Читать книгу Prince Charming in Disguise - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 6

Herrenhausen Palace, Hanover, Germany, autumn 1704

Kings, even future kings, could be a lot of things but not refused. Yet it seemed Hedwig Sophia, the Dowager Duchess of Holstein-Gottorp, had done just that.

‘She has declined a proposal from the future King of England?’ a flare of characteristic temper mingled with disbelief in young Prince George’s voice, his dismay evident in the slouch of his posture as he collapsed inelegantly into a chair. Not all of his dismay was over the refusal. Most of it was over having come from the delectable Lady Marie-Thérèse’s warm and accommodating bed.

One thought kept running through his head: He’d given up a bout of morning lovemaking for this? Who did the duchess think she was to refuse him? He had excellent prospects these days. It wasn’t merely his own arrogance that suggested such a conclusion, it was empirically true. He’d always been assured of succeeding his father as the Elector of Hanover, but now his prospects were settled far beyond that, his future ascension to the British throne assured thanks to Queen Anne.

Aging and wanting to ensure there would be no more Catholics on the English throne, Queen Anne had decreed the throne would pass to George’s grandmother, Sophia, the Dowager Electress of Hanover, by right of her being James I’s granddaughter and a Protestant. After her, the throne would go to his father and eventually to him.

He was a king-in-waiting, and while he waited, his wife would have the privilege of being called the Princess of Wales, the first one to bear that title in two hundred years. That alone would be an honour, to say nothing of the title his wife would bear later: queen consort.

It would have been enough for any number of the eager women in the Hanover Court. He didn’t exactly lack for female companionship in or out of the bedchamber.

Yet it apparently wasn’t enough for the Dowager Duchess of Holstein-Gottorp. George fished in the pocket of his waistcoat for a miniature he carried of her. He’d stopped by his chambers for it on a last-minute whim when he’d received the summons. He knew the envoy from the duchess was here. He’d been expecting good news. It had seemed a nice touch to have her picture on him at the moment of acceptance. It would make a romantic gesture to pull out the miniature, an intimate detail for the envoy to convey back to the dowager duchess about George’s reaction upon hearing the glorious news.

To his mind, the decision was au fait accompli. Not only was Hedwig Sophia a dowager duchess, she was the daughter of Charles IX of Sweden, a princess in her own right. She of all people knew the power of what marriage to him offered.

When he’d arrived at his father’s study, the envoy had gone. His father had looked at him with steady eyes and delivered the news. She had declined the match.

‘Who does she think she’ll get better than me?’ George groused, spearing his father with a hard look. Usually he and his father disagreed on most points. But on this, they’d been fairly aligned. His father’s own unhappiness in marriage had spurred a desire to see his son’s marriage better settled.

George gave the cased miniature a flip and studied the portrait inside. The dowager duchess was pretty enough with her dark hair and dark eyes. Both features upheld her reputation for intelligence. She’d already born one son before her husband had seen fit to die, freeing her of what was rumoured to have been an unhappy marriage to which she had not freely consented.

By no means was he in love with her. Love before marriage had no real place in a political alliance, and usually didn’t have a place afterwards. But he was certain she would have been a credit to him and, in turn, he believed in his own arrogance that marriage to a young, attractive man like himself would have been far less of a nuisance than her prior husband.

George’s father shrugged a shoulder. ‘I would not perceive her refusal as a personal criticism. The envoy mentioned there are other contenders for her hand. From the way he spoke of them, I do not think she means to marry again, not you or anyone else. She’s too busy enjoying herself with a young noble at the Swedish court. But it’s unlikely she means to marry him either.’

Well, so be it. George shut the miniature with a forceful click. As with many things in his life, he was most concerned with events from his point of view. He was nearly twenty-five, and the heir to Great Britain part aside, he needed a wife, preferably one that he liked at least a little. Ideally, one that he liked a lot. It would have surprised his father to know the thoughts running through his son’s mind at the moment. He might have grown up knowing the expectations of a political marriage but that didn’t stop him from acquiring expectations of his own. Surely, some affection, some mutual regard, was possible.

