The she-wolf in the Tower

Her marriage planned

*Horace*

I rose at dawn and spend several hours working. A night’s sleep hasn’t changed my mind about Miss Rapunzel… not that I can recall ever changing my mind about something important, once I’ve made it up. When a haggard-looking Jelves arrives, I give a concentrated hour to the question of marital settlements. The solicitor and I draw up a document that Jelves somewhat nervously suggests might be overly generous.

“Miss Rapunzel will be my Luna princess,” I tell him, aware my eyes have gone wintry. “She will be my better half. Why would I stint what she will inherit after my death, or enjoy during my life? We Scots don’t treat our mates with the disrespect you do in this country. Even if she and I have naught but a single daughter, that daughter will inherit the majority of my estate.”

I must have come close to baring my teeth, because Jelves swallows and bobs his head.

By now I am tardy, damn it. I have to be on the coach road out of London in a matter of two hours at the very most, since a table full of bankers will be waiting for me in Brighton. Instructing my retinue to follow in a second coach, I direct my coachman to return to Goldtail’s house in Curzon Street.

The Goldtails’ butler takes my cloak, informs me that the Luna and Miss Rapunzel will shortly join their guests, and opens the door to a large and gracious drawing room that… at present… resembles nothing so much as a gentlemen’s club.

Men are everywhere, posies and bouquets by their side, laughing amongst themselves. Incredibly, a discreet game of piquet is going on in one corner. I recognize only half of them. Beckwith is there, decked out in an orange coat with garish buttons. Alpha Pimrose-Finsbury is there as well. Pimrose-Finsbury holds only a small title, but he owns a good share of Marylebone. He clutches a delicate little violet nosegay.

I feel a prick of chagrin; it hadn’t occurred to me to send someone to Covent Garden to procure roses or something of that nature.

“If you would join the morning callers, my Alpha prince,” the butler says, “I will serve refreshments very shortly.”

Instead, I turn on my heel and stride back to the entry.

“Would the Alpha prince prefer to leave a card?” the butler asks, following me.

“I would prefer to speak to Alpha Goldtail. When did Miss Rapunzel debut?” I ask bluntly.

The butler’s eyebrow twitches, but he controls himself. “Last night,” he says. “Last night was her first appearance in society.”

I am not the only man who has taken one look at Rapunzel and pictured her by my side.

But I now know precisely why Goldtail had asked me to attend his ball: the invitation had included the gift of his daughter’s hand. There will be no further competition if I choose to take up the alpha’s silent offer.

“I should like to speak to the Alpha, if he is free.” I do not ask. I never ask; I state. It makes no difference, because I always get what I want. And there is something undignified about asking.

An Alpha princes, in my opinion, do not ask.

They state.

I have a feeling that there will be no asking with regard to Miss Rapunzel’s hand, either.

*Rapunzel*

It was a fever that has turned me into the greatest success of the season, winning me the hand… and presumably, the heart… of the Alpha prince of Montrose. If I hadn’t been dreadfully ill at my own debut ball, I might well have been less popular. But as my head felt like an empty gourd, all I did was drift about the ballroom and smile. And smile.

That turned out to be a formula for extraordinary success.

Halfway through the evening, I’d danced with every eligible bachelor on the market, and twice with the Alpha prince of Montrose, Alpha Beckwith, and Alpha Mendelson. My stepmother, Layla, cought my arm at one point and said that Luna Jersey has declared me the most enchanting debutante of the season. Apparently, the queen of Almack’s patronesses will overlook the fact that at nineteen, I am unfashionably old.

I just smiled. I was trying to maintain my balance.

By the time I appear in my father’s library late the next morning, my cheeks as white as my gown, the negotiations surrounding my marital future have already been concluded.

I keep my eyes lowered… to hide the fact they are bloodshot… smile when spoken to, and say only: “Of course, Father.” And: “I would be honored to marry you, my alpha prince.”

“The truth is, Rapunzel,” Layla declares five minutes after Montrose has departed and she’s brought me back to my bedchamber, ”your fever was sent by a fairy godmother whom your father forgot to mention. Who would have thought you would catch an Alpha prince?”

This particular Alpha prince is Scottish, which is a mark against him… but according to Layla, the fact that Montrose owns the grandest estate in all Scotland makes him an honorary Englishman and the most desirable man on the marriage market.

