Page 84 of Prince of Scandal

George near wriggled in delight at the compliment; the numerous badges and medals attached to his formal jacket clinking softly. “Nowhere else would suit, really. Lottie and Leopold are to marry here next month, so the perfect opportunity to see how it will all go. Make any adjustments necessary.”

Ashton nodded solemnly. Ah, the actual truth. Although the Prince Regent’s support had been instrumental in securing Frederick’s permission, the offer to host the wedding at Carlton House had been startlingly generous. Yes, Ashton was a prince, but certainly not in line for any throne, and Georgiana was an earl’s daughter. However, the reality was, they were the practice run for the momentous state occasion to come: the wedding of Princess Charlotte of Wales and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. “Of course.”

“You know Leopold?”

“I do, we spent time together as lads. Not recently, though.”

George shook his head. “Because of your banishment. I’m outraged you had to rusticate because of that foul serpent, Osbourne! To think he had us all fooled! Lot of people owe you an apology, although I daresay you won’t get one. Don’t fret, though. They’ll all pretend you just met when they see you next, what?”

At the acerbic yet accurate comment, Ashton couldn’t help grinning. “Quite. The way of Polite Society.”

“Ha! Now, where was I? Oh yes. Leopold. Must say, he’s grown on me. I wanted William, Prince of Orange, for Charlotte originally, but she’s a stubborn little thing and refused. She set her cap for an English lieutenant for a while, then a Prussian prince, but rather glad she settled on Leopold. Parliament was getting all twitchy and God knows m’wife was no assistance whatsoever. Damned fool woman. Bit late to warn you against wives, but don’t have daughters, von Hagan. They’ll give you gray hair.”

Ashton blinked at the frank confidences—everyone, everywhere knew exactly how fraught the royal marriage between George and Caroline of Brunswick was—but kept his peace. In truth, he did pity the heir to the English throne somewhat. Forced marriages to a stranger were damned appalling really, and duty was a cold bedfellow. The fact that Frederick had relented and permitted this wedding to Georgiana was nothing short of a miracle.

“Must say, I won’t mind the toning down of my red,” said Ashton ruefully.

George barked out a laugh and clapped his shoulder. “Indeed, indeed. Shall we adjourn to the Crimson Drawing Room? Time to get you leg-shackled to the Nash gel. Interesting choice there. I daresay the tabbies will hiss and scratch for a while after so many scandals, but the heart wants what it wants does it not?”

“Precisely, Your Highness. The Dowager Countess of Kingsford continues to not be an admirer of mine. But I thank you once again for your support.”

“I don’t pay much heed to the dowager. Northam, however, can be very persuasive,” said George, his cheeks flushing a little as they passed through the octagonal room on the main floor and walked toward the drawing room. “Don’t know how he does it. Only a pup! But I dare not make an enemy of him, not when he has so many friends in parliament, and parliament grants me money.”

When they reached the Crimson Drawing Room, Ashton glanced around and marveled at the sheer sumptuousness of it. Nearly everything was crimson, from the thick carpets, to the velvet and gilt chairs, to the heavy drapes secured with gold cords. Already the place was bursting at the seams; everyone invited had accepted the invitation, although there were probably far more wanting to be seen here or gossip about the various scandals, than those genuinely wishing him and Georgiana well.

At least there were some friendly faces in the crowd, though: the Duke and Duchess of Lansbury sat in the front row alongside the Duke and Duchess of Exton, Lord Northam, the Marquess and Marchioness of Pinehurst, and Sir Alan. Right on the end, closest to the wall and resembling an icicle at the snub, sat Lady Kingsford. In their own row were members of the English royal family, as well as Prince and Princess Esterhazy, Prince Leopold, and a handful of Prussian diplomats. Franz stood by the window, and every so often, Ashton swore he heard heel clicks.

“Your Highness. Are you ready?”

Ashton turned and smiled at Charles Manners-Sutton, Archbishop of Canterbury. The man had officiated at both the Exton and Pinehurst marriages, and it had become a Nash family tradition to wed with special licenses. Something he didn’t mind at all, the clergyman seemed quite amiable indeed, rather like Reverend March back in Brundall. “I am. Thank you.”

When all the guests were seated, there was a brief trumpet call from the doorway and a liveried herald called for silence. After a long pause, Phoebe walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, scattering pink rose petals, a huge grin on her face. Even with short notice, Lilian’s modiste had leaped at the chance to create gowns for such an important event, and had dressed Phoebe in gleaming white with a yellow sash and rows of crystals at the hem that shimmered in the light of the many candelabras. Sir Alan couldn’t take his eyes off her.

But then came his lady on her father’s arm, and Ashton gasped in wonder. As was traditional for royal brides, Georgiana was a vision in silver, the cobweb lace sewn over shimmering gray satin with a silver muslin train stretching from her shoulders to sweep the floor. Her wild golden curls had been partially tamed into an elegant chignon and secured with diamond clips, and pinned to her bodice was a brooch with the Prussian eagle to match his badge.

She looked like a moonbeam. An angel walking among mere mortals.

Ashton made a valiant attempt to compose himself. Georgiana was always beautiful to him, but this was something magical. Yet she’d done something so very Georgiana as well: a narrow band of dark pink satin sat just under her breasts, the exact hue of a well-spanked backside.

Provocative minx!

“Your Highness,” said Lord Kingsford, smiling as he transferred his daughter’s hand to Ashton’s.

Ashton rubbed his thumbs across Georgiana’s knuckles to soothe her, then met her gaze. “You are radiant, little one. And what a pretty shade of pink.”

Georgiana winked, all mischief. “I knew you would appreciate seeing your favorite color,” she whispered saucily. “By the by, you look splendid. Thank you for honoring my request.”

Ashton pressed his lips together to halt a chuckle. Only this woman would have the audacity to say such things in front of the Archbishop and half a dozen royals, but she had specifically asked he wear the same ensemble as the day he’d proposed. How could he refuse? “Behave, madam.”

Georgiana batted her lashes, every inch his precious, wicked minx.

The Archbishop cleared his throat, his lips curving ever so slightly. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”

The ceremony seemed to pass by in a blur, but he must have said and done the right things in the right places, because Georgiana wore his ring and was being pronounced his wedded wife and all he could do was bask in the joy that lit up her face as they walked back down the aisle together. Christ, he loved her.

“Georgiana von Hagan,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion as he lifted her hand to kiss it. “My princess.”

Georgiana giggled. “My prince. If only you knew how much effort I have been exerting not to throw myself at you…but badges ripping lace wouldn’t be at all the thing. Is it indelicate to ask how long the feast will go on for?”