And so, on the advice of the duchess, too proud to let them lord it over me, I assumed a placid countenance when I met the inquiring glances of my triumphant enemies. But inwardly, I was overwhelmed with sorrows and anxieties, with dread for the future, and still smarting from the eviscerating pangs of a broken heart. My distress knew no limits.
And yet, I could not bring myself to despise the prince. In my imagination’s fancy, I permitted this self-delusion if only to preserve my sanity. I still considered his mind to be nobly and honorably organized, and refused to believe that a heart such as his—the seat of so many virtues—could possibly become inhuman or unjust. I had been taught from my infancy to accept the premise that elevated stations are surrounded by delusive visions, which glitter but to dazzle, like an unsubstantial meteor, and flatter to betray.
Through Lord Malden, I urged another meeting with His Highness. I was nigh to frantic, for everything was at stake. I could not afford to lose the prince forever. I had yearned for everyone to know my name, had basked in their flattering efforts at imitation, but had not considered well enough the attendant consequences when the whole world knows your business—where you sup, what you eat, where you shop and what you purchase, and whom you choose to love. And when the pangs of disprized love render you the most unhappy of mortals, the public knows, or imagines they do, every sordid detail of your affaire du coeur and mocks your pain.
At last, the viscount returned with a message from the prince. “He will meet you at my house in Clarges Street,” he told me. “Tomorrow afternoon at three.”
How I agonized during those intermittent hours. My heart rose to greet the sun and plummeted back to earth, rising and dipping with agitation. Would he welcome me with open arms, or deal me a final blow?
With great trepidation I drove my vis-à-vis to Clarges Street the following day. I was not kept waiting, but was ushered into Lord Malden’s salon, where the prince was waiting for me, alone, occupying his time with a little volume of poetry. I stepped closer and saw that it was mine! That bode well, indeed.
I curtsied to him and lowered my head. Gently raising my chin with his fingers, His Highness gazed down into my eyes. “You look tired, my precious.”
My precious! “I have been weeping these past several days,” I confessed. “I dared not believe you had the capacity to be so cruel. You are too fine, too compassionate, to treat a lover so…” I searched for a word that would not be a direct insult, but would capture the gravity of the situation.
“I never endeavor to be dishonorable,” the prince replied, helping me to my feet. He enfolded me in a sympathetic embrace and a cloud of scent, his favorite blend of bay and orange. I closed my eyes and permitted my senses to wallow in the aroma as I rested in his strong arms. “Sometimes it is hard for one to know whom to listen to; so many want one’s ear, and believe this privilege entitles them to pour a dram of pestilence inside it.”
“I don’t take your meaning, Your Highness.”
He led me to a divan, and reclining upon it, nestled me against the length of his noble body. “You have many enemies,” he explained. “Some of them, concealed as your friends. I fear I am as susceptible to gossip as anyone, and there are times when I do not know what to credit as true.”
“If you doubt the slightest thing about me, I beg of you to simply ask me!”
“Would you tell me the truth?” Confounded, I stared at my lover. “For example, have you and Malden been…?” He trailed off, unable to form the words.
“I assure you, Malden is nothing to me but your confidant—and therefore, my acquaintance. I know there are rumors, but there is not, nor has there ever been, anything between us.”
“They say you feign to love me because I am the prince royal and such an affair gives you the greatest éclat. It has even been said that it was you who set my portrait with brilliants, making it seem a greater gift than I had intended.”
“But you know those are nothing but falsehoods!” I said, stunned to the quick. I turned around and pressed my lips to his. His mouth was soft and tasted sweet, of sugared confections. “I relinquished my profession, abandoned my husband—and all for you—after months of painful consideration. I esteem you, adore you—and there is no other on this earth for me.”
His tongue danced with mine as we tangled on the narrow divan, our bodies cleaving to each other, despite the voluminous yards of silk and scratchy embroidery between us. We rolled onto the rug in gales of laughter, as passionately entangled as we used to be, all eager hands and hungry lips. The prince was now a master at dispensing of my garments; and, divesting himself of his own, soon we were back on the carpet, enjoying the sweet nectar of our passion and reveling in the delights of love until dusk.
“You are my own dearest angel,” the prince assured me, as he escorted me himself to Lord Malden’s door. He kissed my little volume of poetry and pocketed it before tasting my lips once again. “My brilliant, my beautiful Perdita.”
“Au revoir, my Florizel,” I murmured, and kissed him once again before departing. As I rode back to my rooms, I flattered myself that all our differences were
