Page 81 of Prince of Scandal

“No!” shrieked Phoebe.

“Let him finish, Blossom,” said Sir Alan, although he was holding his betrothed’s hand tightly.

Ashton cleared his throat.

While my first instinct is to decline, as I already offered my blessing to the match your mother proposed, I must also consider Prussia’s place in the world and friendship with England. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, said in his annotation that he wholly supported the match and would consider it a personal favor if I agreed. Therefore, I hereby grant permission for you to wed the Lady Georgiana, and wish you much happiness. We shall speak further in due course regarding a more active diplomatic role for you in the English court.

With fond regards,

Frederick William III

He stared at the missive, having to read it twice more to fully comprehend the words. Frederick had agreed. He was free to marry Georgiana.

“Christ,” Ashton said hoarsely.

“A royal wedding!” said Phoebe, dancing around the parlor with Sir Alan. “Huzzah!”

Franz beamed. “My felicitations, Your Highness. I took the liberty of cleaning and pressing some appropriate clothing for you. I must shave that beard and trim your hair, though. Cannot have you looking like a pirate when you approach his lordship.”

Ashton’s brow furrowed. “What?”

His manservant sent him a very patient look. “You must present your credentials to Lord Kingsford and properly ask for the lady’s hand!”

“Uh, yes,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “Of course.”

After what seemed like hours of Franz fussing, Ashton stared into the looking glass and swallowed hard. He’d not dressed so formally in ten years, and it was rather strange seeing himself in an embroidered gold velvet jacket, elaborate cravat, a white sash across his chest pinned with a solid gold and jet brooch depicting the mighty black eagle in flight, silver satin breeches, stockings and heeled shoes. Hell, he even wore a ceremonial sword.

Franz stepped back, his cheeks aglow like a proud father. “There.”

“I look well enough?” he asked awkwardly, the answer mattering.

“Magnificent. A true Prussian. Now, go and secure your princess.”

In perhaps an act of contrition or benevolence, the stars finally aligned for fast travel to Hanover Square. After smoothing his cravat for the twentieth time, Ashton marched up to the door of Kingsford House and pounded on the door.

Within moments, it swung open to reveal a butler who immediately inclined his head with great deference. “How may I assist?”

“Prince Wilhelm Heinrich Ashton von Hagan here to see Lord Kingsford.”

The butler bowed lower. “Of course, Your Highness. Please do follow me. Lord Northam did mention you might call at some stage. Lord Kingsford is at present in bed…but…”

“I do not mind,” he assured the other man as they walked across the entrance hall and up the stairs. How gloomy it was in here! The architecture reminded him of the Good Queen Bess, a style he would quite happily never set eyes on again.

Pausing outside the earl’s chamber, Ashton straightened his shoulders then knocked firmly.

“Enter,” called a faint voice from within.

He pushed open the door and strode toward the bed, before halting a few feet from it. Then he bowed. “My Lord Kingsford—”

“Yes, you may,” said the earl amiably, from where he lay propped up on pillows, a fresh linen bandage around his neck.

Ashton hesitated. “Er…”

“You’ve come for permission to wed Gigi? Then I consent. I’ve no doubt she consents also.”

“Ah…yes,” he replied in amusement. “You don’t wish to hear my credentials? Or why the Prince of Scandal should be the man to wed your daughter?”

Lord Kingsford smiled. “You received that nickname through another man’s skullduggery. I wasn’t in town when all that occurred…my world had just collapsed in Kent with Miss Mandy’s death. But my wife liked you. Said you were an oak tree. That would’ve been enough for me, but you also rescued Gigi from treacherous rivers and murderous majors. So I know you have great courage and conviction. You are aware my girl is a handful and care deeply in spite of—”