Free Stephanie Laurens by A Return Engagement

 
     
    J UNE 7, 1826
    T HE D OCKS, K REMUNZ, C APITAL OF THE  P RIN CIPALITY OF L AUTENBERG
    “T here she is!” Hereditary Prince Frederick of Lautenberg, heir apparent to the principality, beamed as he watched his princess-to-be emerge onto the deck of the royal barge as it angled to approach the dock.
    Standing beside Frederick, Robert Knightley, second son of the Earl of Rockingham, smiled as Frances Daughtry, a sweet, slender, fair-haired English rose, raised a hesitant hand in response to the crowd’s cheers. Frances would, in Robert’s estimation, be the perfect Princess. Aside from her excellent pedigree and the inbred manners that went with that, her refined and elegant beauty, and her experience in the socially demanding arena of the ton, she was English, and as the British envoy to the Court of Lautenberg as well as the Prince’s closest friend, confidant, and personal advisor, Robert definitely approved of that.
    Installing Frances, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Pemberton, as the Hereditary Princess of Lautenberg was a coup with which the British government and Robert’s masters in the Foreign Office were openly thrilled. And while Robert hadn’t played Cupid—Frederick had met Frances in London during a short visit the previous year and had been instantly smitten—he nevertheless felt that in facilitating the budding romance and steering it to a successful conclusion he’d discharged his duties on all fronts in exemplary fashion.
    Frances turned her head, apparently listening to someone behind her, then faced forward, walked to the railing, and smiled and waved more definitely.
    Delighted, the crowd roared, waved, and cheered back. Huzzahs filled the air; a faint breeze whisked over the water, making the flags strung up all around snap and flutter. Frederick, Robert noted, could not have been more pleased. Good. Everything was progressing smoothly.
    Returning his gaze to the deck of the barge, sent to ferry the princess-to-be from the mouth of the Rhine, he surveyed the others in the bridal party as they emerged on deck. They’d traveled from London by ship to the Rhine mouth, then transferred to the barge for the trip upriver to Koblenz, before turning southward on the Mosel. The Mosel formed the eastern border of Lautenberg, and the principality’s capital, Kremunz, stood on its western shore.
    Robert recognized the tall figure of the Duke of Pemberton, with his duchess, Valeria, in her signature gauzy draperies, on his arm. Beside them, directly behind Frances’s right shoulder, stood . . .
    The person to whom Frances had listened. Robert blinked and looked again, but the tall, willowy, dark-haired lady, a few inches taller than Frances, did not transmogrify into either of her shorter, fair-haired sisters. “What the devil . . . ?”
    Frederick—beneath his delighted veneer the prospective groom was distinctly nervous—cast him a sharp glance. “What is it?”
    Schooling his features, Robert shook his head dismissively. “Just someone in the party I hadn’t realized would be coming.” Someone he certainly hadn’t expected.
    Someone he hadn’t expected to see, not up close, not to speak with, much less to organize and oversee a wedding with . . . As he scanned the remainder of the bridal party, that last became all too clear. Frances’s other two sisters, Felicity and Esme, weren’t there. For some godforsaken reason, Lady Cornelia Daughtry had stepped into the shoes he’d been told her other sisters would fill.
    “S ee?” Lady Cornelia Daughtry, Nell to those close to her, murmured soothingly, reassuringly, just loudly enough for her sister to hear. “I told you they’d be delighted. Just listen to those cheers. And as for your Frederick, if he smiles any more widely his face will crack . . .”
    Nell’s gaze had traveled beyond Frederick; her eyes widened, her lungs seized.
    At her sudden silence, Frances, still facing the cheering hordes, nervously murmured,