had never been quite sure.
Only one woman had aroused him to a public display of admiration, and that was the great musical comedy star, Lizzie Boothe. She’d visited Voltavia with her own company, and the King had attended her performances. Perhaps she’d also given performances in private. Nobody knew for certain, and the King’s reputation for rigid respectability remained untouched.
Daniel was the image of his splendid grandfather in looks, and also in the pattern of his life. Married young to a suitable princess, he had been a devoted husband and father, and had led a discreet life since his wife’s death, three years earlier.
At last the questions were over and everybody stood in line so that the King could meet them individually. Down the line he came, stopping for a few moments with each person, shaking hands, asking banal questions about things he couldn’t possibly care about, and receiving banal answers with the appearance of polite interest. He must be bored out of his skull, Lizzie thought, but he kept going resolutely.
At last he reached her and stood, professional smile in place, while his aide announced, ‘Miss Elizabeth Boothe.’
His pause was only a fraction of a second, his smile never wavered. But she was close enough to see his eyes and the slight shock in them. So the name was still remembered in Voltavia. That pleased her.
As he shook her hand the King glanced at the identity tag on her shoulder, bearing only her name. ‘The others list also their publications,’ he observed. ‘I think you are not a journalist.’
‘That’s true, Your Majesty,’ Lizzie said, smiling.
He did not release her hand. ‘You are, perhaps, an actress?’
Any man, looking at her flamboyant beauty and glorious mane of red hair might be forgiven for thinking so.
‘I’m not an actress,’ she said, ‘but my great-aunt was. She was called Lizzie Boothe, and had many admirers in your country.’
Again the slight shock in his eyes: surprise, she thought, that she’d dared to mention such a delicate subject.
‘Indeed,’ he said in a neutral voice, and prepared to pass on, but Lizzie spoke hurriedly. ‘I’m a historian, Your Majesty. I’m writing a book about King Alphonse, and I hoped you would grant me an interview.’
She’d tightened her hand on his, detaining him against his will, an outrageous breach of protocol as his astonished look told her. Instead of backing off she held him a little longer, meeting his eyes. It was a risk, but she’d never been afraid of that. At his side his aide tensed, ready to force her to release him at a signal from him. But it didn’t come, and gradually the amazement in his eyes gave way to something else. Interest? Curiosity? Lizzie’s heart beat with excitement. She was almost there…
Then blankness came down over his eyes like a curtain, and he pulled his hand out of hers. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said stiffly. ‘I do not give private interviews.’
A curt nod of his head, and he passed on.
It was over. They were all being shepherded out, politely but firmly. Annoyed with herself, Lizzie returned to the neat little London house she’d inherited five years ago from her actress great-aunt, Dame Elizabeth Boothe, as she’d been at the end of her life. The Dame, as everyone had called her, had lived surrounded by mementoes of her great days: gifts from admirers, theatre programmes, some of them fifty years old, and pictures of herself in glory.
Lizzie had loved the Dame. Now she kept the house much as it had been when she’d inherited it.
On one wall was a huge coloured photograph of the actress at the height of her beauty and fame. Next to it was a picture of her most notable admirer, King Alphonse, taken when he was nearly seventy, imposing, autocratic, but still astonishingly good-looking. Near the bottom was written, in the King’s own hand,
Lizzie tossed her bag onto a chair and confronted Dame Elizabeth.
‘I made a mess of it,’ she told her. ‘Nothing happened the way I meant it to, and I just antagonised him. You’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? I am supposed to be a professional.’
The Dame’s eyes were laughing, her head thrown back in an ecstasy of song, but Lizzie could read her thoughts.
‘I know, I know! Dress the part. That’s what you used to say. And I didn’t. If I’d worn tweeds and horn-rimmed spectacles I suppose he’d have taken me seriously. But why shouldn’t I dress as I like?’
Good question! If a historian was a modern young woman, five feet ten with ravishing red hair and a model figure, why shouldn’t she wear skirts short enough to show off her silken legs, and suicidally high heels? Why shouldn’t she make up to emphasise her large green eyes and wide mouth that seemed made for the pleasures of life, of which laughter was only one?