I just moan and fall face down onto my bed. My head is throbbing, I feel faint, and frankly, I am not even quite sure what my fiancé looks like. He had a lovely voice, but he was too tall, I think. Big. At least he doesn’t have red hair. I don’t like red-haired men. “That’s not very kind,” I say into my pillow.

“You know what I mean. You looked so lovely and pale. The way Mary wove pearls into all that hair of yours was quite fetching. And you just smiled instead of talking. That’s very attractive. To men, anyway.”

“Don’t you think that he’s a little impulsive?” I mumble.

Layla pulls back the curtains and pushes the window open. I love my bedchamber, which is large and airy, with a windowsill that overlooks the back garden. But I loathe the fact that Layla perches on that windowsill to smoke cheroots.

“You can’t smoke one of those foul things in here,” I say quickly. “I hate the smell and I’m sick!”

Even face down in the bed, I know perfectly well that Layla is paying no attention to me. I can hear her settling in her favorite perch and lighting her cheroot at the candle so that she can blow the smoke into the garden. Which she thinks keeps it out of the room, but it doesn’t.

“I might throw up,” I point out, moving my cheek to a cooler patch of pillowcase.

“No, you won’t. You have a fever, not a stomach upset.”

I give up. “My future husband is either impulsive or stupid. I only met him last night, and I can hardly remember what he looks like.”

“Not impulsive, manly,” Layla says. “Decisive.”

“Idiotic.” I mumble.

“You are beautiful, Rapunzel. You know that. For heaven’s sake, the whole world knows that. He probably heard about you long before yesterday night. Everyone has been talking about Exquisite Rapunzel, who is finally making her bow before pack society.”

“Don’t forget my Delightful Dowry,” I say sourly. “It’s more important than the shape of my nose.”

“He doesn’t need your dowry. You clearly have no idea how many young she-wolves have tried to snag the Alpha prince. He used to be betrothed to a she-wolf from a Scottish family… the Capons? the Partridges? some sort of fowl. She died a year ago and no one has succeeded in catching his eye since. Of course, he was in mourning for some months.”

“That’s so sad. Perhaps he’s been nursing a broken heart.”

“From what I’ve heard, they were betrothed in the cradle or some such and no one, including the Alpha prince, knew her very well.”

“I still think it’s sad.”

“Don’t be so tenderhearted, Rapunzel. The Alpha prince has obviously put it behind him, since he walked into the ballroom, waltzed with you, and lost his heart.” Layla pauses, almost certainly to blow a smoke ring out the window. “That’s rather romantic, don’t you think?”

“Did the Alpha prince actually say that he lost his heart? Because he didn’t seem heartsick to me, though my eyesight was so blurry that I wouldn’t know.”

“His face spoke volumes.”

“It had better, since we were completely silent while dancing last night.” I wiggle a fraction of an inch to cool my burning cheek against another section of sheet. “Don’t wave that cheroot around. Smoke is coming into the room.”

“Sorry.”

A moment of silence follows as I consider whether dying from influenza or marrying a man whose face I can't clearly recall would be worse.

“What does he look like?” I ask. “And could you please ring for Mary? My head is pounding.”

“I’ll make you a cold compress.”

“No, you can’t move from the window until you’ve finished that vile thing.”

“Then how on earth can I ring for Mary?”

Even face down, I sense Layla remains on the window seat. “You don’t have proper maternal instincts,” I complain.

“That’s true,” Layla replies dryly. “Just as well, under the circumstances.”

After my mother died, Alpha Goldtail remained unmarried for years… until, at thirty-six, he fell for Layla. I did not like my new stepmother; her seductive air revolted me. I was particularly put off by my father marrying a twenty-year-old whose crimson lips and figure flaunted her sensuality.

But a couple of years later, upon finding Layla crying, I learned the heartbreak of infertility. We became close friends. Sadly, no children came; lately, Layla has taken up smoking and developed a reckless streak.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I probably would have made a bloody horrible mother anyway.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re funny and sweet, and if you would throw away that cheroot and make me a cool compress I’d love you forever.”

Layla sighs.

“Did you put it out?”

“Yes.” A moment later, fingers touch my shoulder. “You have to turn over so I can put this compress on.”

I reluctantly shift onto my back. “You looked wonderful last night, too, Layla.” I squint. Layla is always dieting, but I think her figure perfect.

Layla smiles. “Thank you, darling. Do you want me to ring for Mary so you can change your clothes and get under the covers?”

“No, I’m too tired.”

Layla, lacking maternal instinct, doesn't insist, but places the damp cloth on my head and crosses the room.

