Free The Golden Prince by Rebecca Dean Page B

Think of being loved by so many hundreds of thousands—
millions
—of people. And all they will be wanting from you is that you do your best for them.”
    As their eyes held, his breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know about doing his best for millions of people, but he did know that he wanted to do his best for Lily. He wanted to make her proud of him. He wanted her to love him, because he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he loved her.
    The rabbit had hopped free of her lap and, sitting on the grass beside her, he’d taken hold of her hand.
    Her fingers had curled around his.
    And at that moment, Snowberry’s lower lawn had become, for Edward, Prince of Wales, the Garden of Eden.

Chapter Seven
    The London home of Sibyl, Lady Harland, was en fête. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Though she was seventy-two years old, Sibyl still loved a party. “We’ll be fourteen for dinner, with sixty more people invited to my little precoronation party afterward,” she said in high satisfaction to Marigold as she inspected the flower arrangements for the evening with an eagle eye. “You know I’ve scored quite a coup. The prime minister and the Marquess of Lansdowne.”
    The Marquess of Lansdowne was the leader of the opposition in the House of Lords and, politically, he and Mr. Asquith did not see eye to eye.
    “It means,” she said as Marigold looked a little mystified, “that with luck there will be lively verbal fireworks at the dinner table. That means a memorable dinner party, and a memorable dinner party, dearest Marigold, is a successful dinner party.”
    “Who else will be here?” Marigold asked, mentally filing Sibyl’s advice away for future use, thrilled that the prime minister was to be the guest of honor at dinner. “Will anyone close to King George be among the guests?”
    “The only people close to King George are his courtiers, and sparkling dinner conversation is not their forte. They are all far too closemouthed. Even if they weren’t, what could they possibly have to gossip about that would be of interest? It isn’t as if King George has a mistress tucked away. All the man is interested in is stampcollecting and shooting. It’s a wonder there is any wildlife left at Sandringham.”
    Laughter bubbled in Marigold’s throat. She adored her great-aunt Sibyl’s salty conversation. She also adored the kind of people who frequented her great-aunt’s town house on St. James’s Street, close to St. James’s Palace. Everyone who came was a somebody, because, like herself, Sibyl had no time for nonentities.
    “The Stainfords will be here,” Sibyl continued, tweaking a petunia into a more pleasing position. “The Shaw-Stewarts; Strickland, the portrait painter; the Jethneys; young Mr. Churchill, though not his very delightful wife, Clementine. She is
enceinte
and the baby is expected any day. Lord Conisborough and his new bride. She’s an American and I’m told she is great fun.”
    The news that Theo was to be one of the dinner guests sent adrenaline singing along Marigold’s veins. The fact that he would be there with his wife didn’t trouble her. She liked Jerusha. When, a few days ago, Rose had told her quite flatly that her flirtation with Theo was a cruelty to Jerusha, she had been exasperated beyond words. “I’m not trying to
steal
him from Jerusha, Rose. I don’t want him to leave her and to marry me. I just want to enjoy feeling extra alive when I’m with him. I can’t see what’s wrong with that.”
    An aghast Rose had told her that there was plenty wrong with it and that she was amoral. Afterward, Marigold had looked the word up in a dictionary and thought Rose was probably right. For the life of her, though, she still couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Fascinating, interesting older men were always married, and since it was fascinating, interesting older men she enjoyed being with—and as they so obviously enjoyed being with her—what was she supposed to