George stood and tugged at his waistcoat, pulling himself together. What was done was done. Hedwig Sophia had refused. ‘I thank you for informing me, Father. It’s time to move forward from this and start thinking afresh about who might suit.’ He gave his father a short bow and exited.

The prospect of returning to Marie-Thérèse had diminished in light of the news. He wanted to be alone, to think about what had happened and what he’d do next. A walk in the gardens would help clear his mind and re-establish a sense of clarity. He was level-headed enough to understand this: his disappointment over the refusal stemmed from the obstacle it created, not from any fond affection. He’d never met the dowager duchess. All he knew of her was contained in reports from diplomats and the small miniature. He was merely disappointed that his goal of marriage had been thwarted.

Having embraced the idea of marrying, George was set on seeing it accomplished with his usual dogged determination. Once he’d committed to a concept, he was seldom swayed from his course whether it was the wisest or not.

George stopped by a fountain to watch the rhythmic trickle of water into the basin. Soon it would be winter and the fountain would freeze until spring. Not unlike his marital expectations, he thought wryly. It would take at least the winter to search out another alliance.

He threw back his head and laughed at his own impatience. It was something of a revelation to him that, future king or not, he was no different from other men of his age, full of the fires and passions of youth. From the lowest farmer to the most powerful ruler, every man had an empire to rule and that empire was the one he created himself—his family.

It seemed unfair that when he rode through the Hanover villages he saw men younger than he, with far fewer prospects than his, with pretty young wives waiting for them at home and chubby round-faced children to toss in the air while he had riches to command, titles to offer and yet he had no wife.

George threw a small pebble into the basin. He would make a new start tomorrow. He would commission a miniature or two of himself. He knew himself to be not unattractive with his fair hair and square-jawed features. People often said the strong set of his chin hinted at the strength of character beneath. He was of a middling height, although some said ‘short,’ but that was a matter of opinion. He preferred ‘middling.’ But what his stature might lack, the youthful physicality of his body supplied, a fact to which the courtly ladies of Hanover could well attest. Perhaps he’d hire a portraitist as well. The miniaturist would show off his face but he secretly thought in vainer moments his legs were one of his best features with their supple calves, muscled from hunting and horses.

Having a plan soothed his disappointment and he headed back into the palace. His bride was out there, somewhere, he just had to find her. In the meantime there were ladies waiting or ladies-in-waiting, if one preferred.

The Elector of Hanover drummed his long fingers atop the desk. George had taken the news much better than he’d expected. He was just as disappointed with the news as George. In his opinion, the duchess was precisely what George needed in a wife—a young woman with intelligence who would long be at his side, helping him govern with a borrowed intelligence George’s directness lacked. But there would be others to choose from. But who would be best?

His thoughts sifted through conversations and letters he’d exchanged with his mother, the dowager electress, over the past few years. There was one name his mother was fond of interjecting into matrimonial discussions. If only he could remember. Ah, yes, Caroline of Ansbach, if he recalled correctly.

There was a moment of elation at remembering the name. Then he recalled why he’d not seriously pursued the offering in the first place. Caroline’s brother was the Margrave of Ansbach. She had no significant dowry and no family connections to make up for the lack of personal wealth. In fact, she’d been orphaned at the age of eleven. If it hadn’t been for her late mother’s friendship with the Electress of Brandenburg, Caroline might have faded into ignominy.

Therein lay Caroline’s one redeeming asset. The elector remembered now. The Electress of Brandenburg had become the Queen of Prussia three years ago, making Caroline the official ward of King Frederick, a mighty connection indeed. Well, the elector thought with a private smile, if you were only going to have one political connection, it might as well be that one. It was time to revisit the Caroline question.