“Are you lighting another one?”

“No, I am not. I’m sitting before your fireplace like a good stepmother. Maybe I’ll learn knotting so I can do a better impersonation of one. I’m not quite certain your new husband will appreciate my more eccentric qualities; I must develop some respectable traits so I’ll be allowed to visit.”

“Why do you say so? Is he a thoroughgoing stick?”

“I don’t know him any better than you do.”

“But at least you saw him clearly, and you weren’t feverish.”

“Perhaps a bit stickish,” Layla says. “But nothing you’re not used to, given your father.”

A trickle of water runs down my neck; I’m so hot that it feels quite agreeable. “I was hoping to avoid marrying someone like Father.”

“Your father is not so bad.”

“Yes, he is. He’s out of the house all the time, and he hardly ever takes you anywhere. I know that you say that it’s different when you two are alone, but all he does at dinner is lecture me. Which is quite unfair, as I’ve never given him the least cause for anxiety. He should be more grateful. Last time I saw her, your mother told me all about Juliet Fallesbury, who ran away with a footman.”

Layla has a wicked chuckle. “My mother loves that story, mostly because the man was nicknamed Longfellow. You know, Rapunzel, it might be good for you to rebel a little. It’s not natural to cheerfully agree to marry a complete stranger.”

“I am not cheerful,” I point out.

“But you’re not rebellious, either. I’m worried you’ll let your husband have his own way all the time and he’ll become a monstrous dictator.”

There’s something about Layla’s tone that sounds a warning note in my mind, but I feel too sick to figure out the problem, if there is one other than my father’s dictatorial habits. “Perhaps I will run away, disguise myself as a man, and join an orchestra. Imagine it, Layla. Some people have nothing to do but play music, all day long. And then at night they play some more, but with an audience.” A few notes of the prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 in G Major slide through my mind. The fever makes the arpeggio shimmer in my head, as if the music floats like oil on top of water.

“What I’m saying is that you should assert yourself more, Rapunzel. Men are not easy to live with.”

“Father has never refused me anything I truly wanted.”

“It’s true that he’s allowed you to remain home and play the cello, far past the age when you should have made your bow to pack society.”

The notes sneak into my mind again, luring me into thinking about the broken chords in Bach’s prelude. They should be easy, like a basic exercise, and yet somehow…

Layla’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “The fact is that Father is terrified to let you go. Who will play duets with him? Who will talk endlessly of music? Take pity on me, why don’t you? I haven’t the faintest interest in discussing the cello. I don’t mind hearing it, but I find talk of it tedious. And yet I am facing a lifetime of your father’s harangues about bowing and tuning.”

“The cello is the only thing Father and I have in common. I can hardly remember talking to him of anything else. And now I’m to marry someone like that, but who likely knows nothing about music?”

Really, if I weren’t so sick, I would feel righteous indignation, but I’m already so sorry for myself that there isn’t any room to moan about marriage to a philistine. “My eyes feel like boiled eggs,” I add.

“I’m sorry, darling. Do you want me to send for the doctor?”

“No. He’ll give me laudanum, which won’t help. Fevers can’t be cured by a narcotic.”

“I like laudanum,” Layla says. “I had it only once, but I’ve never forgotten the way it made me feel all floaty and free, as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.”

“I’ll have to make sure no one ever gives you any. You’d probably develop a habit, the way luna Fitzhugh has. Bell’s Messenger said that she collapsed on the ballroom floor the other day, and her husband had to carry her out.”

“Reason enough to avoid it. I’m not absolutely certain your Father could hoist me from the ground without staggering.”

“Would you mind dipping my cloth in the basin again?”

Layla does it while I think about my impending marriage. “Did Montrose give any reason for making such a precipitous proposal?”

“It was because he fell in love with you,” Layla says promptly, putting the compress on my forehead. “He took one look at your golden tresses, not to mention the delectable rest of you, and decided to ward off the competition.” But there’s something about her voice…

“The truth, Layla.”

“And I gather he had important things to do. He left for Brighton directly after speaking with your Father.”

“‘Things to do’,” I repeat. “What sort of things?”

“Problems with the pound note. Don’t think about it too closely, darling,” Layla advises. I hear her opening the little tin box in which she keeps her cheroots.

“What did he say, exactly?”

“Oh please, let’s talk about something more interesting! Montrose has one of the biggest estates in Scotland. You can only imagine. He arrived in two carriages, with eight grooms, all in livery; I saw it out the window. I expect you will live like a queen. Your father says he lives in a castle.”

