My good friend pursed her rosy lips into a pouty moue. “I would say he has a figure that is striking, though not perfect. In my view, he might have the tendency to run to fat if he doesn’t check himself. But he certainly loves fashion—I can say that, too.” She let out a peal of laughter.
“What? What the devil is so amusing?”
Georgiana clasped my hands in hers, laughing so hard that she gave herself the hiccoughs. “Oh—I shouldn’t say it.”
“Say it!”
“And if there were anyone else in the room, I wouldn’t dare.”
“Say it!”
“And if it ever comes back to me, I’ll deny I ever uttered the words.”
“Say it!”
“Well…oh, may God forgive me…egad, I’m laughing so hard I fear I’ll burst a stay…all right, then…I do think His Royal Highness looks too much like a woman in men’s clothes!”
As the days became weeks, and the weeks turned to months, the prince’s infatuation with me proved to be no mere passing fancy. He was positively smitten, and utterly devoted, daily professing his adulation—nay, his passion—for me in a flurry of wildly romantic letters. He pressed me for an interview, a meeting, however fleeting, that he might fix his adoring gaze upon my person and drink me in, if only for a moment, that my eyes might feast upon what my hopes dare to dream is a taste of Elysium.
“I am not insensible to his powers of attraction,” I confessed to the duchess that spring. During the whole season, till the theatre closed, His Highness’s correspondence continued. “Every day he gives me some new assurance of inviolable affection,” I told her. “Whilst I counsel caution. ‘Wait until you attain your majority, when your will is your own,’ I’ve written to him. ‘Be assured that your every word is cherished in my bosom, and every thought behind them a glimpse into the pleasures of golden days to come. But be prudent. It is unwise to offend, or even aggravate Their Majesties, for their tether upon your activities may tighten even more.’ I must admit, he will not be dissuaded in any way from his pursuit, which each day grows in ardor. Lord Malden tells me that the prince is most wretched on my account, for I will not see him, no matter how many times he implores me.”
Georgiana smiled knowingly and edged away a turquoise velvet footstool with the toe of her brocaded slipper. We were sitting in one of her salons, painted to resemble an exotic oasis with gilded palms adorning azure-colored walls. “Our royal Apollo’s pursuit of the theatrical Daphne is the talk of the town. Society can scarcely find another subject so entertaining, and so much a cause for speculation—of the most literal kind, I promise you, for I am no stranger to the gaming tables. Mary, from the coffeehouse to the salon, your names are linked on everybody’s lips.”
Secretly, I was pleased as punch at the duchess’s words.
“What have you done with all his letters?” she asked me.
“Bound them with a scarlet ribband in a velvet box, which I keep hidden away in my boudoir. I often take them from their cache and peruse them before I retire for the night, for then I sleep most blissfully.”
“Speaking of boudoirs, Fox placed a hundred-guinea bet that the prince has bedded you already.”
I frowned. “His Highness has not, I promise you!”
Georgiana clapped her hands with glee. “Well done, me, then! I betted the other way!” She kissed me on both cheeks. “If I were a better patroness I should pass my winnings on to you, for I cannot imagine how you afforded that new yellow vis-à-vis, unless it was a gift from”—she winked at me—“a special someone.”
“The ‘special someone’ was me,” I confessed. “The same ‘special someone’ who purchased the bright blue phaeton. And the burgundy landau. Some women buy jewels or bonnets”—I sighed, only half in jest—“and some buy carriages. The truth is, what with all the world thinking I am the prince’s mistress, I feel I must appear to play the role. On my salary I can scarcely afford one carriage, let alone three. But you’d be surprised at the number of merchants who fall over themselves to extend credit to the object of such marked royal favor.”
“Actually, I’m not,” chuckled the duchess. “Shopkeepers no longer surprise me.”
“Tell me what to do, Your Grace. Please. The notoriety is new to me. And there are days when I know I am courting it as much as I dread it. I have declined to accept any interviews with His Highness because I am terrified of the éclat such a meeting might engender. It is not merely a scandal that I fear, or to be the object of malicious or speculative gossip—but my heart!” Tears sprang to my eyes and the golden palm trees became a blur. “I find the prince the most amiable, the most charming, the most desirable of beings! And how many women are there on this earth who can resist such a man forever? As Apollo petrified Daphne for refusing to yield to his charms, so I am petrified of what should befall me if I do succumb. Though in the fantastical ruminations of my imagination the liaison would be a lasting one, where would I be if I discover, having acquiesced, that I am merely the dupe of a young man’s fancy?”
The duchess took my hand in hers. “From what I hear of his character, he is honest in his affections. But you are right to paint him in the colors of youthful exuberance. Tell me, sweet friend, how long are you prepared to play the game—your interpretation of Daphne flying the chase? Suppose for the nonce that my sources are incorrect and His Highness