“A castle?” I digest that. “But he couldn’t be bothered to take me for a drive before making me chatelaine of that castle? You’d think he’d be interested in waiting until we’d eaten a meal together. What if I slurped my soup or sucked on chicken bones? Do you suppose he has illegitimate children waiting at home?”

“I doubt it. More importantly, since his parents have both passed away, you won’t have to cope with a ferocious Scottish mama.”

“Then what could be more important than wooing his future mate?”

“You have to look at it from a man’s point of view.”

“Play the man and enlighten me.”

Layla’s voice drops into a deeper register and she says, “I am the top catch on the marriage market. After I have selected an appropriate consort, I shall inform the young Miss’s father of his good fortune.”

“It’s not entirely illogical.”

“Your father likes the Alpha prince very much.”

“That’s no recommendation. Do you suppose Montrose will deign to return to London before we marry?”

“He’ll travel from Brighton to the Alpha of Chatteris’s wedding, so we’ll see him there.”

I groan. “One of the Smythe girls, isn’t it?”

“Honoria. She’s quite lovely. I know you think she’s not a good musician…”

“There’s no thinking about it. She’s terrible.”

“That’s as may be, but she’s also extremely nice.”

“I don’t like house parties. I can never find the time to practice.” I sigh. “Father said he expects me to behave like a proper Miss now that I’ve made my debut. That means very little practice when I’m not at home.”

I make a rude noise. I haven’t been able to play my cello yesterday owing to my fever, not to mention preparations for the ball. I rarely practice fewer than five hours in a given day, and I have no intention of altering my habits. “What if my marriage ends up like yours?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my marriage,” Layla says. I can hear her blowing a smoke ring out the window.

“You sleep in separate rooms.”

“Everyone in polite society sleeps in separate rooms.”

“You didn’t when you were first married,” I persist. “I often saw Father kissing you, and once I saw him pick you up and throw you over his shoulder and practically run up the stairs.”

A silence ensues. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

“Why not? I was a beast to you, but inside I was glad to see Father so happy. Giddy, almost.”

“Well, that’s marriage for you,” Layla says. “Giddy one moment, indifferent the next.”

“I can’t imagine Montrose being giddy, can you?”

“Could you have imagined your father giddy, if you hadn’t seen the evidence with your own eyes?”

“No.”

“Temporary madness,” Layla says sadly. “Jonas came to his senses and realized that I’m a light-headed fool, and that was that.”

“You are not a light-headed fool!”

“I had it from the horse’s mouth, just last night.”

“Father said that?” I pull off the cloth, push myself up against the pillows, and squint blearily at Layla. My head throbs, but I see the downcast expression on her face.

Layla stubs out her cheroot and returns her pink glass holder to its tin box. “I shall ring for Mary so you can take off that corset and crawl into bed. Would you like a cool bath?”

“Yes,” I say. “But are you truly miserable, Layla?”

“It’s only a fit of the dismals,” she replies, coming over to perch on the side of the bed. “I shall miss you, and the thought makes me fidgety. Here, let me feel my head.”

“Now that I’m almost a married she-wolf, will you tell me exactly where Father goes at night? What I’m getting at is, does he have a mistress?”

“I haven’t actually asked him.” Layla bites her bottom lip, and then she says: “I don’t want to know. Goodness, but your head is warm. We have to cool you down.” She reaches over to pull the cord that summons Mary.

I can’t seem to keep my mind focused on any particular subject. “What does Montrose look like… up close, I mean?”

“Ferociously masculine. Beautiful in that male way. Shoulders as broad as a plow horse’s, with muscled thighs. I’d like to see him in a kilt. Do you suppose he’ll wear one at your wedding?”

“Do you think he has a sense of humor?” And then I hold my breath because, to my mind, that’s the most important feature one could possess. Having been called beautiful all my life, I know just how meaningless that attribute can be.

Silence.

“Oh no,” I moan.

“It was a very formal occasion,” Layla offers. “I could scarcely tell him a joke about a Welshman and wait for his reaction.”

“I’m to marry a Scotsman the size of a bloody tree, with no sense of humor and an impulsive bent.”

Layla shrugs. “You’ll have to stop swearing, at least in his presence, darling.”

“Why?”

“He seemed a bit formal.”

I groan. “I’m marrying my bloody father.”

“That makes two of us.”